Writers Untie!

Done!

2007-12-01T04:29:00.000-08:00

As of 9:30 p.m. EST last night, I am officially DONE! with my novel. Huzzah!!

Linny Jane and I made the final push to 50,000 together at our favorite local cafe, surrounding ourselves with tea and good music in true writerly fashion.

And now maybe, just maybe, we can get our life back. ;)

Novel? Novel!

2007-11-30T17:54:00.001-08:00

I finished my novel at approximately 8:22 p.m.. I have downloaded the certificate of achievement and plan to hang it up . . . somewhere. Sadly, I don't think people at my office will get it.

Word count: 50,082

Huzzah! Now life can return a little bit to normal. Visit my other page to read more about it.

Three days

2007-11-28T08:49:00.000-08:00

I attempted to post this once, but my cleverly written entry was promptly eaten by cyberspace gremlins.

I am at 27,630 words. I have 22,370 left to go, meaning that I have to write approximately 7460 words a day between now and Friday.

I've been regularly pulling 6000 to 8000 words a day in a desperate effort to catch up, so it's still possible that I'll finish. And I'm going to push as hard as I can to see if I can't make it!!

Four nights left

2007-11-27T16:09:00.000-08:00

39,838

I've got this in the bag! If only I didn't need to sleep, life would be fantastic right now.

Last night I was noveling while sitting on my floor, my lap top on my lap (of all places!) and I started falling asleep over it. So I stopped. It wasn't even midnite.

So there's that. Lately in my novel I am living in a cardboard box and making friends with homeless people. I am also digging holes in the backyard.

Drama

2007-11-20T19:11:00.000-08:00

I am almost at 25,000. Almost halfway.

Yes, I know time is running out, but let me tell you, I've put on quite the burst of speed. Since I'm almost halfway, it means I especially must finish.

Things are going great. Ideas are coming to me out of the blue, and I like them. For example, there is a car explosion and I burn down my house. There is a pet turtle. This morning I killed my character's mother. It was awful; I was in Starbucks (I know, I know, I don't like them either) and I just decided that she couldn't stay in my story, but it made me really sad and concerned.

I'm getting to the point where I want to be writing four scenes at the same time because I'm afraid I'll forget what I want to happen by the time I get to write it.

Behind (but still trekking on)

2007-11-11T19:21:00.000-08:00

As of five minutes ago when I got distracted by the internet, my word count was 7,535. I consider this a major accomplishment, as when I sat down to write about an hour and a half ago, my word count was about 2,000 lower.

That established, if I intend to finish on time, I have to write 2,235 words every day between now and the 30th. Really, it's not so bad. That's only 600 or so more words per day than the average if you stay on target from the beginning. It's only the end of the first full week of NaNo; I've just been getting warmed up.

I was struggling with writer's block for a few days this week (and a nasty bout of "let's find things to do besides write a novel!") when a fantastic piece of advice came across my e-mail. Something that as a usually liner writer, I hadn't even considered:

If you're finding a scene boring to write, cut it and skip to the good part. Set something on fire. Have zombies attack. Note that boring is not the same as hard. Really great scenes can be very hard to write and take a long time, but if you're sitting there going "god, when will this be over," make it be over. You indeed have that power. It's your novel.

I was getting stuck having a couple characters in an extended and rather dull dialogue in a hospital room. I thought that I had to write my way out of this before I could go on. It hadn't even occurred to me that I could leave them hanging in the ICU reception area and move on to another part of the plot progress. Granted, I will at some point have to get my protagonist out of the hospital and into her house, and again out of the house and on a date (with some action in between!), but for now, it's been awesome to give myself the freedom to break out of the expected chronological order and just write what's coming at the time.

I'm hoping to get back on the time-order bandwagon soon, though. I'm getting anxious to know what happens to my characters as their lives unfold, even though I'm artificially manipulating them out of order right now.

Slow, but not necessarily steady

2007-11-06T06:41:00.000-08:00

My word count is somewhere around 3,700 words right now, but I'm not certain. This would be because I, er, took a day off already. Yes, dear readers, in the thralls of a difficult scene that will set the tone for the rest of the novel, I skipped a day of writing yesterday and am already regretting it. I think I'm supposed to be somewhere around 8,330 by this point.

The positive side to all of this is that I am really thinking through my project this year and have a pretty clear idea of what tone and approach I am taking, without needing to experiment as heavily as I did last year in the course of the story. (There were some dreadfully ridiculous and unnecessary scenes written dripping with sarcasm that was not at all in keeping with the rest of the story.) I have an idea how I want to guide the plot while still leaving a lot of room for my characters to surprise me.

Now all that's left to do, I suppose, is to actually write.

Slow and steady wins the race.

2007-11-05T20:01:00.000-08:00

Okay. So I've hardly broken 3000 words, and it's been a few days. Mostly writing during my lunch break, a few minutes before work, and a few minutes before bed. I really want this to be a real novel though, not some silly random thing, like the 50,010 word wonder I wrote last year.

Still, it's hard to give my characters any...character. I'm too worried about plot logistics. I threw in some physics and mathematics. I don't know about either of these things. I was a music and writing major, for crying out loud. I need to hire a researcher. What is a plausible theory that is (in real life) impossible, that could transport two twentysomethings into some other world?
Well, I'll make up some good stuff. That's not a problem. The rules of this game don't say that anything I write has to be believable.

I should make up a memoir of my life. Write someone else's life. I keep getting other ideas in my head, and get sidetracked.

On Wednesday I am leaving for Seattle, and will be gone until Sunday night, visiting a good friend. I wonder how much writing I will get done. I purposefully got a few hours off work so I can get to the airport extra early and plug into some wall somewhere, and write until it is time to fly away to the west coast. Actually, I think I get to fly to GA or TX first. I've never been to either of those places either.

Anyway. Writing on.

Almost November

2007-10-31T15:04:00.000-07:00

The madness begins at midnight! Good luck, my fellow novelists!

Getting prepared

2007-10-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

Fantasy fiction. That's all I've got so far.

There will be a dragon who dispenses advice through lyrics of Beatles songs. There may be some guest appearances from characters like Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. In fact, my characters might just get really really lost in Disney's version of a fairy tale land. Only the characters in Disney are all actors, and Cinderella is really a bitter and cynical smart mouth, and Sleeping Beauty has had a nose job and is really insecure.

Okay, so maybe I have more than I thought. This was a little spur-of-the-moment, and of course, anything could change at any time during the writing of this masterpiece.

I may really end up writing about twenty-somethings in the city trying to survive outrageous rent and careers in the competitive job market, and in the meantime, having romantic entanglements with one another. Oh yes. That is a story that would sell, don't you think?

NaNoWriMo

2007-10-27T08:13:00.000-07:00

Friends, gather 'round, for that that most glorious season is soon upon us: National Novel Writing Month! Linny Jane and I are once more fearlessly diving into it, ready for anything. Armed with laptops, caffeine, and munchies, we will battle our way through the jungle of noveling and conquer the unknown wild.

Stay tuned for progress updates (and the occasional tale of woe).

Long time, no write!

2007-01-20T12:20:00.000-08:00

What is everyone working on?

Crazy writer moment

2006-10-24T19:21:00.000-07:00

So all of my comrades on this site know, but I decided my novel needed conclusion, and I turned it into a short story at c. 11,000 words. I wrote a terrible ending which will be posted at some point so all may share in its awfulness.

This weekend, though, I was driving through fair Baltimore and passed the intersection where something tragic happens in my novel. And it was weird, because the first thing I thought was, "This was where x died. And there's where y's car was."

All of a sudden, my novel became far more realistic to me. I had a genuine connection to my characters, and they had an identity and a reality that was my more concrete than before. It's almost a pity that I ended the story so soon, now that my characters have become real people, almost friends and enemies, to me.

I will be trying my hand at fiction again, oh, yes indeed.

Two endings and some thank yous

2006-10-01T07:56:00.000-07:00

Tapeworm ending I:

Somewhere in the middle of the novel, a tapeworm came. The tapeworm infested everyone in this novel. It infested Clinton Westwood, Mark, Molly, Bart, Tobias, Phil, Joe, Elf, Jilla, the elephant named Mervin, the turtle name Marcus, and anyone else that may have played role here. The tapeworm was of a hybrid species that had never ever been seen before, or experienced before. But reader, everyone experienced it because in Spring Grove, the water was contaminated from the disintegrating factory. Each and every soul that lived in the ghetto of the futuristic Spring Grove died a terrible, terrible, terrible, painful, agonizing, trauitizing death. The tapeworm ate the stomach from the inside of every last soul. The town became even more deserted than it had been at the start of this novel. It became a ghost town. It was very depressing.

Matt Carvin owes me a bouzouoki lesson.

End novel.

Tapeworm ending II:

Molly, Mark, and Bart were eating a cheap and delicious spaghetti dinner together on fateful night. Just as Bart was about to sprinkle some parmesan cheese on top of his steaming plate of tomato sauce-ridden pasta, he felt something terribly wrong in his stomach. He froze, his small beady eyes widening in confusion. He dropped the parmesan cheese and the can rolled off the table. Molly and Mark looked at Bart in confusion, until they felt the same extreme discomfort in their stomachs as well.

What they felt, reader, was tapeworm. But it was no ordinary tapeworm; it was a hybrid tapeworm, practically a new species, that infected and lived in the stomach and intestinal areas of humans—and then ate them from the inside out. It was largely believed by future generations that the water of the Surodoc River had been infected by the paper mill to a point of extreme pollution in which many new creatures were mutated and formed. This tapeworm was one such creature.

Mark, Molly, and Bart all fell over dead within the next five minutes of Bart dropping the can of parmesan. Joe of Joe’s Splendid Pizza fell over in mid pizza-pie toss. Clinton Westwood had been driving his pickup truck, singing along to “It’s a Great day for Being Alive” by Travis Tritt when all of a sudden, he felt an extreme discomfort in his lower abdomen. He ran his truck off the road, hitting a small turtle named Marcus in the meantime. Subsequently, Marcus’s children all died because he never came home to feed them.

Jilla and Elf were having dinner together in Australia. They didn’t have any little elf-fairy children yet, thank goodness, for they both fell down dead over their cherry pie dessert. It was a mess, reader.

Phil and Tobias died quietly in Phil’s home in the diseased woods. No one really missed them and Phil’s motorcycle rusted up outside in the rain and became a complete sad waste.

The tapeworms destroyed everyone in Spring Grove within a week. Spring Grove fell into ruins and became the saddest ghost town that there ever was. Many companies went out of business because they didn’t have any paper.

John returned from Peru to find his beloved Molly (and everyone else) dead. If only he had come sooner and whisked her off into the sunset, he might have saved her before she became infected with the mutated hybrid tapeworm.

And so you see, reader . . . everyone died. And if you think about it, you will realize that we are all dying even as we live, for each day brings us closer to death. And so this story has been written to show you this. The author hopes, deeply, that you have learned something valuable after reading this well-crafted novel.

Thank you:

To Anna Luther and Richard Rabil, the “Racounteurs” who stood by me during the writing of this ridiculous novel.

To my parents, for making me dinner and doing my dishes and my laundry, and for offering moral support.

To everyone else who asked me how it was going.

To Matt Carvin, who suggested the tapeworm ending that I cannot begin to do justice to.

To Seth Ilgenfritz for being my fairy consultant even during his times of sever stress.

To Sparky and Clarks, Borders, Panera, and Richard’s roommates for their hospitality and internet connections that provided ample distractions

To coffee, my faithful friend. May you flow abundantly in my life.

To the author of that book that I can’t remember the name of, and for Anna Luther for buying the book randomly one fateful night at Borders and letting me borrow it.

Novel: finished

2006-10-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

After working nine hours yesterday doing coffee things for Olivia's House without any kind of formal break and on only three hours of sleep, I finished my novel at Sparky and Clarks just before 10:00 p.m.
I was accompannied by the lovely Anna Luther, and we were both entertained by some really interesting music that included songs from "Phantom of the Opera".
The final work count was 50,020, but after that I added a lot of thank-yous and whatnot.
I realized maybe thirty seconds ago that I forgot to give it a title. I have one in mind that has nothing at all to do with the story, and that may have to serve as a temporary placeholder.
I did indeed add an alternate ending that involves tapeworms, but I feel that I did not do it justice, so there may actually be some editing already today.

In any case, there are pictures, except I forget how to post them here. And I went to bed last night at 11 something and slept until 9. Feeling gooood.

I am going to get my hair done as a present to myself, plus it needs a good trim anyway. So yeah!

2006-09-28T08:47:00.000-07:00

10,100 words. I am not going to finish. And I am at peace with that.

Here's another excerpt, though, for your reading pleasure.

"Emma McClain, don you set one more foot towards the door!" Seb was down the hall, bellowing his demands.

She poised one foot as if to flee, and Seb looked terrified that she actually would.

"Don't go!"

"What?!"

"Emma this is your best piece so far. You can't just ... give me your best work and then run away! You can't quit now!"

"Oh, but I can!"

"But you shouldn't," impassioned Seb.

Emma paused. To her right stood the door. Ten more steps, and she'd be free. All she had to do was pick up that foot and run. Ten seconds, and she'd be on her way to a new life.

To her left stood Seb and Jane. Seb stared at her, knowing full well that her next movement determined not just her future, but his magazine's as well. Jane was a still life, frozen in expectiation. What will become of her? should couldn't help wondering. When she slips out that door, where will she go next?

Emma's gaze shifted from her boss and her friend to the gateway to her freedom.

Seb broke the silence. "Emma, just hear me out."

That was it. Emma's foot hit the floor, and she was gone.

"Damn it, I'm not letting her get away that easily." Seb ran through the door after, loafter clattering on the doorguard and tie flying back in his face.

Getting there

2006-09-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

44, 498

And no writing tonight. I wrote this morning. Things are coming together nicely; not ever as expected, but nicely all the same.

Actually, now that I think about it, my characters aren't at all what I wanted them to be initially. But whatever, it's all good and it's almost all finished. I would be a happy person if I didn't have to worry about it on Friday night! Because Friday is going to be fuuun!
And sitting in an Irish pubby restaurant with my laptop could be done, but I don't recommend it for myself.

Cheers

Linds update

2006-09-25T20:41:00.000-07:00

42,058

I wrote some insane and meaningless sentences that I'm not sure I can even share on here. They kind of have to be in context so that you can see that they are really out of context . . . well, whatever.

Going to Panera with Anna was a good idea. I got things done. And then I took Bartholemew here to the newspaper meeting and pounded out a few sentences before it started. I'm not sure if I can pull this off every night. What classes can I skip this week? Consider the possibilities while sleeping.

Goodnight

Sneak peak at the Anna novel

2006-09-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

Strange, mysterious, and featuring one of the seven different tones that have invaded my novel. Enjoy.

Emma lilted down the stairs and prompted waved away the waiting cab. It was one a.m.; she was two blocks from home.

It was one a.m., and she had butterflies in her stomach. She was glad she had to write for Seb; there was no way that she was going to sleep anyway, and at least now she had something productive to do whilst trying to calm down and convince herself that the spasms clutching at her heart were nothing more than leftovers from adolescence that you would have thought she'd outgrown by 27.

But her heart was skipping a little, and she had to fight hard to keep her steps from doing the same. . . .

She hadn't found the most wonderful man in the world. She had met a charming, gifted, intelligent man, whom she knew nothing of and of whom she had no reason to be so stupidly excited about.

Emma managed to talk herself out of her newfound glee by the time she reached the front door of her apartment complex--well, almost talked herself out of it. The writer was convinced; the sean nos singer wasn't.

A piece of my novel. Read at the risk of being either disappointed, amused, or confused.

2006-09-09T20:02:00.000-07:00

“Molllleee, girl I come to see ya!”

And before anyone could react, there a figure stood in the crooked doorway. A figure stood there, wearing a cowboy had akin in shape to the one that The Man With The Yellow Hat wore in the old Curious George books. The figure wore tight jeans that made Molly turn her head in embarrassment. The figure jingled when it moved . . . spurs attached to the silver-studded imitation leather boots. The belt buckle the size of Mark’s fist gleamed in the store’s light.

Bart jumped down off of a ladder where he had been shelving books and walked on two legs over to the figure in the doorway.

“Clinton Westwood, you haven’t got any business being here. You know that! You’ve already bought half of the store as it is!” The koala’s eyes, already small and beady, became even smaller and scarier when he squinted in such a way. The same way he squinted at me when he met me, Mark noticed.

“Now listen hare, you little fuzzball. Ya varmit. I can come in hare if I want to. I’m buyin’ books.” The exaggerated Southern drawl made Mark’s skin crawl. Molly just stood silently behind the counter, figuring it was at least some kind of protection and barrier between she and Clinton.

“No, you’ve bought enough. You only buy them so you can come and see Molly. She isn’t stupid, man,” the Bart said in a controlled voice.

“Molly, I have a proposition for you. An ideeer! How about—if I fix this place up for you, make it all purty-liiike—you let me take you out to dinner. And then we can go and luuk at the stars in ma pickup truuck. And then we can go back to ma playce and—“

“That’s enough!” Bart screeched. (For, you see, although his voice was as normal as anyone else’s when he spoke normally, it became a dreadful thing to hear when he was upset.) “Out! I want you out!”

“Or what little guy?” Clinton squatted down to the koala’s height. “Are you gonna hart me?” And then he sniggered.

But Mark had seen enough. This man was a joke and annoyance more than anything. And Molly obviously didn’t want him here. She was cowering back there behind the counter!

“Listen here, partner.” Mark cleared his throat. “I think it is time for you to leave. Because, see, I’m here now. See? Me, here. So Molly doesn’t need you. I’ll be the one doing the fixing up around here. Got it?” He tried to imitate a cowboy stare.

It apparently worked. Clinton stood up and turned to the door.

“I’ll leave now. But I’m comin’ back, ya hear? Ya hear, Molly?” he shouted to her direction. “Clinton Westwood always gets what he wants. And baby, I want you!”

And with that, he tipped his ridiculous hat and walked out. They all watched him saunter down the street in his tight jeans, and cringed.

Anna novel update

2006-09-04T10:23:00.000-07:00

Due to having company over the weekend and lacking a computer not shared with the rest of the household, I am only at about 1600 words, all from Friday. Two days without workin on my novel! That shall change today.

I may have to forsake my plan to write by hand and just "sketch" scenes by hand and then flesh them out on the clunky desktop computer. Is that cheating?

Linny novel Update

2006-09-04T07:17:00.000-07:00

After spending 2 1/2 hours at Borders last night, I have reached Chapter 6 and 7,993 words. This is great and I hope I make the same progress today since it's a holiday and there won't be any more of those in September. I need to get ahead while I can...it's only going to get more difficult as the month goes on.

I managed to keep my coffee intake to just one 12 oz of Seattle's Best.
The soundtrack included Adiemus, Amelie, Simple Plan, Nickel Creek, OLP, and Snow Patrol.

After I finished, I stood up and felt kind of funny. Like, it was hard to function quite normally after concentrating and being so focused for so long and with only two short bathroom breaks.

Eddie James' novel has begun

2006-09-03T15:54:00.000-07:00

Due to circumstances such as hanging out with friends, sleeping for 12 hours, and practicing organ and piano at 2 in the morning, I wasn't able to begin my novel until I dabbled in it last night while waiting for pizza delivery (I slept through dinner). I sat outside with my face basked in a brilliant laptop glow. This afternoon, I sprawled on my bed for a few hours with a less fierce glow illuminating my visage due to the glorious sunlight, and wrote.

I managed to hit 3,400 words, which is fairly good considering how little time I put in. Things are moving along at a rapid pace and characters and themes are falling into place like a well-planned Lego set. I'm a little wary at the progress I've made, however, since it seems a little too good to be true. I'm sure that once the schedule clamps down after Labor Day, things will slow down.

For now, however, I am proud. And now I'm off to write another 1,600 words to finish catching up.

(This is great fun!!)

update

2006-09-01T22:32:00.000-07:00

Things are moving along quite nicely in this neck of the woods. I have one chapter of almost 2,000 words. I have only 48,000 or so to go! Victory is clearly in sight.

Anna and I have worked into the morning, the wind blowing loudly outside, strains of Chris Martin wailing from my stereo adding to the mood of Staying In and Being Inspired and Productive.

And now I am signing back onto IM since I have reached the daily word count.

Nerd alert

2006-09-01T06:40:00.000-07:00

First quote that popped up on my Google page this morning: "Never tell anyone that you're: writing a book, going on a diet, exercising, taking a course, or quitting smoking. They'll encourage you to death." ~ Lynn Johnston.

How appropriate.

I went to OfficeMax last night and bought a pack of black Pentel RSVP medium point pens and a super cheap notebook to be my chosen tools of the trade. I seriously spent about fifteen minutes trying to decide what I wanted to use.

And a confession time: I was still awake at midnight, so I started the first couple paragraphs of my novel. And I took it to work with me, in case I get down time.

30 days. 50,000 words. 1 new obsession.

Excitement is building

2006-08-27T05:43:00.000-07:00

I'M SO EXCITED FOR FRIDAY!

Research begins!

2006-08-25T07:26:00.000-07:00

Fellow novelists, today marks the first day of the seven days of research for the novel, if you so choose to take advantage of it. Seize the day!

Magna Carta I & II

2006-08-20T19:27:00.000-07:00

Magna Carta I

i.e. What makes a good novel

- sarcasm

- witty characters

- characters who know what they are after

- a bad guy or organization

- fast cars

- random or entirely fictional settings

- little description (i.e. NOT Tolkein)

- plot that moves and can be read easily at night what I start to get tired (i.e. CS Lewis); or can be read while one is working on an assembly line and has a miraculous space of 30 seconds in which to do nothing between whatever is being assembled (not that I would know anything about this, haha)

- Dialogue that has a purpose/shows something

- Animals that talk, and some that don’t

- A dark forest

- Not taking itself too seriously

- Not eternally long

- Not just a bunch of people moving around and talking without purpose

- A quest

- A bookish character

- Good friends with lots of evil enemies

- An ending that is either happy, or an ending where everyone dies

- A governess without parents

- A secret

Magna Carta II

i.e. What makes a bad novel

- unnecessary length

- a main character with no feelings and who reacts to little (i.e. the main character in ‘Forever’ by Peter Hamill)

- boring women characters

- overly ambitious woman characters

- the idea that there has to be one really good looking woman character

- ones that could almost be true and make you wonder if they were or not and it the ‘real’ stuff in the novel is as ‘real’ as it’s portrayed to be (i.e. Angels and Demons by Dan Brown)

- lots of swearing

- sex with no point (i.e. the Notebook)

- characters you can’t pin a song to or relate to in any way

- tons of description

- too much action and movement (like if ‘Armageddon’ would be turned into a book)

- a non-compelling plot

- apathetic characters that don’t want anything

- teenage girls

- lack of revealing conversation

Magna Cartae

2006-08-20T19:22:00.000-07:00

One of the things that No Plot? No Problem! recommends is writing a Magna Carta of things you do want in your novel and things you don't want. In the spirit of accountability, I share mine:

Magna Carta I--Things I Want in My Novel

J.Pat's Pub
Bodhrans
Roadkill
"Pretty sympathy"
Daniel's guitar
Pete the accordian player
That forbidding J.Pat's exterior and its warm, welcoming interior
The old couple who plays checkers
A dayjob
A luthier
Guinness
A wise old bartender
A romantic conflict
Good friends
Jimmy Egan
A gig
A car breaking down
"Parting Glass"
A sad good-bye
A shock
A redemption
A dream/goal
A quirky instrument repair shop
A York piano
Uillean pipes
Coffee/tea
Fun old tables
A thunderstorm

Magna Carta II--Things I Do Not Want in My Novel

Drunken hookups
Excessive whining
Teen anxst (please see above)
Accents
Long monologues
Nervous breakdowns
Old flames
Obnoxiously loud feminists
Super bohemians
Collegiate reminiscing
Bad hair

Oh, yes, it's going to be an amazingly crappy novel. I can feel it. And I can't wait to get started. Research begins this Friday, in keeping with the seven days allowed for information-gathering before the actual writing. Linny and Eddie, I can't wait to see what you've got!

Important announcement

2006-08-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

I am writing this to inform the entire internet community that Anna Clare, Eddie James, and I, Linny Jane, will all be taking on the pleasurable and inevitably stressful task of writing 50,000 word novels in the month of September. Between the three of us, there are jobs, full time school schedules, and other important projects that some of our obligations must go to. But for the rest of the time, we will all be working on our individual novels.

Start date: September 1
End date: September 30

Yes, I know, we picked a month that has one day less than a bunch of other months we could have chosen. But seeing as how week leads to week, and month leads to month, well, we knew that things would only get more difficult as the semester progressed. On any other occasion, we would hold out and do our novels-in-a-month during November, which is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

Anna Clare happened upon this discovery whilst reading Chris Baty's "No Plot, No Problem", an exellent read and important in this undertaking. It can be found here

This is really just a post to get anyone else on board who wants to join us.
Also this is a way for us to stay accountable. So ask us how the novel is; belittle us when we can't tell you because we haven't worked on it all week; and, more importantly, threaten all kinds of harassment and rejection should we fail to complete our novels.

We will be using this web site to post pieces of our work if we feel so led, and to post updates on how we are doing, for our own record and for your amusement, as posts will undoubtably become less and less coherent as the month progresses.

So, that's it. Three writers, one month, 50,000 words per writer. Join us, and togeher we shall take over the world!
Or just write really crappy novels. Either way, it should be fun.

Gracie

2006-06-12T16:50:00.000-07:00

A random character description inspired by some Anne Lamott this evening. To be added to if anyone else has the inclination. Heh.

Gracie stood there on the big colored map of the United States stenciled brightly onto the playground, alone. "This," she had just said to the two girls nearest her, "is where we are," proudly pointing with one toe to the middle of the southernmost border of Pennsylvania. "And here," she continued, "is where my granma lives in Mehr-land." Another gleeful point. "And my other granma lives here, in Indiana." A hop landed Gracie on the state under discussion. "Isn't that cool?" Her observers looked at one another, one popping her gum loudly in the silence. There was no response. Graice stood alone, again.

Her name was singularly appropriate. Her eyes were gray. And haunting. Other children couldn't look at her very long; there was something unsettling in her gaze. Her teachers couldn't bear her very long, either. No one knows what to do with the little serious girl -- ever.

She really wanted to be like the other girls -- their fun, sparkly hair things, their perms, their clothes that came from stores with names like "Bon-Ton" and "Penney's." But she couldn't be.

Well now!

2006-05-30T08:58:00.000-07:00

All righty you lazy writers. Keep adding to the story! I want this sucker published eventually, if you know what I mean ;-)

I did the last one....somebody else has to step in and deal with the knocked over bookcase.

Commercial break from the story which no one has added to lately and I was the last one, so someone else has to go!

2006-05-26T07:53:00.000-07:00

"The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost."

~William Carlos Williams

I totally snagged this from someone's profile, but it sort of embodies the college life, or the websie launch life, whatever the case may be.

A great collaboration

2006-05-01T17:07:00.000-07:00

Add two sentences at a time to this post by hitting the edit icon below (the little pencil). Keep the story good, imaginative, and without lameness. You can post again once somebody else has added since yours; don't worry about "taking turns", just rock this story!
----------

It wasn't very long ago, while I was still living in that old shack back up in Yarmouth, that I was scavenging for food like all those poor beggars. But really, I couldn't stand it any longer: when your name means "to conquer" you can't go on losing all your life.

"I am capable of things," I thought to myself as I chomped on a rotten apple core that I dug out of the Doctor's trash can. The Doctor lived a ways away from my shack, but he had the best leftovers in his trash can, which made the walk to his fine estate worth my afternoon.

It was a fine spring afternoon, which further justified my jaunt to the Doctor's. I so loved spring; everything, even my life, held promise when the sun shone through the the budding lilacs.

I walked up the red-brick pavement towards the Doctor's front porch, paused, and listened. I could hear voices drifting faintly from some chamber--the dining room, perhaps--within. Taking a deep breath, I banged the heavy brass knocker against the door. [3 sentences!]

But no one answered. I knew where the Doctor's garbage was usually disposed of--behind the house in the woods, and so I headed in that direction, hoping that there would be some kind of leftover food that the deer had not gotten to already.

As I rounded the back of the house, I heard the front door creak open: "Hello? Anybody out there?" Sprinting back to the front, I was disappointed further than even my meager dinner accomplished by the large red door slamming shut, just as I barely past the corner.

Disappointed but not so easily defeated, I screwed up my courage to knock once more; the dark oaken door swung in once again. On the other side of the door was a curious aburn-headed maid.

"Afternoon," I said quickly, "Is the Doc-" But she cut me off with a knowing smile and deep-voiced response: "We've been expecting you."

Hardwood floors, expensively framed paintings, and pendulous chandeliers make a walk down any hallway ominous and foreboding; but I didn't have long to ponder as the Doctor suddenly strode into the hall: "Good afternoon Vincent! It's been ages since you were last caught poking around my house, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

He gestured for me to follow him down the long hallway and into the library. As I followed him, I couldn't help but feel ashamed of my shoddy appearance: shoes with multiple holes, uncombed hair, and clothes that hadn't been washed in a very long time.

The doctor, on the other hand, seemed perfectly appropriate to his surroundings. He was a tall, tailored, refined man, clean-shaven with dark hair peppered with greys here an there.

The doctor strode into the large library, and I slinked in behind him, trying not to touch anything. "Have a seat, Vincent," the doctor bellowed cheerfullly.

This was an odd request, I found out, as I took in my surroundings, unable to locate a chair. So I leaned against one of the bookcases, which promptly began to tip over on its side, bringing its contents in a cascade onto the floor, like a barrel of water suddenly laid on the ground.

I stood straight quickly, hoping that by removing my weight, the bookcase would right itself. It did not, and the entire case, a few feet higher than myself, crashed to the ground atop books and various figurines that were probably worth more than all of my 25 years of life.

I could hardly believe my eyes: behind the now-tumbled bookcase was a massive stone doorway, something that left a bit of a pit in my stomach. The doctor stood up and moved to my side of the room with alarming speed, righting the bookcase and glaring at me as if I had just committed some sacrilegious act; maybe I had.

"Well, well," he said disgustedly. "I suppose you think you've stumbled onto something fantastic, don't you? The trouble is, you might be right; only now we can't let you live long enough to find out."

In a bold attempt to prevent the story from ending in death, as all amateur writers' stories do, Vincent grabbed a large, pointy book in self defense and thrust it into the doctor's neck. Only now he realized that he had essentially killed the story by knocking off the other main character: oops.

Senioritis

2006-04-18T12:01:00.000-07:00

The sun reflected sharply, blindingly off the concrete. Elyse joined the sun-glassed mob on its way to class.

She was a senior; it was two weeks until she would graduate. What the hell was she doing wasting time on class? There were jobs to be applied for, conversations to be held, wrongs to be written. Ah, well, they would just have to wait for fifty more minutes.

Off came the sunglasses, and into Campbell Hall she sauntered for her thirteenth to last day of college . . .

"Going and Staying"

2006-03-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

The moving sun-shapes on the spray,

The sparkles where the brook was flowing,

Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,

These were the things we wished would stay;

But they were going.

Seasons of blankness as of snow,

The silent bleed of a world decaying,

The moon of multitudes in woe,

These were the things we wished would go;

But they were staying.

III

Then we looked closlier at Time,

And saw his ghostly arms revolving

To sweep off woeful things with prime,

Things sinister with things sublime

Alike dissolving.

The formatting kinda got messed up, but the lines are in the right place.

I just like that he uses 'closlier' in III.

Thomas Hardy, by the way.

It's the first stanza really...it's like recalling that one happy time that maybe wasn't as happy as you remember it. For instance, there were bugs by the brook and the women were being, well, women about it. How annoying! But, oh, happy day it was!

I am too skeptical. It was a perfect day; the end. =)

Cont'd 8

2006-03-13T20:41:00.000-08:00

Jeremiah stared at the ashes of the Great Fairy Godmother for a good while. It was actually quite difficult, given the 80 meters that he had been thrown back.

He tried to rise, but the light kept shifting before his eyes, and he could not focus long enough to get his feet firmly planted on the ground. A relization krept over him, and he looked down at his feet...his feet that should have been at the end of his skinny fairy legs. But all he saw was space where they should have been. His feet! They were gone! They must have lost in the blast. It was a great force that had shot Jeremiah back 80 meters into the Great Oak Tree where the Great Fairy Godmother had once lived. But then...the light flickered more and more and Jeremiah relized that he was going very blind. The beautiful trees! The green grass! The little buzzy bees that helped the flowers to grow! He would see them no more.
Jeremiah rested in the dirt, just to take it all in, thefact that he could not walk or see. He remembered the sound of his mother's voice, and felt a strange comfort come over him as he recalled his youth.
In the distance, he heard a chirping noise...closer it came, and closer yet, and Jeremiah felt a great thing lifting him off of the ground. He heard it chirp, and he felt it's wet tongue on his fairy self, and he was gone in one big gulp.

THE END

Cont'd 7

2006-03-08T06:15:00.000-08:00

It was the Great Fairy Godmother!

She said to Jeremiah, "My dear, dear fairy. I am so sorry to see the two dimensional state of your friend; I do hope he finds peace in the Land of Toads. There is nothing I can do for a smushed toad, but I might be able to whip something together for you."

Jeremiah squealed with joy, for he had never seen the normally reticent Great Fairy Godmother. In fact, he had once supposed she was nothing more than a fairy tale for fairies. How wrong he was!

"I'd first like to tell you, my dear Jeremiah, that once a fairy loses his wings there is nothing one can do. When a female fairy loses her wings, well, naturally she grows them back. But the males don't have it that way. However, they have other strengths, such as their ability to shoot little lasers out of their fingers."

It was here that Jeremiah felt suddenly stiff, as if he had opened a door and a rush of cold wind had blasted him in the face. He could shoot lasers out of his fingers! Why had his parents never told him this? "Hold on a second Miss Godmother."

"Missess Godmother."

"Right. Anywho, can I really shoot lasers out of my fingers?"

"I'm sorry...I'm not sure I quite understand. Is this to say you actually have never done it?"

"Yup."

"Well, my oh my! Your education is quite lacking. Let's give it a shot right now! Oh, excuse my pun, it's been a long day."

"OK, what should I shoot? I've never done this before, I should probably keep it short range."

"Well, Jeremiah, since it's your first time and I imagine the rays will be rather weak and I can defend myself quite easily either way, take a shot at me. I can help you perfect your technique as well. I'm not very eager to get home to my husband...he'll probably be blind drunk on the Fairy Punch."

Jeremiah turned around, walked several paces back, and made an abrupt aboutface. "OK, you ready?"

In her smooth, sultry voice, "As right as rays, m'dear. Oh, I did it again..."

What happened next was something that Jeremiah would never be able to explain. He pointed his right index finger at the Great Fairy Godmother and blistering rays of power burst forth from his fingertip, leaving his retinas visualizing the incredible event gasping for breath. It became impossible to see anything except for the colors bursting in the air, the raw might of this "laser". It sounded to Jeremiah as if the air was splitting into, being torn apart by wave upon wave of some sort of power unseen to fairykind before now.

And just as suddenly as it started, there was nothing. All of a sudden, the air was calm, and he could see again (although he was suffering from a headache the size of Mars). It seemed odd to him, though, that there was not a single sound of nature. No birds, no cows. No toads, that's for sure.

Jeremiah could now see that he had been thrown back probably 80 meters. He looked back to where he had been standing and saw a pile of ashes beginning to swirl in the wind. There was no Great Fairy Godmother around.

It dawned on him what might have just happened.

"HOLY . . . .

Cont'd 6

2006-03-04T15:33:00.000-08:00

But then Mr. Toad stopped speaking with a loud crooooak. Before Jeremiah could react, Mr Toad was lying face down in a mud puddle...apparently unconscious.

Jeremiah took several steps backwards in horror. Mr Toad...the only one who would know how to reach Lucinda Toadstool...and now his pocket was flattened, and Mr Toad was-- well, he looked pretty flat too. Jeremiah let out a great fairy sigh in despair. He would never get wings, never, never. As he sat down beside Mr. Toad's dead body, Jeremiah let the tears fall and fall, until there was a great puddle at his feet. All of his dreams for a career, maybe even a wife--they were crushed now, crushed. No one would want to marry a fair without any wings. They would think he was a fraud. But as he looked through his tears at the great puddle he had created, he saw in it the most extraodinary thing...something that might help things to look up for him after all! It was...

Cont'd 5

2006-03-02T21:08:00.000-08:00

"In my pocket," said Mr. Toad, "was the fairy phone number of Lucinda Toadstool, a very good friend of mine."

"Lucinda Toadstool?!" exclaimed Jeremiah.

"Yes, Lucinda Toadstool, and I'm afraid my pocket is too flattened to retrieve her phone number," explained Mr. Toad.

Jeremiah, still confused, thought for a moment. "Why is her phone number so important?" asked Jeremiah.

"Do you remember the fairy who was swallowed by the huge dog, last November?"

"Of course I do!" replied Jeremiah, "She is one of my very good friends!"

"Well," started Mr. Toad, "the only reason why she got out alive was because Lucinda coaxed the dog into letting her out!"

"How did she do that?" asked Jeremiah...

by Liz R.
9:05 P.M.

Cont'd 4

2006-03-02T20:18:00.000-08:00

A blindingly shiny tenor saxophone, which just so happened to be directed as to clip the one depressing wing that Jeremiah had. Left with only 76%--not 75%, not 77%, most certainly 76%--of a wing, he was in an even more pathetic state.

Used to such unhappiness befalling him, all Jeremiah did was sigh, pick up the broken piece of wing, and pick up his poor, pancake-esque Mr. Toad. Jeremiah gave a good, stiff shake to the toady flapjack, and Mr. Toad was right as rain.

"Oh, no, Jeremiah! Your only wing! I'm awfully sorry. Perhaps if I wasn't lying flat in the road, I could have done something to prevent it. Dreadfully sorry . . . "

"What happened to 'One does not need to fly in order to be a fairy'?" moaned Jeremiah. "Two minutes ago, you were cheering me on in my flightlessness; nothing changed, I just have even less of a shot a flight than before."

"Yes, but before there was at least hope of a remedy," sighed the toad. "You don't have to fly, but it does help in the convincing of people that you actually are a fairy."

"What do you mean, there was a remedy?" queried a cresfallen Jeremiah. "And why isn't there still one?"

"Well, you see," began Mr. Toad . . .

Cont'd 3

2006-03-02T19:56:00.000-08:00

saying "You know. I wasn't expecting such a response as that. I was expecting you to say something like 'eat more flies like me, maybe you'll grow a wing' or something of that nature."The Toad gave Jeremiah an idignant look and hopped off his favorite rock, across the road, and into the pond. Except for the "into the pond" part. And the "across the road". You see, Mr. Toad didn't quite make it. Jeremiah's neighbor, the human, was out in his steamroller and so happened to flatten Mr. Toad exactly as he hopped onto the road."Oh Mr. Toad! Oh my! You poor...uh...pancake-styled thing!" It was just at that moment that Jeremiah's problems got a little worse. For out of the sky came plummeting...

by Eddie James
6:02 PM

Cont'd 2

2006-03-02T19:55:00.000-08:00

"You see my fairy friend, you need not worry about your wings. One does not need to fly in order to be a fairy!"With that being said.. Jeremiah stepped back, closed one eye while pondering what the toad had just said. Jeremiah didn't expect such a response, instead he expected the toad to say something like "eat more flies like me, maybe you'll grow a wing", or something of that nature.Meanwhile, as Jeremiah was lost in thought...the toad sighed and waited for a response. And what a response he got, as Jeremiah began to speak which such a puzzling look on his face...

Posted by Xrystofer
12:25 PM

Somebody add to this; I'm dying to know what happens

2006-03-02T12:16:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, there was a fairy who onnly had one wing as a result of a birth defect. The fairy's name was Jeremiah, and he wanted nothing more than to be given a second wing so that he could have all the same opportunities in life as the other fairies did.
One day Jeremiah was walking along (he couldn't fly, you see) and was delighted to see his friend the Toad sitting out sunning himself on his favorite rock. Jeremiah thought that the Toad might be able to help him get a new wing, so he said "Mr. Toad, how can I get a new wing?"
Mr. Toad replied, " "

The secret to success

2006-03-02T07:01:00.000-08:00

“As soon as coffee is in your stomach, there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move . . . similes arise, the paper is covered. Coffee is your ally and writing ceases to be a struggle.”

HonorŽ de Balzac (1799-1859)

Here we go, fellow writers. Inspiration, creativity, success in life . . . in a cup.

Books online for freeee

2006-02-24T09:06:00.000-08:00

Linds, look what I stumbled across!

http://www.literature.org/

stupid reply

2006-02-14T21:11:00.000-08:00

What? We have readers? Who are they? Who are you!!?? Name yourselves!

haha

Reply to your idea

2006-02-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

Linds, that sounds like an awesome idea!!! :) I'll have to think on whether I want to meddle with your blue story or if we should work on something completely new. Look out, readers!! (All, what, two of you?)

IDEA

2006-02-12T20:03:00.000-08:00

Anna, we should totally pass a story back and forth, just paragraph by paragraph, at our leisure. Soooo if you wanna, we can start by using my 'Blue' story, or you can start something and I'll add to it, and what fun we shall have!

Once again, I am putting myself to sleep as I write, so it is time for bed.

P.S. 'Bird by Bird' is amazing so far. I want to be witty. Really witty. And then I want to write a book about it.

Goodnight!

Blue

2006-02-12T19:43:00.000-08:00

One day, we woke up and everything was blue. The sky was blue, and that was normal for a late summer morning. But other things were blue, too. The carpet was blue and the bedposts were blue. My pajamas were blue, and so were everyone else’s. The walls were blue, and, well, everything was just very blue.

I walked down the blue staircase and through the blue living room, noting the blue couches and curtains, and the blue television set.

I entered the blue kitchen and began to make coffee . . . blue coffee? No. The coffee was its normal brown color, with not a hint of blue in it. This confused me greatly, but I knew that coffee would be necessary for progress towards an explanation about the color that was taking over the house.

Life without a computer

2006-01-13T19:15:00.000-08:00

I have decided to try and lead a simpler life. The first step is to remove all items of complicated mechanistic characteristics from my presence—this includes my laptop.

The first day of attempting to exist this way, I walk outside in my robe, pajamas, pink fuzzy slippers, and messy hair and pick up the newspaper lying at the end of the driveway. After waving to the neighbors across the street, I come back inside and move all of the clutter off of my table to make room for the newspaper, which, when opened fully, spreads out and takes over most of the available space. Bothered, I struggle to find a safe place to put my mug of coffee. How much easier and space efficient it was to simply open the laptop, click on the proper icon, and read the news!

Later in the day, I sit down to work on a research paper for my Rhetorical Theory class. Books are spread out everywhere; I had a good deal of trouble finding all of these books, for there was no easy way to tell which of the local libraries had what. I had to make endless phone calls and drive to several different locations before I found exactly what I needed. How much easier it was to just open the laptop, go the local library’s website, use their search engine, and have a stack of books waiting for me to go and pick them up! Better yet, how much easier it would have been to simply use documents from online journals!

I become miffed and irritated as I attempt to put my many books in order so that I can start writing out my first point (by hand, mind you). This takes up space, for I need room for my elbows and notebook.

Things go swimmingly for the first few minutes, but several minutes, until I realize that the paragraph is not developing as well as I had planned. I will have to start over. There is no ‘delete’ button here, there is no ‘copy’ and ‘paste’; there is only a stack of blank lined paper, waiting for my pen to grace it with its presence. I sigh as I crumble the present sheet of paper up and reach for another.

Several hours later, I have wasted more trees, more time, and more energy than I had ever imagined possible. My right hand is cramped from writing page after page, and as I look at the sentence I left off at, I notice that it looks a good deal sloppier than the first sentence I had written. I must have been running out of steam!

I decide that there is absolutely nothing that compares to the efficiency of the modern computer, and promptly decide that I will never try to live life ‘simply’ again.

2006-01-12T20:46:00.000-08:00

hippopontamus poem

2006-01-10T20:31:00.000-08:00

i did not write this, but it is awefully amusing!

I had a hippopotamus; I kept him in a shed
And fed him upon vitamins and vegetable bread.
I made him my companion on many cheery walks,
And had his portrait done by a celebrity in chalks.

His charming eccentricities were known on every side.
The creature's popularity was wonderfully wide.
He frolicked with the Rector in a dozen friendly tussles,
Who could not but remark on his hippopotamuscles.

If he should be affected by depression or the dumps
By hippopotameasles or hippopotamumps
I never knew a particle of peace 'till it was plain
He was hippopotamasticating properly again.

snufkinforever: I had a hippopotamus, I loved him as a friend
But beautiful relationships are bound to end.
Time takes, alas! our joys from us and robs us of our blisses.
My hippopotamus turned out to be a hippopotamissus.

My housekeeper regarded him with jaundice in her eye.
She did not want a colony of hippopotami.
She borrowed a machine gun from her soldier-nephew, Percy
And showed my hippopotamus no hippopotamercy.

My house now lacks the glamour that the charming creature gave.
The garage where I kept him is as silent as a grave.
No longer he displays among the motor-tires and spanners
His hippopotamastery of hippopotamanners.

No longer now he gambols in the orchard in the Spring;
No longer do I lead him through the village on a string;
No longer in the mornings does the neighborhood rejoice
To his hippopotamusically-modulated voice.

I had a hippopotamus, but nothing upon the earth
Is constant in its happiness or lasting in its mirth.
No life that's joyful can be strong enough to smother
My sorrow for what might have been a hippopotamother.

-- Patrick Barrington

The Angel

2006-01-10T18:38:00.000-08:00

“Only 12 hours, “ hissed the great cloaked figure. For a brief moment, it stood on the bed bits of cloth-like material swirling around its head. And with a flash of light, it was gone.

Sean sat in bed refusing to let his heart beat. But then quickly, he threw his tired legs over the side of the bed and stumbled as quickly as one can when half awake to the bathroom. A very cold shower, a cup of hot cocoa later, and one hour later he sat on the edge of his unmade bed with the rising sun beaming through the open window attempting to reason out why the Angel of Death would tell him he had just 12 hours of life left. What was so important about 12 hours? Why not 24? After all, that’s a lot easier to keep track of. And why the bloody hell am I going to die?

“I’m 19 years old!” he shouted. Why was he going to die and why should God send a special delegate when Sean knew quite well he was nothing more than an average American teen in the Cincinnati suburbs. A quick glance at the bedside clock told the sad tale of one hour past the presumable Angle of Death’s message. 7:00 AM never looked worse. Whatever the cloaked figure really was, it suddenly struck Sean that it was more than a little odd for figures of any persuasion to appear, disappear, and deliver a message of death while floating above a bed. “Why did it have to be my bed? Come on, I’m boring and it’s summer and there’s really no frigging reason!”

Sean jumped off the edge of the bed, heart racing, sprinted down the stairs, across the kitchen, through the living room, and burst out of the front door. His heart stopped. Sean had raced outside hoping to find a sprawling suburban spread in all directions with open spaces and answers. A place he could sprint through and at the end of his running, he just might understand. Instead, he was confronted with a closed-in space which looked as if it was shrinking, offering no more answers than the charcoal left after a fire. In fact, it all looked very depressing. So much, that he turned around and waddled indoors.

It’s a curious thing, shock. It goes beyond curious when the shock is so great you go into shock and right back out again. Sean felt as if his stomach was a gaping hole in his abdomen. A gaping hole expanding slowly.

“Sean Philip Flanders! Get off of your bed this instant! You’ve got a game at 9, baby sitting at 1, and you’ll be seeing Rachel this evening! You have no time to waste young man. GET OFF…”

Being outside this time around didn’t seem so bad. “I bet nobody’s on the playground this time of day, ” Sean muttered to himself. Pretending to be 12 years younger than you really are can work wonders to your mental health and also help one to forget particularly tough events. Swings and slides apparently hold no sway over a death warrant, however.

“Well great.” He ripped the silver watch off his wrist and flung it in the bushes with its hands still pointing to 8:30. “Like watching the time will change anything.”

“I s’pose if that really was an Angel of Death, I’d better use the little bit of time I have on earth well. I should just party all day long!” Sean could never remember a time before this one when the phrase “party all day long” made his stomach churn. Nor could he ever remember having hands perspiring cold sweat. The cold sweat didn’t matter in the next minute but his aching hands from pounding the metal slide in frustration sure did.

“WHY?! THAT’S JUST RETARDED! IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!” The time we should most be wary of ourselves is when our mind is not active, those rare times when we are actually thinking nothing whatsoever. A good bit of time went by before Sean even realized he was slumped against the slide staring halfway down, halfway up with a blank look in his eyes. The sun frying the right side of his face had abruptly woken him out of his comatose state. He wanted desperately to sink back into the cold but secure arms of ignorance and denial, but it wasn’t possible.

A wave of emotions descended upon him. First, he wanted to cry. He actually tried to cry, but it just wouldn’t happen. Despair next flattened him, leaving Sean with no desire to even hold his legs upright. Collapsing on the ground, face covered in mulch bits and dust, the tears finally came. Not tears of despair. Tears that flowed because Sean finally believed this was it. This was his end.

Such peace comes with acceptance. Acceptance of truth, acceptance of joy, and even acceptance of the most depressing thoughts in the world. After all, depression has a great deal to do with denial.

He propped himself back up against the slide. The treetops provided a marvelous view, but not really one he cared to enjoy. Actually, Sean didn’t want to sit against the slide at all. Oddly enough, he was full of energy and a desire to do something. Instead of going straight home, he took a roundabout route which led to his best friend’s house. Sean actually believed he was going to go up and knock on the door, spend a few hours with Franklin, and just try to forget about things. It’s hard enough to be sensible when your in a normal frame of mind; with death a mere 9 or so hours away, one no longer questions reason but rather embraces instinct. This time, instinct dictated heading home. So Sean went home as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Mom? Mom! Hello?” 19 years of telling his mother to go away, quit pestering, and to bugger off all of a sudden fell on Sean. Guilt coupled with loneliness and depression added with the despair slowly welling up in his heart was really beginning to crack Sean. “WHAT THE BLOODY HECK!! DO THE LAST 12 HOURS OF MY LIFE – “

“Listen, kid, I can make it 8 hours and we can just get this thing over with.”
“HOLY – “
“No, I’m not all that holy. I’m an Angel of Death. I mean, I guess I kind of am…look here, that’s not what this is all about. Now listen, I don’t have to give you 12 hours. The big guy upstairs wants you by a certain date and sometimes I decide to warn people, you know, give them some padding. So. What’ll it be?”

Sean was at a loss for words, as well as breath. And the fed up Angel of Death made quite sure he was at a loss of life in the next few moments.

5 minutes later, his mother arrived home. “Oh my Lord! SEAN! NO! Why…why did it have to end this way? Sean…”

“I’m sorry ma’am, there’s nothing we can do. Old Fred’s been on the loose for almost a week and half now. He was bound to hit again. Those little flash bombs of his, the whole cloak get-up. Genius, I tell you. Um, we’ll catch him soon enough though, don’t you worry now. Ma’am? You’ll be all right, you will. Ma’am? Can you hear me? Lady, speak up! Oh my…HELP! GET OVER HERE, NOW!”

Death comes in many forms from serial killers to heart attacks. It’s only recognizable trait is that every time the Angel strikes, we are surprised.

Especially when he’s having a boring day.

Byrophyta--A Fairytale

2006-01-06T20:39:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night, that cliché way that all creepy stories are dark and stormy. Only on this night, it was particularly dark and stormy. Our stock female protagonist—we’ll call her Emily—was walking along a gravel-strewn path in the dark and stormy night. Why was she walking along a gravel-strewn path that dark and stormy night? Well, you see, she had just left the house of her elderly grandmother after taking her some homemade chicken soup and—oh, who are we kidding? She had snuck off to see that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers. You know, the one her parents had forbidden her to see ever. The one that she swore up and down really was good to her and had promised not to hurt her and would marry her some day. He was so good-for-nothing that he let her go out into the dark and stormy night all alone! Who knows what evils lurked out there in the woods on a dark and stormy night! Honestly!

Well, at any rate, morose little Emily wandered down this gravel path until she came to an unfamiliar river with an unfamiliar bridge. She had gotten lost, but not being the brightest of girls, she didn’t realize it. “I wonder who put that river there,” she more-absently-than-usual thought to herself. Neverminding that she was lost, she decided to cross the unfamiliar bridge over the unfamiliar river. Requistely old and creaky, the shabby wooden bridge sighed under her weight. Not that she was heavy—on the contrary, she was rather slender and light. But the bridge would have creaked under any weight at all. There was a particularly sinister crack, and suddenly, Emily was in that unfamiliar river, flowing down the unfamiliar waters to an unfamiliar death!

Or so she thought! Dun dun dun. Until she found herself mysteriously pulled out of the waters by a normal-looking-but-in-reality-six-toed-kind-of-handsome-if-you-were-somewhat-inebriated-which-she-was man. “Thank you! I think I was about to die,” she said rather stupidly.

“You were,” said the increasingly-fascinating-to-this-drunk stranger. “But I saved you!” he said gallantly, tossing his blonde mane. “There were rocks up ahead and limestone and moss, and--say you look like you’re cold. The only way out is over more limestone, which may be crumpling and especially slippery from the dark-and-storminess, but never fear, I will test it out before we ascend the approximately 15-foot climb.”

So Emily, wet and shuddering with cold, followed the gallant stranger down the rivers edge until they came to a moss-encrusted-not-big-enough-to-be-a-cliff-but-steeper-than-a-hill . . . thing. Emily was sobering slightly by this point, at least, enough to begin to be afraid of what was going on. Yet what choice did she have but to follow the still-handsome-even-though-she-wasn’t-really-drunk-anymore gentleman? Up he clamboured gallantly (after all, he is blonde—gallantry is a perpetual requirement!) over the green bryophyte (that’s moss for you non-scientists) that hid the shaky limestone. “Nothing to it!” he bragged. “Come up after me!”

And so Emily did. Or, at least she tried to. She was no sooner to the top than she lost her footing and slid backwards. Down, down, and then down a bit more she tumbled, miraculously missing the limestone rocks that jagged out all around her. In a heap she landed at the bottom, greatly confusing her would-be rescuer. Still gallant, he dashed down to the bottom of the rocks—apparently, there was a path that wouldn’t have involved climbing iffy limestone if he had gone just a bit further to his left. There the now fully-conscious-but-wishing-she-wasn’t Emily lay, looking more than cold and wet by this point. The stranger picked her up from her pathetic state and gently carried her to his horse—which also was nowhere near the limestone. So what he was thinking to begin with, no one is really sure.

At any rate, there was Emily, in pain and afraid and now on the back of the mystery man’s equally mysterious horse. “Let me take you to my castle,” he said.

Emily came out of her haze enough to realize that this mystery man was evidently of noble birth. Dang! She knew how to pick disasters! The rest of the ride was a blur.

At last they arrived at the aforementioned castle, appropriately strong and steady against the dark and gloomy night that still set the atmosphere. Mystery Man conveyed the shaken-and-somewhat-stirred Emily to the castle. There, he discovered what had brought her to the woods and convinced her that he needed to send out his finest soldiers to smack around her boyfriend a little bit for letting her out alone and drunk on a night like that. Emily readily agreed.

And so the blonde rescuer—who at last turned out to be named Pancratius, Jack for short—rescued Emily from a river, from some rocks, and from a lousy boyfriend. Not bad for knowing her for 4 hours!! Emily thought it was impressive. And they lived happily ever after.

*with input from Linny Jane!

Fluffy bit of Humor, Edited 1

2006-01-06T19:38:00.000-08:00

Jeff thinks of himself as a handsome young man, confident and classy. At twenty-two years of age, he has accomplished more than his parents could ever hope for: a double major in Philosophy and Graphic Design among other activities, like writing for the school paper, being on Student Senate, and graduating with multiple honors. His winsome smile landed him a job as an actor for a toothpaste commercial.

His rippling muscles—Well, that’s enough of Jeff, isn’t it? This isn't a written-in-the-mid-sixties kind of romance novel. Rippling muscles are not too important here.

So where is Jeff, and why do we care about him?

It turns out that Jeff is in a flustered state. Usually Mr. Confident (or so he likes to remind his friends), Jeff is not himself today. In fact, he is nearly twitching with anticipation—for today, he is going to meet his long-time friend. Err, lover. Well, actually . . .He didn’t know what she was. In fact, he could only hope that it was really a female at all.

Okay, it is now time to make known to the reader that Jeff met Kim (well, we assume that that is her real name) through her blog. Jeff still asks himself why he started a blog in the first place. He certainly didn’t have the time, what with his new job smiling all day for cameras. It really took a lot of energy to do that. He had to resist the urge to pout every time he thought about it.

He scanned the café apprehensively, searching for someone he did not know. Looking at the description that he had scribbled onto a piece of scrap paper, he realized that he couldn’t read his own writing. Did the description say ‘wearing a blue hat’ or ‘wearing a blue cat’?

Jeff became even more flustered, and tried desperately to think of what Plato would do. With ultimate truth in his grasp, Jeff would be able to quickely identify Kim. However, his chariot was looking a little shabby these days, and his quest for ultimate truth was looking less than good. I’m too far away from the top of the mountain, too far from ultimate truth! he thought to himself. * He sighed, searching his mind for another philosopher that might have a good way of dealing with such a confusing situation as this.

*If this means nothing to you, then you need to take a rhetorical theory class, or at least read some Plato

He could have stood by the cafe for hours considering the wisdom of various philosophers, but realized that it may be easier to just scan the area for a girl with either a blue hat or a blue cat; for it is not likely, he reasoned, that there would be more than one girl dressed this way.

Jeff, the reader can note, is quite an intelligent person.

He scanned the café, searching for a girl adorned with a blue accessory. Beside the window, there was a girl with a furrowed brow, a hideous bright pink purse on her table. He peered at her book: Lovecraft. Jeff despised the horror genre in general, and did not give this girl a second glance. Besides, she wasn't wearing anything blue at all, and there didn't appear to be a cat with her.

He looked over at the tables hidden in the shadows to his left; there were some teenagers dressed entirely in black, looking depressed and sleepy. One of the young men--or was it a woman?-- had a bright blue mohawk, and Jeff made a face. He only associated with people who wore clothes in the genre of GAP or Abercrombie and Fitch. And, again, there was nothing blue besides the mohawk.

Growing concerned that he was being stood up by ‘Kim’, Jeff looked towards the last remaining corner of the café. There was one person sitting on the brown pleather couch against the wall. Perhaps it was her, but Jeff didn’t want to get his hopes up.

Beautiful, long brown hair cascaded down her back. No doubt she used Herbal Essences this morning! he thought. She had a blue cat draped across her slender, elegant shoulders. Her feet were encased in flat, silver, sequined shoes. She smiled to herself as she flipped through a magazine.Jeff was enraptured.

But he was also scared out of his mind. The blue cat was intimidating, to be sure. Well, it could be worse, he thought. At least it isn't a dead gopher or (God forbid) a oppossum. He put the crumpled paper back in the pocket of his designer jeans, ran his fingers through his chesnut hair, and strutted over to the be-catted beauty.

Jeff cleared his throat as he stood somewhat menacingly over the girl. He looked up at him with a smile still on her face. Does she always smile? That's my job! Jeff thought, almost out loud. But as quickly as she flashed him a smile, it vanished when she saw that Jeff was . . . well, he looked a little young for her! She was twenty-five, a mature twenty-five at that. She didn’t have time to waste on this little immature ruffian, this—this boy!

Jeff offered Kim his most winning of all smiles, the one that he had to use the extra muscles for.

"Hi, I'm Jeff," he said, extending his right hand. "And you must be Kim."

"Actually, I'm not. My name is Francene. Is there something I can do for you?"

"No . . . well, I was supposed to meet Kim here. She told me that she'd be wearing a blue cat; and, well, you are the only one here . . . "

"Look, I'm not her, ok? Can I go back to reading my magazine, or will you insist upon intruding into my existence longer yet?"

"I'm leaving, all right!" Jeff hissed at her, trying to keep the conversation as quiet as possible while attempting to restrain his nerves. As he walked away from the brown-haired beauty, Jeff felt an aching lonliness in his heart, and for the first time in his life, felt lonely and alone. And terribly lonely. And desolate. And--

But hark! What was this dazzling creature before his very eyes? She was not wearing a cat, and she was not wearing blue, but she possessed a look on her face that intreigued Jeff immensly. Suddenly, he no long felt nervous, but was back to his usual confident self. This girl, he said to himself, looks is just what I need. I’m capable of winning her over, no problem; she’ll love me and I won’t even have to work hard to win her over.

Jeff felt himself very capable and confident, but only when it came to an easy target—and that is all that he looked out for. If it was too difficult, then it was not worth his time and effort. With this attitude, situations were always win-win. No losing had to be involved if you were excessively better than your target. With this new thought and bold and brave attitude, Jeff resumed his strut as he polonaised across the café and over to the pink-pursed girl reading Lovecraft.

Little did Jeff know that he was in for a letdown.

2006-01-06T19:24:00.000-08:00

Hey, Linds!!!

2006-01-06T19:20:00.000-08:00

HEY ANNA!!!