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.

About Me: Part Two

As I sit here at my computer, I’m conditionally writing this as a blog post.  I say conditionally, even to myself, since I’m unsure about whether or not it will even make it onto my blog.  Do you really want to hear what I have to say?  It isn’t pretty or kind or all puppies-and-kittens. 

Truth is, my life isn’t like that.  I suspect most lives aren’t, but I refuse to hide that fact.  More than once, I’ve received looks and comments—dealt behind closed doors when they thought I wasn’t listening— about my refusal to bury my feelings behind fake smiles and platitudes.  And more often than not, it brings me into conflict with others.  Those who don’t get “it.” Those who only want the superficial, despite what they say.  I’ve known countless fair-weather friends who don’t really want to know the reason you’ve withdrawn into yourself, no matter what they say. 

I won’t point fingers.  They’re scattered through all points of my life.  The fact still exists, however, no matter how much we’d love our problems to be covered up or ignored.  It’s especially hard on K and me.  We’ve met untold people who are positive, upbeat, and wonderful people who just don’t understand that we’re just not that way.  It worries me when I meet truly great people—kind, caring people who are just a simple joy to know—and we hit it off.  They want to spend time talking and getting to know each other.  Then, we slowly seem to turn them off ’cause we’re not like that.   

It’s lonely.

Recently, my wife asked me why it seems like she has no friends.  I ignored the question and changed the topic.  Why?  Because it was neither the time nor place to discuss it.  Truth is, it isn’t just her.  Both of us have issues keeping people close to us.  They see us having problems and withdrawing into ourselves—for sanity’s sake—and they assume that we’re angry at them.  Of course, they don’t consider asking us what’s wrong.  They only say, “Well, you could always come and talk to us.”  We don’t always want to talk.  We want our problems to go away.  If we’re doing this, then they obviously aren’t normal problems.  They are all–consuming, and we’re holding on by our fingernails. 

It’s the rare person who goes out of their way to ask.  But even then, nine times out of ten, I’ll still lie and say everything is all right.  It isn’t, but what good does it do?  I’m unsure about that point.  I’m pretty sure I suffer from textbook depression. It’s unconfirmed, but also hereditary in my family.  How can I explain to you that while the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and the world looks beautiful, I am miserable?  Most people can’t comprehend that.

But you want a sure way to piss off someone like me?  Just tell us to change our mood.  Tell us it’s all in our head, and, if we really wanted to, we could change the way we feel.  Act like it’s just a switch we have to flip and then—presto!—everything will be wonderful.

IT DOESN’T FUCKING WORK LIKE THAT PEOPLE! 

There is no switch, no magic button.  You think we haven’t tried?  You think we love being miserable?  Anyone who says they do—guess what? They’re lying.  We’ve just lived with the depression and the sadness and all those issues so long that we forget at times what it feels like to be happy, what having a smile on your face looks and feels like.  Happiness can seem almost mythical at times, like unicorns or dragons or some Disney fairytale character.  And the worst thing about saying that is, it reinforces the idea that we have the ability to fix it ourselves, to believe whatever we want to believe.  If we only tried hard enough, it would go away on its own; we should be able to handle our own problems with ease.  That misnomer has probably killed more people than it saves.  I struggle with that idea daily—that I should always be in control; I should be able to fix it myself . . .  if I only wished and focused hard enough.

Tell that to cancer.

A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh is fantastic in many ways:  beloved children’s book, fan-favorite Disney show.  But it’s also a fantastic character study.  You can label everyone you know by the characters in that book.  Your spouse is an Owl; your mother a Pooh.  That annoying guy at work?  Tigger.  Definitely a Tigger.  I am an Eeyore.  But here is the second part of the lesson.  Read the book, watch the show—whichever you prefer.   Here’s the thing.  Each character is unique, including Eeyore.  But never—NOT ONCE—do the others try to change who he is.  They still invite him along on their adventures, accepting their friend for who he is.  That’s a lesson for all of us.

Depression is an illness.  It isn’t a disease that can be cured with chemo or radiation.  It’ll always return.  We are stuck with this monkey for the rest of our lives.  It’s torture, plain and simple.  But we still try to move forward.  We just want you to be aware, to help us lift that burden on occasion.  Take us out for a beer, invite us over for lunch. 

Just. Say. Hello.

So when you talk to me and I don’t answer or only grunt, I’m not mad at you. Trust me, I’ll tell you when that happens.  Depression is like carrying several tons around with you daily.  You grow tired.  Sometimes we need to put the burden down for a bit.  Care when that happens.  Be worried when we have trouble lifting it again, because each time we have to, it gets harder.  Depression isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of being strong for too long. 

Trust me, I know.

Thoughts

This time as he rode the train home,  the sun still lit the sky.  There was no hiding from the outside world as much as he wished to. Trees, roads, farmhouses flew by a the same emotions filled him as before. In a room full of people, he still felt alone. In a room of friends, he still felt single. He knew where he was going but still felt lost. Had his whole life. That only made the loneliness worse. What he'd give for a whiskey or a cup of tea. To soothe his soul or drown it. The trip was bittersweet. Home was ahead but his future behind. People left behind as he grew waited to greet him, and he them with open arms and a full heart, but he also wanted his home, his bed, and a place to contemplate his problems at unhealthy levels. That's where his mind was. Behind and still ahead. Heart still hopeful and yet hopelessly lost. Worry consumed the rest.

Sorry I've been away.

It feels like forever since I wrote anything substantive here.  There’s plenty of reasons for that, but none worth going into.  Though I will say that a damaged finger doesn’t help matters any.  It’s doing better, though I will have a scar.  Most definitely a scar. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have 1500 words of wit or wisdom to pass on today.  Life’s been too heavy for that lately.  Instead, I give you my second miscellaneous blog post (the first one being my second or third post).  It’s just the odds and ends going through my mind right now.  And to start it all off, I give you—

Money:

Yes, the infamous denomination which makes the world turn.  It’s been getting to me lately.  To be more exact, though, it’s the lack thereof which is getting to me.  Not like I can’t deal with my current level of income.  I can.  But it wasn’t until recently that I understood what lenders meant when they called my debt-to-income ratio too high.  Oh God, is it!  Maybe this isn’t the place to be discussing it, but it’s on my mind, so it shows up here.  The good news is that I have a plan.

Many of you have probably heard of Dave Ramsey.  If you haven’t, look him up.  Your life will be better for it.  If you have, you should know where I am going with this.  Mr. Ramsey has a foolproof method for getting out of debt.  Or maybe not.  I’ve screwed it up once before, but that was on me, not him.  It is sound financial advice, which I suggest you consider.  The gist of it is this: work hard, apply your money to your debts smartly, and build financial wealth.  Oh, and don’t accrue more debt.  I fell short in a couple places.

But I’m back on it now.  It’s hard, but I’m more motivated than ever before.  So I’ve started selling my stuff on eBay.  I’ve got lots of it, so it can go.  Things are things, but peace of mind is more important to me right now.  Besides, I can always re-buy all of it later if I truly miss it.  I doubt I will.  

The Red Dress:

Well, despite my finger being injured, I’ve finished it.  My first novel, The Red Dress, is done.  Don’t be jealous.  Okay, you probably aren’t.  But I finished it last week.  Or it’s done until and unless I want to get a copy edit done on it.  I’m not sure I can do that—from both an impatience aspect and a financial one (see above).  Either way, it’s a great relief, to say the least.  I am done (for now) with Stephanie Hawthorne.

But this raises the next question:  what to do with it.  As my wife sees it, there are two options.  I can publish it or get smothered in my sleep for wasting all the time and money involved with the process.  I also see two options, but they are a tad bit different.   I could try to publish the novel through traditional means.  That would mean query letters, publishing companies, agents, more editors, and, I’m sure, more headaches before seeing it in print for the first time years from now.  The other option is to self-publish, which as anyone can tell you, has its own set of difficulties. 

I’m just not sure which one I’d prefer to crack my skull over.  It’s going to be a hard decision with a lot of work behind it, regardless of my choices.  The worst part about all of it is, I just want it done and out there and in your hot little hands.  

I’ll post an excerpt or two soon.

Writing:

So with the end of The Red Dress, I find myself free—free from that novel but with the desire to write something new.  All of us creative types know the joy that feeling brings.  And I’ve been planning on something for a while now.  Been world-building and planning out every little detail for the setting (I never plan out the plot.) for probably two or more years now.  Think of it as a cross between Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files and the movie Ocean’s Eleven.  Last week, I even started writing it. 

Then there was last night.  Actually, it was two nights ago.  And two nights ago from when I wrote these lines, not when you’re reading this.  What happened?  I’m glad you asked.  Stephanie FUCKING Hawthorne is what happened.  You want to know?  Let me tell you.

FYI, I feel like a late-night infomercial right now.  Heh.

So I go to bed.  It’s late.  I’m tired and asleep almost before my head hits the pillow.  But I did have two thoughts before I drifted off to La-La Land.  The first was a single line which I shall not mention here.  The other, mere milliseconds before I fell asleep, was: “That would make a great opening line for a Stephanie Hawthorne novel.”

Fast-forward to the next morning, when I wake up with the first chapter plotted out in my head. 

ARGH!!!!

As of right now, I am pretty solid on the first paragraph—as in, it’s scripted out in my head without me putting a single line on the page.  I mean, that’s good, right?  It is, but knowing me, by the end of the week, it’ll shove everything else aside.  Honestly, it’ll probably be tomorrow.

My Silence:

This one I can’t be as glib about.  As some of you who keep track know, I’ve kinda disappeared for a bit from the web, from this blog, and from Twitter.  Things have been hard for me professionally, personally, and in all matters of my life for the past month.  There are plenty of reasons for that.  For part of it, look above at the whole get-out-of-debt thing.  That gets to me a lot.  So do . . . other things.

I’ll try to be online more, but those other aspects of my life do take precedence.  My wife, my job—those win over everything else, including the writing I love so much.  Actually, truth be told, I’m getting the writing done at work during my lunch periods.

Yay for hour-long lunches!

But I promise to try.  Hopefully, we’ve turned a corner this week.  I’m looking for the end of the rainbow, that yellow brick road. 

Okay, some nights I’m just looking for a glass of wine.

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.