Moving

Sadly, due to some issues I've been having—and thanks to some cajoling—I am moving this blog from blogger.

You can find my new work here.

I look forward to seeing each and every one of you there!

Blog Battle: Hordes

So Rachael's been after me for another story for her BlogBattles.  I've bowed to peer pressure and give you this.

Right now, it's untitled and for a reason.  This is the opening page of a novel that I am just starting.  I hope that it turns into something, but for now, this is just a teaser.  And since I don't title my work until much later into the writing process . . . I think you see where this is going.

Either way, I hope that you enjoy.

Untitled

People bumped and pushed and shoved Taneid Valar as they moved en mass across the bridge into the relative safety of the city of Hrith.  City was a generous term.  It really wasn’t one.  There were no walls, no towers, nothing to protect its inhabitants of from the hordes behind them.  Nothing besides the river which looped around it, protecting three sides while the fourth led out to the plains of Loerien by a barely maintained road.  Any trained eye could see it wasn’t much.  And to have any hope of surviving longer than a day, they’d have to blow the five bridges that lead into the city.  Assuming that enough powder could be found.

Valar looked over his shoulder.  People, refugees all, stretched back as far as he could see toward the darkening horizon.  Behind them, the light from fires reflected off of low lying clouds.  Most of those fires marked funeral pyres for dozens of people.  Burned alive in huts and houses.  Crops too, adding their glow to the chaos, making picking off stragglers even easier.  Damn it, they were farmers, not soldiers.  At least most of them were.  Worse, not everyone would make it.  That would be the hardest lesson yet.  Sacrifice the few in order to save the many.  But that was its own razor’s edge.  A death of a thousand cuts.

He looked at the girl he clutched tight under his right arm.  That wasn’t right.  Senar wasn’t a girl anymore.  She was a young woman in the full bloom of life.  But whenever Valar looked at her, all he could see was the little child who’d come to him with a scraped knee or a bouquet of weed blossoms.  Forever, that’s who he saw, not the young woman who’d lost her mother and brother to the . . . .

Well, Valar didn’t know who’d done this.  That was another hard truth.  If he’d seen something that gave the puppet masters away, he might have been able to reason it out.  As it stood, this seemed like random violence for violence’s sake.  He knew of no one interested in just that.  The Immortal Lords would have removed them long ago. 

Senar stumbled and Valar caught her weight without even thinking.  Should anyone go down on this bridge, their lives would be in fate’s hands.  No one would stop to help another soul, not when their own lives were in danger.  All around, people’s faces looked like frightened sheep, sent off to the slaughter house and scared of what fate held for them within the next few hours.  And that was exactly what Valar feared they were.

The houses on the outskirts of Hrith weren’t exactly hovels, but they weren’t much better.  Most of them were made of clay and plaster with thatched roofs.  Distant firelight glowed off none to clean white walls.  Already crowded streets were further cluttered with abandoned wagons, broken water barrels, and other detritus from everyday life.  Most of the residents seemed to be gone, already fled from the armies almost upon them.   Valar could only see a few people remaining as he wove he way through the hard packed streets—all of them huddled deep within their chosen coffins. 

That might have been a harsh way to look at it, Valar knew, but unless they wised up and fled like everyone else, that’s what they would become.  A few times, he heard the cry of a baby or the whimper of child not yet old enough to clothe himself, and he almost stopped and searched it out.  He resisted, though it tore his heart apart each time.  There was little he could do for them, lest he wanted to be responsible for an army of children.  He had his own problems, but he silently cursed the parents who would lead their children into death.  More than once, Senar looked up at him at the sounds, as if her thoughts mirrored his.  At those times, he added an extra curse for the men who forced him to seem heartless to his own daughter.   

Despite the press of people attempting to find safety across the bridge, the flow of people through the streets was a fitful one, with everyone stopping and going at seemingly random intervals.  As they progressed through the city, Valar started to see why.  With the progressively better built homes, soldiers garbed in the blue uniforms of local militia started appearing, blocking off streets and directing traffic.  More than once, he saw a family try to dodge down a side street to make better time only to be pushed back by an officer here, a patrol there.  Valar wondered if they were trying to help everyone or just protect the houses of those wealthy enough to deserve special treatment.  He suspected the later, as occasionally he’d see a wagon stuffed to the gills escorted by soldiers down the street as the merchant or lordling and his family rode beside, a look of frightened superiority written on their faces.

A sudden boom sounded, echoing through the streets so that it was impossible to tell which direction it had come from.   People screamed and attempted to run in any direction but that in which they’d been heading.  Cries of “Cannon” and “They’re attacking” roared from every throat.  A few people even dropped to their knees, clutching their heads in their hands and crying that they didn’t want to die.  No one wanted to die.  That was a stupid comment if Valar’d ever heard one.

He’d dropped to a crouch at the noise, still clutching onto Senar.  As he returned to his full height, she looked up at him, eyes searching.  “Is that—Are they here already?”

Valar shook his head.  “No.  It’s not possible unless we’ve been stuck in these streets longer than I suspect.  Even then, I doubt that they won’t make it before sometime after daybreak tomorrow.”

“Then what?”

Valar closed his eyes and pinched his nose.  “The bridges,” he sighed.  “They’re blowing the bridges.”

Words

It's funny how we learn words to spell and remember them.  I have a list as long as my arm about how to spell this word or the other.  Some are really simple, others more difficult.  Then there are those stories which come unbidden along with certain words (look at doughnuts).

Just for kicks, today I thought to share a few.    

WORD

• Together—This one's simple.  To Get Her.  But every damn time.  That gets annoying after a bit.
• Doughnuts—I was in scouting when I was younger. We were planning a camp out and everyone wanted doughnuts for a meal.  When the boy writing the list asked how to spell it, one kid said "dog nuts" and he wrote it down as such.  Ever since then, I've thought "doughnuts", spelled "dog nuts" and had to correct it.
• Mortgage—For years, I couldn't spell this word, then it hit.  Mort Gage.  Now that's all I hear.
• Medieval—There was an old Playstation game called Medi-Evil. That stuck so, I just replace the correct vowels
• Principal—I misspell this often in order to get it correct.  Misspelled in my head (Prince E Pal) but correct on the page.  Go figure.
• Receive—I before E, Except after C or sounding like A as in Neighbor and Weigh.  So what the hell receive?  Re Ce Eve
• Duct Tape—Sorry, growing up where I did, this is and shall forever be Duck Tape. 

What words stick out in your head and why?

BlogBattle: Lola—A Story

This week's BlogBattle threw me for a curve ball.  Lola.

Didn't see that coming.

Therefore today I sat down and started writing about a girl and a guy, figuring that had something to do with a lola.  They meet, fell in love, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  It really wasn't some of my best work.  Frankly put, I was getting bored writing it, and we all know if the author's bored, pity the reader.

Then I got thinking, what's a lola?  Google is a great thing, and I soon had my answer.  I'm not one for slang and I found the answer was in an urban dictionary website.  Never would have figured it on my own.

So I sit back down with my story and start editing.  Fix a part here, add some melodramatic stuff there.  All in all, it was coming together nicely.  But I was still bored.  I didn't want to bore all of you either, so I had to do something.

That's when it came to me.  Somebody already wrote a fantastic tale about a lola.  I'll just share that.  Won't win any prizes, but if I cite the original work, there's no copyright infringement either.  No jail time is a win.

So I give to you, without further ado, Lola by The Kinks:

Lyrics

I met her in a club down in old Soho
Where you drink champagne
It tastes just like Coca Cola, C-O-L-A cola

She walked up to me and she asked me to dance
I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice
She said Lola, L-O-L-A, Lola, L-L-Lola

Well, I'm not the world's most physical guy
But when she squeezed me tight she nearly broke my spine
Oh my Lola, L-L-Lola

Well, I'm not dumb but I can't understand
Why she walked like a woman but talked like a man
Oh my Lola, L-L-Lola, L-L-Lola

Well, we drank champagne and danced all night
Under electric candlelight
She picked me up and sat me on her knee
And said, "Dear boy, won't you come home with me?"

Well, I'm not the world's most passionate guy
But when I looked in her eyes well I almost fell for my Lola
L-L-Lola, L-L-Lola

Lola L-L-Lola, L-L-Lola (Repeat)

I pushed her away, I walked to the door
I fell to the floor, I got down on my knees
Then I looked at her and she at me

That's the way that I want it to stay
I always want it to be that way for my Lola, 

L-L-Lola

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed up muddled up, shook up world
Except for Lola, L-L-Lola

Well, I left home just a week before
And I'd never ever kissed a woman before
But Lola smiled and took me by the hand
And said, "Dear boy, I'm gonna make you a man"

Well, I'm not the world's most masculine man
But I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man
And so is Lola, L-L-Lola, L-L-Lola

Lola, L-L-Lola, L-L-Lola

Lola, L-L-Lola, L-L-Lola

(Repeat)

Lyrics from MetroLyrics

Did you like that?  I always loved the song.  Perhaps that's why it fits best for this week's BlogBattle.  There's a fondness for me behind the lyrics.  I can't wait to see what everyone else came up with.  Lola isn't an easy—

Wait . . . .

What?

Loop?  Who came up with that stupid idea? Loop . . . .

Oh.

Hi, Rachael.

BlogBattle Silver

Rachael Ritchey just kept on like dog with a bone in its teeth, and has finally succeeded.  Short stories aren't my thing, but this week I actually tossed another story into the mix for her #BlogBattle.  This week's theme is "Silver".

 

Enjoy.

 

 

*****

 



Untitled

 

His breath came heavy, his sight grew dim, but the end was in sight. Leg muscles burned with the effort, but he’d trained for this. It wasn’t just about endurance, but about the ability to ignore the pain, to push through it. To push beyond it and strive for greatness.

 

Now that greatness was within sight. A meer two hundred yards. Each pump of his legs brought him closer and closer. No one was in sight. The track ahead was all his. His mind drifted to all the races which had led him here.

 

One hundred yards. There was Tommy, the fastest kid at Harrison Elementary. Angie Landford, the girl who had bested everyone during her four years of track at Adams High School, his alma mater’s crosstown rivals. Then he’d beaten her. He’d been the most popular kid at school for weeks.

 

Fifty yards. Victory would taste so sweet. All the effort, all the sweat, blood, toil, and tears. The years of practice in college, the amature circuits, the professional circuits. Now this.

 

Fifteen.

 

No one was there.

 

Ten.

 

It was his!

 

Five.

 

No. No. No! No! That upstart from Canada. There was no way that some kid would take away hismoment of glory. He tried to press harder, but there was nothing left. The ribbon was right there, but he could do nothing about it.

 

*****



 

Jonathan Swift, Canada’s poster boy, won Olympic Gold that year in Men’s 500 Meter Sprint.

How I Write a Blog Post

After the serious tone of my last post, I felt it was perhaps best I take a lighter turn this week.  So, today I present to you how I write a blog post.

Step 1:  What day is it?

Monday:  Don’t think about it.

Tuesday:  Don’t think about it.

Wednesday:  Don’t think about it.

Thursday:  “Oh, I need to write a blog post to upload on Monday.”

Friday:  “What should I write about?”

Saturday:   Mad dash to throw down 1000 or so words and send it off to my editor.

Sunday:  Imagine my editor grumbling about my timing and pulling her hair out because of me.

Monday:  Fix and polish edited blog post before uploading it the same day.

Spend the next seven days not thinking about the new blog post due in two weeks.

Step 2:  Pick a topic.

I have to admit it.  Rarely do I have any clue about what my blog posts are going to be about until I start working on them.  Perhaps that’s because I’m lazy.  That’s what K would say.  My personal point of view on it relates back to the type of writer I am.

We all know and recognize the two main writing schools: outliners and discovery.  Outliners plot out the book, the characters, the action, whatever, in greater or lesser detail so they know in advance what will happen.  Discovery writers do just the opposite. They take the stories and run with whatever feels right.  Some writers combine the two schools.  Brandon Sanderson is one such person.  He outlines the novel, but writes the characters using the discovery method.  There is no right or wrong way to do this, no matter what Mrs. Harris, your 3^rd grade teacher, said.

I am firmly in the camp of discovery writing.  If I plot out a single thing, my mind shuts down.  For example, in my current project, you get to meet Stephanie Hawthorne’s mother.  I only know a few things about her at this point:

1) You shall never hear me refer to her as Mom.  Too familiar.

2) She did a number on Stephanie and James when they were growing up.

and

3) You thought Stephanie could be a bitch?  Just wait. 

This will be fun.  I only just met the woman, and then only through a four-line letter, and I already dislike her as a person.  But she’ll be a blast to write. 

With that in mind, why should my blog posts be any different?  Most of the posts I’ve tried to plan out in advance have never been published, mainly because I never finished them.  And those that have been published aren’t my best work. 

Have I ever told you about Monty Python and how they did their scripts?  No?  Let me illuminate.  They, like so many shows, performed before test audiences.  The bad stuff?  It was pitched.  The good stuff?  That was where they differed from others.  If the skit performed too well, they threw it away as well.  So think about it like this: all the classic Monty Python we know and love—“Dead Parrot,” “The Spanish Inquisition,” “How Not to be Seen”—was actually mediocre Monty Python.  We’ve been laughing at their mediocre stuff.

Mind Blown.

Step 3: Writing

Self-explanatory.  Get computer.  Sit down.  Put fingers on keys and write.  Let the words flow, and don’t worry about where they’re leading.  The hardest thing you’ll ever do, but you wanna be a writer?  Just do it.

Step 4: Editing

Again, self-explanatory.  When writing, we don’t see the errors, but if we go back?  Like a baseball bat to the face. We’ve all been there.  Someday, I should post for you the first draft of some of the stuff I’ve written.  The final work looks much different from what is originally placed on the paper.  That is, by necessity, a good thing. 

I’ve heard stories about people—Rex Stout, to be precise—who never edited a single thing they wrote.  Somehow, I don’t believe that, but even if it’s not true, I’m not of his caliber.  There are those you look up to for inspiration, for education, as role models.  He’s one of mine. 

So I edit.  Go through.  Reword and rework phrases, sentences, and paragraphs.  You know what I mean.  Make sure it comes through clearly.  As the writer, that’s your responsibility. 

Do your job.

But here’s one of my little tidbits for you when it comes to my editing and writing.  Unless I am trying to prove a particular point, the same word never begins any sentence within the same paragraph more than once.  Look at this one.  No word begins the same sentence twice.  It makes things “work” better.  Also, if you can arrange it in the same pattern for your paragraphs, you’ll be in great shape.  I haven’t perfected that one yet.  

Step 5: Post it

Ok, I skipped a few substeps there.  Send it off to the editor.  Follow her suggestions.  Add pictures.  Tried that a few times.  Not sold on the practice.  Whatever those substeps are, do them as needed.  Me?  I just listen to my editor. 98% to 100% of the time, I agree with what she suggests. Then post.

The big thing is to be aware of what you’re saying.  You are ultimately responsible for your content.  Stand by it or don’t post it.  If I have concerns about something I’ve written, it is removed during the editing process.  I stand by what I’ve written, even if it isn’t pretty.

So that’s about it.  Maybe you’d call this fluff, but, hey, it’s what I got.  Welcome to my little world. Till next time.

BlogWars: Rachael Ritchey's post

I wanted to share with all of you my competition's submission.  Even though the results ended up being in my favor, I thought she did a wonderful job.  So without further ado, I give you Rabbit Abduction.

As always, thank you Rachael for the fun time.  I can't wait to do it again.  BlogWars: Episode Two.

:D

BlogWars: Rabbits

About three (I think) weeks ago, my friend Rachael Ritchey and I agreed to a bet.  A wager.  A blog post war.  Blog Wars.  The topic: Rabbits.  Don't ask me why we came up with rabbits.  I don't know a blasted thing about rabbits.  But we did, so I have to write a blog post about Easter Bunny wannabes.  So Rabbits. . . .Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits. . . .Ra. . . . Bits. . . . Rabbits. . . . Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits, rabbits rabbits rabbits. . . . Rabbits. . . . Bunny. . . .   Bunnies. . . . Hare. . . .Hair?  No, Rabbits.  Rabbits, rabbits rabbits.   Rabbits, why’d it have to be rabbits?  I don’t a blasted thing about rabbits. 

Rachael, you may just win this one.

That is unless. . . . No, it couldn’t. . . . But what could the harm be? Looking like a fool?  I already do that with great success.  Beyond that???  . . . .  It’s audatious. . . .  Still. . . .  Stupid. . . . Yeah, but. . . .   Well, I couldn’t. . . .  Could I?

Ω

Noddington Hare stared wide-eyed into the pervasive darkness.  Damp paws gripped his pole-arm—a three-tongged fork tied to a stick with a shoelace he’d found somewhere.  His cardboard armor—it was thick cardboard, thank you—felt too tight about his middle while a cap made from half a tin can kept falling in front of his eyes.  Reaching up, he adjusted the cap for the hundredth time.  It would be so much better if he had not had to wear it, but standing guard duty in the middle of the night?  He wasn’t about to be caught without it.

Silence reigned about him as his eyes flicked from one point to another.  This human’s yard wasn’t too large—larger than most in the city—but it was big enough.  He’d had to keep turning his head to see everything.  Which caused his helmet to slide.  The yard formed an “L” that forced him to occasionally hop around to look past the corner.  Which also caused his helmet to attempt escape.  A wooden wall stood behind him.  Some human had used it to store dirt.  Who needed to store dirt?  Sure, the plants they used above to hold the dirt in place looked pretty and smelled nice, but it was obvious the humans were hording dirt.  Humans were funny creatures.

His ears twitched as a dog barked in the distance.  He took a step back.  Or at least tried to.  If he were any closer to that wall behind him, he’d be part of it.  Nod reached up and readjusted his helmet.  Another dog barked, this one off to his right.  Dangerous creatures dogs, Nod thought as he readjusted his helmet again.  You never knew which way they would jump.  And they were too stupid—most of them, at least—to communicate even rudimentarily.  No wonder humans kept them as pets.  Funny creatures with dumb pets.  There was a truth.

It was humans that caused him to be out here anyway.  Nod had no idea who came up with the idea for the Rabbit Corp to hide eggs every spring, but that didn’t remove the responsibility.  While his senior partner was marking territory with eggy goodness, he, as junior most member,had to stand watch. Protect his bunny-buddy.  He wanted to move about.  If he was being honest with himself, he’d still probably be scared, but he was also pretty sure moving about would help.  Absently, he readjusted his helmet once again.

To his left, a sharp click sounded.  Without thinking, he bolted around the wooden embankment’s corner before slowly poking his head around, nearly losing his helmet.  He silently cursed the thing as  he watched the white door—at least Nod assumed that’s what it was—which protected the rest of the community, his community, from those disruptive humans opened.  A light, nearly enough to blind him, flipped on.  He squinted, rubbed his eyes with a paw, and looked again.

“Maxie,” a voice said.  “Go potty.”  With that, a black bolt of fur rushed into the open. 

Nod nearly jumped out of his skin.  A dog.  Why did it have to be a dog?  The creature rushed forward, sniffing the ground.  Moving as slowly as possible, Nod backed away from the.  His pole-arm, stuck out in front of him, weaved in an unsteady grip.  Where was everyone else?  If they came back now, maybe everyone could scare it away together.  If not that, then maybe they could run.  He could run. 

Nod continued to back away further into the shadows, watching for the dog.  By the time it made an appearance, he was hidden in the lea of the wall.  If Nod had dared to turn his back, he probably could have the top of the wall.  It was low enough here.  But he didn’t dare turn his back.  Dogs scared him too much. 

The dog’s nose was firmly glued to the ground, sniffing and unmoving.  It was dark, probably brown or black in full light.  Eyes glittered golden in the light by the door.  A red collar encircled its neck with tags jingling at the bottom with every sniff. 

Right were Nod had stood. 

The dog looked up, turning its head to look into the darkness .  Golden eyes met Nod’s and its jaws opened.  Nod wanted to scream, but no breath came.  His lungs froze.  His whole body froze.  He could feel his helmet slipping and almost welcomed the darkness.  That way he wouldn’t see his end coming.  This wasn’t what he wanted.  No where near.  Why couldn’t the creature have just ignored the smell?  Why couldn’t his fellow corpsmen have returned by now?  Why didn’t he move?  Why?  Why?  Why?

With a soft snort, the dog bounded forward.  It ran in a tight circle then headed straight for the shadows Nod hid in.  Jerkily, Nod raised his fork on its stick.  Why couldn’t he have found something a bit more substantial than a fork?  What good would a fork do?  The tines weaved in a figure eight as the dog came on like an unstoppable force.

It stopped a foot in front of Nod and crouched with its head on its forepaws while its butt flew high, moving almost as much as its tail.  It yipped.  The sound was soft and light.  Nod took a deep breath and moved one foot back, bracing himself for the attack to come.  Again the dog yipped, but this time it hopped as well.  Back and forth, two then three times, before returning to its previous stance. 

“Maxie, where are you?”  The human’s voice startled Nod.  His attention waivered as he glanced away looked toward where the human stood beyond his dirt.  You should keep better track of your animal, Human.  That’s when the dog struck.

Something wet and rough ran up the side of Nod’s head, dislodging his helmet.  He looked back in time to see the dog’s tongue lick up his face again.  It smelled awful.  Nod dropped his pole-arm and bounded backwards a short distance.  Enough to get him out of attack range.  A paw gripped his helmet, preventing it from falling off completely as he moved. 

“Maxie,” the human shouted.  “Inside.”

The dog hadn’t moved after the second attack.  It still didn’t move now.  It just stood there, head on paws and tail wagging, watching Nod.  A moment later it hopped a few more times before coming to rest in its original position.

“Maxie!”

The jaws opened and its tongue, a long red thing, lolled out the side of its mouth.  Nod had no idea what came over him as he took two steps forward.  He must have a batch of the crazies.  Why was he doing this?  It made no sense.  But logic didn’t hold him back as he reached out a paw and rubbed the tip of the dog’s nose.  Soft.  And warm.

“Maxie,” the human shouted, voice harsher than before.  “Inside!  Now!”

And with that the dog was gone.  Nod felt his shoulders relax as the human’s protective door closed and the accompanying light went out.  That was a bit too close.  Never—not in his wildest dreams—had he ever expected to be that close to such a creature.  Still, he felt a loss at its absence.  It made little sense. 

Nod picked up his pole-arm as he mulled it over.  Yeah.  The loss was real.  His heart hurt as he resumed his post.  Maybe next year he’d ask for this post again.

Between Work and Sacrifice

Hi.

I’m back.

If you hadn’t noticed—and I bet most of you have—I’ve been sadly lacking in my blog posts for the past several weeks.  Six, to be precise.  That’s not something I’m particularly proud of.  Over these last weeks, I’ve had to make some sacrifices to stay sane.  Unfortunately, I decided to sacrifice the wrong thing.

You see, work—the thing that gave me a paycheck every other Friday—was dragging me down.  Stressing me out.  Something had to give, and I chose the writing.  Why?  Not because I wasn’t dedicated to my craft, but because I have responsibilities and the pay was good.  So I chose the thing that paid the bills, not what made me happy. 

Now, I sit here before you, unemployed.  I’ve been in many different states in my life, denial being the other one I’m particularly fond of.  Fond, of course, being used in a most sarcastic way.  Because, you see, I had myself fooled that this job was worth the time, effort, and sacrifice.  Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

That burns a little.  More than a little, if I’m to be honest.  I worked, sweated, cried, and sacrificed for nothing.  To make matters worse, I gave up all those things that make me who I am—my passions.  I became a robot and a fool.  No one likes to be made a fool of, even if it’s only in his own head.  There were days that I couldn’t make myself write more than a few lines or edit a page or two before stopping for the night.  Let’s forget about writing blog posts.

The thing was, I was all right with it.  My parents did a lot for me growing up.  The older I get, the more I learn they did for me.  That being said, one of those things they got through my thick skull was the importance of working hard, and, if you care enough for something, you sacrifice for it.  Before now, I’d been sacrificing everything for my writing.  I lost time with family and friends.  Money that could have been used for other things—some frivolous, some not—instead went to an editor or supplies.  Let’s not talk about my health.  But I was fine with it. 

You see, throughout my life, I’ve been smart enough to skate by.  As an adult, this isn’t something I’m proud of, but as a kid?  “Good enough” was, simply put, good enough.  But when things got hard, I stopped and gave up, moving on to other, easier things.  This bad habit has stuck with me into adulthood.  And even though I know I’m doing it, it’s hard to fight. 

Writing was one of the first things I didn’t stop doing when the going got tough.  I don’t know how many times I was knocked down, but each time I picked myself up and started at it again, pounding against that wall with fists, ink, or whatever else was available.  It’s made a difference.  Now, it’s a solace, a place of refuge.  I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

But I did.

That’s why it grinds so much.  I gave up a passion for a paycheck.  As a kid, way back when, I promised myself I’d never do that.  Yet, here as an adult . . . Yeah.

I betrayed myself.  I betrayed my family and friends.  I betrayed my dream.  The last is nearly impossible to live with.  So, despite my dreams, it feels blatantly wrong sitting here writing something for a blog when I have cover letters to type up.  What right do I have to spend my life enslaved to the written word if I’ll give it up, give up my dreams, at the promise of a paycheck?  Is any amount of money worth giving up your dreams?

I am a fan of trivia game shows.  For years, K has been trying to get me to sign up and get on one.  Various excuses have kept me away, the main one being pride.  Well, yesterday I had a realization forced upon me by a friend.  Pride only goes so far, and eventually you’ll be willing to sell it for the right price.  He pointed out to me that pride prevents me from going on a game show, but I’d do it if it meant my novel, my dream, would become a reality. 

And he’s right. 

Knowing the man, he’s probably the only person who could make me see it.  He’s sacrificed for a dream and now does what I want to do for a living.  Not running a comic store like he does, but rather making a living off my passion.  You will sacrifice so much if you’re able to do what you love for the rest of your life.  I don’t think anyone else could have made that connection and made me accept it as readily as he did.

If I’m to be honest, it makes a fatalistic sort of sense, too.  Everything since I took the first steps on The Red Dress has pointed my feet toward writing.  All roads lead to Rome.  Rome being writing.  I’ve met some great people doing this.  My friends and family are fully behind me.  Can I count the personal satisfaction and happiness, too?  Encouragement comes from too many directions to count.  It’s too late to give up.  I’m too caught up in it.  This is my life, and I only get one of those.

So I can’t feel guilty about it anymore.  I need to be focusing on this blog, editing The Red Dress, and writing the follow-up.  No, I can’t do it all the time.  I do need to find a job.  Cover letters need to be written, and bills need to be paid.  But all this feeling-bad-for-wasting-time nonsense has to go out the window.  This experience, if nothing else, has forced me to realize what’s important to me.  And while money’s nice, it sure as hell isn’t everything.  Peace of mind and happiness stack up for quite a bit.

It isn’t so much that I have to make amends for my time in the land of the misbegotten.  Rather, it’s another instance of picking yourself up after hardship, dusting yourself off, and going right back at it.  I never completely stopped writing, you see.  Just mostly.  And that was bad enough.  This was a learning experience.  Now I know what’s important.  Now I know what to sacrifice for.  And that’s just as important as the will and ability to give it all up for a greater cause.

I’ll never stop writing.  Not for the rest of my life.  But now, I’ll never let it get so far away, either.

Solace

At one point or another in our lives, each of us must choose something to find solace in.  Where we find that solace changes depending on the person.  Sometimes it’s an activity, sometimes it’s a hobby—all too often it’s a bottle.  My grandfather finds solace in his woodworking.  My mother in her needlepoint.  I really don’t know what my father does, but I’m sure he has something.  Myself, it’s this—the writing. 

Mind, if you could see me right now, all I’d need to finish the stereotypical-writer look would be the smoldering cigarette.  I sit in a nearly dark room, lit mostly by the computer screen.  A streetlight shines through an open window along with a faintly chill wind.  Melancholy music plays through computer speakers.  A tumbler of rum, uncut, sits to my left within easy access.  Rain pours outside, and I am lost in the thoughts that run through my head, the drumbeats echoing more on my soul than on the roof just above my head.

Bob Seger wrote one of the greatest songs ever about the life of a touring musician, “Turn the Page.”  In it, he writes about “the echoes of the amplifiers ringing in your head.”  The same goes for writers and their prose.  You can’t ever seem to let that go.  Words bounce around your skull like some sort of mouse amped up on both sugar and speed.  Those words are your saving grace when you’re seeking that solace.

Sometimes, without them, I don’t know what I’d do to stay sane.  It’s saved my marriage, kept me from staying inside that bottle when I crawl in to avoid the outside world, taught me ways to live that are not easily described, and allowed me to communicate with my fellow human beings when the spoken word has failed.  It’s no wonder that written communication has survived hurricanes, floods, tragedies of all kinds.  That no matter how much we try to ban the written word, to control its influence, it always backfires. 

I put this to you.  The written word has the ability to transcend you, me, and everyone.  To mold us into something greater than the parts of the whole.  Each word we write has the opportunity to become more.  We recognize that as a species.  For those of Faith, we find God in the written word.  For those not, we find something else, something just as spiritual. 

So what’s this have to do with solace?  Think about it and you’ll get it.  It’s a way of centering ourselves.  There are times when I wonder about the wisdom of this drink at my elbow, but I never once question the wisdom of why I write.  Does everything get published?  No.  But they are always the right words to soothe a troubled soul. 

It beats a bottle.  I’ve crawled into one of those before.  And crawled back out.  Not on a regular basis, but sad to say, I’ve experienced it.  Tonight’s one of those nights when I want to shut out the world around me.  Work.  Family.  Friends.  Television.  Everything. Just gone.  That’s why I love that I’m a lazy guy.  The glass holds a finger’s worth and the bottle’s downstairs.  And I won’t go downstairs again until tomorrow morning. 

But tonight I’m troubled.  I’ll admit it.  I’m questioning decisions and reactions, unsure if I’ve chosen the right path in my life.  Should I be more than I am?  Less?  Life gives you only so many bridges. Have I crossed all the right ones?  My thoughts are my own, these concerns overwhelming my thought processes for over a week now.  And I have no answers.  At least none that satisfy. 

So instead of trying for answers, I’m looking at a new path.  Just acceptance, for tonight at least.  To find solace in those things that I love with those people I love.  That’s why I’m here, in a dark room before a computer screen when I have books to read, video games to play, movies to watch, with a drink in my hand.  Peace. 

But now that drink’s gone, finished.  And with it, my time here.  K’s home and the rain’s stopped.  That wind has turned downright cold, and the window needs to be shut.  The cigarette never was.  “Turn the Page” has transitioned into “Her Strut.” The light turns on, diminishing the computer’s brightness, and a kiss is welcomed.  Not too long, but long enough.

Fade out.

Failure is . . . Wait—What?

Lately, I've seen a lot of blog posts and articles about failure.  No matter what we do, everyone is aware of it.  It’s a constant risk, but one that we live with every day—in every aspect of our lives.  Should writing and publishing be any different?  The thing is, some people seem to be taking it to an extreme lately, including a blogger who expounded on the idea that “failure is our muse.”

Wait—What?

I hope you had the same reaction to this as I did.  It’s defeatist and makes no sense.  Talk about pessimism.  Have I ever experienced failure?  Oh God, yes.  Every time I try to run a mile, eat at Chili’s, or try to get a tan.  But calling failure my muse?  No.  I’m sorry, but if failure is your muse, then you are in the wrong fucking profession.

If that seems a bit harsh, think of it this way:  Does failure serve as inspiration for a surgeon whose patients die under his knife?  What about the mechanic whose newly-repaired cars blow up?  The architect who designs a house that collapses? 

The concept just doesn't fly with me.  It doesn't work.

Now, in the author’s defense, I understand what he was trying—but failing—to say.  Not muse, but motivation.  Dictionary.com (used since I can’t seem to find a copy of the OED without driving five hours) defines muse as verb meaning “to meditate on.”  There are other definitions as well, including “to comment thoughtfully or ruminate on” as well as the noun form of the word in reference to classical Greek mythology.  But not one of them means inspiration. 

I can’t think of a single instance when it is a good thing for anyone to meditate on failure.  Reflection?  That’s good.  We all need time to stop and look back on what we’ve done.  Time to see our path and correct our course.  But meditation implies a focus to the exclusion of everything else.  And where would hope and success be but with the all inclusive everything else? 

Ask a scientist what makes us human.  Depending on the field, the answer differs.  Opposable thumbs.  A developed brain.  The ability to create tools and adapt the environment to our needs rather than we to it.  Ask an artist, the answer differs just as much.  Ask yourself.  What makes us human?  For me, it’s a one-word answer:

Hope.

Sure, we’re the culmination of so many adaptations that it’s impossible to narrow down humanity—and what it means to be human—to just a single concept.  And I would agree with that.  I agree with the opposable thumbs and the concept of self.  But for me, hope is the single theme running through the lives of untold trillions who have walked this earth.  That’s why it’s such a terrible thing when someone loses hope.  And what is the antithesis of hope but failure?  Or at least musing on failure.

Honestly, I am no better than anyone else.  I muse over failure much more than I should—much more than is healthy.  It’s part of my psyche, embedded there like a rusted nail.   But I can’t let it rule my life.  None of us can. 

Using failure as a motivator?  Sure, I can understand that—saving that patient, building the perfect house, creating a better vehicle.  Writing the perfect sentence.  It won’t ever happen, but it’s a goal.  My goal. 

But hope isn't my muse.  That would prohibit my understanding of the darker sides of life.  I wrote a murder mystery, for crying out loud.  I need those aspects in my writing.  If I focused solely on hope, then the story might look something more like this:

“Who killed Andrea?”

“I don’t know.”

“Man, I hope she’s all right.”

Andrea sits up.  “I’m good.  It’s ok, (REDACTED), you didn’t have to shoot me.”

And everyone lives happily ever after.

That would sell a lot of books, wouldn’t it?  To be a writer (or anything beyond an automaton), you need to understand the many different facets of humanity.  We can’t just focus on hope, or failure, or charisma.  It simply doesn’t work.  Imagine a rainbow of just one color or a forest that’s slate grey in the fall.  The bark, the leaves, the plants and animals—all just grey.  Boring, right?

Instead, we must take everything as a whole and notice the subtle differences.  Like when each of us looks at a picture and sees a slightly different image. 

So sure.  Use failure.  To avoid doing so would only make you a failure.  Failure is how we learn.  But don’t let it rule your life.  Motivation I can get, but a muse?  Hell no.  Rather, I would argue to avoid muses; focus instead on the wide world of color around you.  Notice how it shifts and changes within each person at different times.  None of us are red all the time, but can flow into yellow or blue at a moment’s notice.  And don’t forget the subtle shading.  Is that sports car the same color as the apple you ate for lunch?  No.  And we are the same way.

Unless you’re two years old.  Then your apples and sports cars can be the same color. 

Gloriously so.

Meet My Character Blog Tour

About two weeks ago, I was asked by the always fun Rachael Ritchey to participate in a “Meet my Character” Blog Tour.  To eliminate any sense of suspense, I agreed.  And if you haven’t met, talked to, or otherwise interacted with this fine lady, you’re missing out.  By a lot.  So get on that, all of you.  You can find her on Twitter at @rachaelritchey and her blog here.

Go ahead.  I’ll wait. 

But anyway, Rachael approached me for this character-driven—literally—blog tour.  I agreed but then started to think about my writing.  Rachael describes my work as “thrilling/mysterious,” but I have to admit, there’s a reason for that.  Most likely that’s only because I haven’t really talked about my writing projects other than to give status updates.  There’s nothing on the topic, the plot, characters, or anything else.  Only me saying that I’m working on it.

That’s not a whole lot to work on.  And I’m sorry about that, but I often post obscure tidbits about my life with no real details to support them.  I’ve always done it.  Drives my family nuts to say the least.  Maybe that’s a sign of some sort of complex or a lack of faith.  Maybe it’s modesty.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  I tend to think it’s my innate sense of privacy I have to overcome every damn day. 

Trust me.  It’s harder than it sounds.

What you have here is a rare glimpse into the world of my novel, well before it’s released.  Only a handful of people know more than what I’ve already shared on Twitter—and I’m related to most of them. So, please enjoy this. 

’Cause I can promise there’s more where that came from.

1. What is the name of your character? Is he/she fictional or a historic person?

                I’ll give you two.

Daniel Atwell- Husband. Employee. Private detective. Completely fictional.

Stephanie Hawthorne- Wife. Employer. Private detective.  Genius. Has absolutely no sense of style. Also fictional.

2. When and where is the story set?

                The story is set in our current time and place.  Nothing about anything should be unbelievable.  You should feel like you could walk into Stephanie’s office tomorrow so she can find anything from your lost grandpa to that misplaced baseball card from your 9^th birthday. 

The exact setting is never mentioned in this novel.  In the next novel, setting becomes more important, and it’s disclosed that everything is set in Flint, Michigan.

3. What should we know about him/her?

                Daniel works for his wife as a private detective.  This creates friction, but both would rather work with their spouse than anyone else.  Stephanie doesn’t want to work and is abrasive to most people.  James, Stephanie’s brother, works for the local police department and is in charge of any murder investigations.  He’s the only one truly smarter than his sister.

4. What is the main conflict? What messes up his/her life?

                Daniel’s old girlfriend, Andrea Swope, wants to hire Stephanie to find proof of her husband’s infidelity.  Stephanie refuses and sends her away, only for her to be murdered later that night.  Andrea’s husband later hires Stephanie to find his wife’s murderer.  What follows is a web of delusions and deceptions Daniel and Stephanie must unravel, starting with a particular red dress.

5. What is the personal goal of the character?

                For Daniel- To catch a murderer

                For Stephanie- To get paid

6. Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?

                The Red Dress

7. When can we expect the book to be published?

                If everything goes to plan, I’m hoping to have it published in spring of 2015.

Now, I’m not the only person who wants to get in on this blog tour.  I want to introduce you to a couple of fun ladies.  Both are farther along in the publishing world than I am, but they’ve always been a blast to talk to. 

First meet Sarah E. Boucher.  You can find her at saraheboucher.com and on twitter at @saraheboucher. 

Also, I would like to introduce you to Ciara Ballintyne.  You can find her at @ciaraballintyne on twitter or at her website ciaraballintyne.com.

I have talked to both Sarah and Ciara on twitter for a while now, not to mention enjoying their individual works.  When this blog tour came my way, they were the first ones I thought of.  Their willingness to join in thrilled me to no end.  With them gracious enough to join us in our bit of fun, this'll be a good time for everyone.  Personally, I’m looking forward to hearing what they have to say about their individual works.

Take it away, ladies.  The ball’s in your court.

Get Your Hands Off Me, You %@$! Dirty Ape: Our Obsession with Cursing

Before I get into this, let me say one thing.  I was raised in a household where I never called my parents anything other than Mom and Dad, did my chores before going out to play, and could never, ever swear.  If I did, I clearly remember tasting whichever brand of soap was on sale that week.  And I don’t hold it against them.  They always said cursing was the sign of a weak mind. 

Or at least, I think I remember them saying that.  I remember the soap more than my parents’ maxim.

Unfortunately, in my daily speech, such prohibitions didn’t quite take.  I can avoid swearing at work, but more often than not, my wife critiques my language whenever we go out socially. 

But what it did do was aid my written vocabulary. 

I remember being forced to develop other words to express emotions and situations.  That vocabulary slowly worked itself into my writing, which is why my characters rarely swear.  If they can think themselves into a bank vault, figure out an unsolvable crime, or save the world from an unspeakable evil against terrible odds, then they can think of some other term to express themselves.

That isn’t to say they never swear.  That’s impossible.  Jim Butcher once discussed swearing in one of his Dresden Files books.  Unfortunately, I have only the audio and lack a physical copy, so I can’t share the exact wording with you, nor give you the citation.  What I did find out was that, for the most part, I agree with what he said.

Cuss words do serve a purpose, and it’s not just to be vulgar—though some people or characters we create are just that.  But those words also serve as an emphasis on particular ideas and thoughts.  They were designed for exactly that purpose.   Used too often, however, they lose their ability to emphasize anything, and that’s when they become vulgar.  I paraphrase here, and perhaps misunderstood his intent, but Mr. Butcher seems to be making a valid point.

Growing up, I always argued that cuss words were just that—words.  I lacked the understanding, much later than I should have, that meaning behind the words was the problem, not the words themselves.  Comprehension eventually did dawn on me, and I adjusted my use of such words accordingly. 

Mr. John Scalzi (Side Note: I have the utmost respect for both Mr. Scalzi and Mr. Butcher.  They are fine authors, masters of their craft.) wrote a post on his blog Whatever in March of 2002 called “How to Send Me Hate Mail.”  I cannot seem to find the post, otherwise, I would post a link to it.  But you can find it in his book Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded.  In it, Mr. Scalzi, in detail, tells you how to send him hate mail.  There is a subtle—or really not so subtle—message regarding language in general and swearing in particular.  Be original.  Don’t just curse—use invention, alliteration, and all those other techniques when you make your point. 

And that sounds a lot like what I said above: Don’t be vulgar, but use cursing only as an emphasis.

I remember bragging about chewing someone out when I was a kid.  Looking back, it was about as foolish as can be.  Now I am more than a little ashamed by it, but let’s be honest, it’s what I did.  I wasn’t the wisest kid growing up. 

Anyway, my uncle and I were driving through Seattle, and we were discussing everything from his youth in the city to stories about my experiences.  And it was during one of those stories that he said something profoundly interesting to me.  It’s stuck with me since then, and I have found nothing but evidence to support it.

I told him about an argument I’d once had with the younger sister of one of my friends.  Eventually, it degraded to a contest to see who could chew out whom better.  During the first two rounds, we both swore and nothing came of it.  Her third round, she continued on the same bent, but I chose a different path.  Not once did I use a single cuss word, instead favoring combinations and ideas which would’ve been impossible without a broad vocabulary to draw from.  Low and behold, she walked out ashamed.

To this, he dropped one bit of knowledge on me.  I had won because swearing in excess only removes the emphasis you are trying to make.  Of course, those weren’t his exact words, but rather the gist.  Swearing doesn’t bring a point across, only a range of expression can do that. 

Which brings me to the point of this entire post.  I wrote a post about a month ago about how to write, or to be precise, how I won’t tell you how to write.  In it, I used a word that my editor suggested I think twice about because some people might be offended by its use.   She made a valid point.  But I went with it all the same.  Because the word was right. 

That made me ask a question.  Have we taken our prohibition against swearing too far?  If an adult cannot differentiate between vulgarity and the appropriate use of a word—in context—then we are facing more problems than that single usage.  No single word is “evil” every time it’s used.  Sure, some words are bad most of the time, but every single one has a point and a valid use.  Name one and I’ll explain it away.  But if we are using a word correctly, then what right does anyone have to claim vulgarity?

There are certain words that I won’t use.  Or at least, when I do, I feel dirty.  They don’t belong in my current day-to-day vocabulary.  But will I use it if it’s the right word in the right context?  Yes.  Unquestionably, yes.

Because it is the right word.

It’s really up to you to understand what is and is not the right time to cuss.  Does vulgarity fit?  Is it needed?  Or are we trying to express an opinion with that gut-wrenching emotion we can all relate to?  It’s up to you, but do me a favor.  Be aware of things like context and definition.  They make a difference.

 Now, I’ll get off my soapbox.  Bit proud of myself, though.  Spent an entire post talking about cursing but never once used a single swear word.

Damn.  I’m gonna have to fix that.

Time: The Great Clock That Rules Us All

Time.

It's unique. I cannot think of anything so fundamental, yet fleeting, as it is. Time can never be reconstructed.  With infinite control and perfect knowledge, everything else can be rebuilt. Your first car can be saved from decaying into rust. Bring back every burned piece of paper. That perfect moonlit night of your first kiss. But time? Once used, it's gone.

Why bring this up? Because I'm running out of it.

Sure, in some metaphysical sense, we are all running out of time. Death waits for no man and all that mumbo jumbo. But that's not what I'm getting at. Rather, I have goals and deadlines to meet, yet my worst enemy—procrastination—sneaks up on me and takes hold.

Not fun.

That, I suppose, is why we budget our time, hording it like Scrooge McDuck. But for me, it goes beyond that. I always seem to be running, never quite at a standstill.  My body may be stuck in one place, but my mind never shuts down. Ever. I’m always thinking about something or doing something, all because it needs to be done.

I'm not saying that I'm the only one in this predicament.  In fact, I tend to think that most of us are. And that's a shame. But it's also part of being an adult. I look at my life and often wonder where my time went.   Where’s the time to be myself and relax and be a husband and be an individual? It disappears faster than we ever realize.

Now, I’m not complaining—not much, anyhow.   This is something we all have to deal with.  For right now, though, it has come as a startling slap in the face.  It all stems from my work on my novels.  First and foremost, I am sending off my novel—The Red Dress—to my editor in August (Thanks Susan!).  But before I do that, I have a little more work I want to get done on it.  The usual stuff—tweaking lines, deepening character development, description, description, description—but even though it may be simple-ish, it still takes time. 

The second reason is simpler.  On my new novel, I really thought I’d be further along than I am.  Oh, there are reasons for that.  Mainly, it’s that I can reliably write about 500 words a day, but often lack the time and energy to do more.  It’s hard to write when you are—literally—falling asleep at the keyboard.

Time surrounds our lives, dictates our activities, and either provides opportunities or shuts them down.  We find time for those things that are important to us, which is why I spend time with my wife, I spend time writing, and spend time working—so I can afford to spend time writing and with my wife.  Our obsession with it really should be no surprise.  

Perhaps that is why almost every science fiction show I’ve ever watched deals with it in some way.  Strike that.  Every show deals with it, though it’s most obvious in sci-fi—with all their talk of time travel and paradoxes and polarity reversals—to such an extent that it is expected and almost always horribly done (If you don’t get that, watch a season of Star Trek.  The solution always seems to be reversing the polarity.  Sci-fi tropes will be another post some day . . . when I find time to write it.).If you know anything about time travel theory, a bad soap opera is often preferable. 

But sci-fi isn’t the only genre with a heavy emphasis on time, just the most obvious.  Imagine, if you will, a serial killer on a spree, and the cops and their writer friend have to stop him before he kills again (Castle).  Or how about the looming wedding that one character is having second thoughts about (How I Met Your Mother)?  Traveling to space for the first time and coming back to Earth to find that your friends have moved on while you’re out playing astronaut (The Big Bang Theory). 

The entire plot of 24.

The list goes on.  And I can go on.  Toss in movies, books, video games, sports.  Hell, just about everything in our lives, entertainment or otherwise, centers itself around time.  All of it to prove just one thing.

Don’t squander it.

It’s a maxim we heard how many times growing up?  Thousands?  Millions?  And we don’t stop hearing it.  Always do your best with what you have.  Learn as much as you can and always give your best effort with the time you have.  It almost makes you want to toss it all away and do whatever you please.  But we know we can’t.  Ignoring bills won’t make them go away.  All it does is get our gas shut off.

So we are going to keep minding it.  Keep following every tick of the clock and relishing those moments.  To do otherwise is to die.  Literally. So, as much as I hate to do it, I will buckle down and get back to work.  That novel won’t write itself.  And I can’t expect my editor to do all the work for me.  If that was the case, then she’d be the author, and I’d be the bum on the street, people watching.

Who am I kidding?  I am that bum on the street people watching.  But I just call it research for my next book.

The Problem with the First Post

So a blog—

For the record, this is the first blog, journal, or anything that I’ve used to share my thoughts with the world since I studied music as a college undergrad.  Twitter and Facebook don’t really count.  Honest posts are rarely deep and can only give glimpses of personality.  I never graduated with a degree in music, but rather with a BA in English.  It’s been nearly ten years since I studied music, and while I can see the person I would become in those posts, I am definitely not the same person.

Since that was at the forefront of my thoughts, I wanted to give you examples of what I’m talking about.  But I won’t. Feel the sigh of relief from the masses.  Why won’t I?  Perhaps the reason is because I can’t find those posts.  Maybe I know where to find them, but am too embarrassed to share.  Or maybe I couldn't write about it in a way that wouldn't drive me insane with boredom.  And if I get bored writing it, I can imagine what your interest level will be.

And that brings up the problem with the first post of any blog, series of articles, or the first chapter in a novel.  How do I introduce myself, the heroes and villains, or anything else adequately and entertainingly enough to spark your interest?  Let’s be honest, there is a sense of utter arrogance whenever anyone writes— don’t argue, it’s true —since the written word is intended for posterity by design.  Why else record everything from Oedipus Rex to Aristotle to quantum physics?  I have to prove that my opinions are worth your time and effort. 

That’s not easy.

So how do I describe myself (a man with a desert-dry sense of humor), my interests (comics, writing, and woodworking), and my intent (to create conversations based on opinions, writing excerpts, and observations) in such a manner that is interesting?  By far and large, this is one of the hardest posts I’ll ever write.  Proverbial chest pounding doesn't come easy to me.  It makes me uncomfortable, and I blush like a tomato— kind of ruins the impression I’m trying to give.  At least that’s what happens verbally.  But I’m a writer, and you can’t see how red my face will get.  Instead, I have style.  And style means all.  Which begs the question of how.  How should I write it?  I could always do what we all did in first grade— except maybe Shakespeare.

Hi.  My name is Nick.  My house is white.  I like cake.  I like comics.

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—

God, that is dull.  It’s boring, dry, and as informative as that textbook you slept on in high school biology.  The one that I used as a pillow was, at least, that tedious.  I could always add adverbs, adjectives, and other bits of grammar which liven up the English language.  Of course, it would help if I could actually identify all those fiddly bits.  I hear that four out of five dentists can’t identify teeth either.  Maybe I just made that up. 

I could state that cake is nothing but a delivery method for frosting (props to Alton Brown for that one). It’s just as informative, but much more entertaining.  And isn’t that part of what I’m going for here?  Entertainment.  But stealing that line lacks originality— that distinct whatchamacallit which makes everyone’s writing unique.

Am I unique?  Is my writing unique?  Is anything we write original?  I already know what some people think, but that’s a metaphysical debate for another day.  Not to mention one that could very well create headaches for everyone involved.  Cake isn't original, and rarely unique, but people still love it.  How to tell you about my emotional connection to cake is a conundrum.  But we’re not talking about writing.  I have plenty to say on writing styles, critiquing, and each little writing niche— every writer does.  Let’s stop lying to ourselves here; we are discussing cake.  And damn it, now I want some.

Excuse me while I go put on some pants.