Micheal Gallowglas

Writing prompt

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 22:39:30 GMT

I first pulled this one out of my big coffee mug:

“Write a scene comprised only of dialogue between two characters. Use dialogue tags as sparingly as possible. Make each character as unique as possible by the words they choose.”

I decided that, while this would make an exciting format for a prompt, I wanted something a little more to go on, so I drew another slip.

“There are rewards to confronting fear. Explore the consequences of submitting to them. Write a scene where one character learns something about himself or herself by how a second character who is close to him or her deals with something that terrifies the first character.”

“Dude, you gotta get back in the game. Friends and family are starting to talk”.

“Dude?”

“Yeah, term of endearment. Been in common use the last couple of decades. But that proves my point: You been out so long that you don’t know how to talk to people any more. You’ve got to do some field work.

“Ummm… No, really I don’t. Tried it. Failed. Tried it again. Failed. Let you talk me into it a third time, and guess what. Oh, that’s right, you know because you were watching and laughing when they drug me down for failing again.”

“But this one will be cake.”

“Cake?”

“Yeah, cake.”

“Still not getting it.”

“As in cake walk, or a piece of… This is for real. Scout’s honor. You know that one, right?”

“Yes, I know that one. Please, pardon me while I’m skeptical and remained unconvinced.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what? Suspicious? Maybe even slightly paranoid? I wonder why I might possibly have that reaction to anything you have to say to me after the last time.”

“You wound me. That wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what? Your fault? Personal? Sure it was. On all accounts. You set me up for failure.”

“No.

“Yes, and I’m taking the hint. Three times. Three. That’s one of the magic numbers.”

“One of their magic numbers.”

“Hey, they’re on top. If it’s a good enough omen for them, it’s a good enough omen for me. Or to use one of your tired, overused sayings, three strikes you’re out.”

“Not bad, but what about , ‘third time’s the charm?’”

“Been over this. Tried the third time. Wasn’t charming. Three strikes and you’re out.”

“How about, ‘Fourth ball take your base,’ since we’re on a baseball theme?”

“No.”

“But it’s all set up for success. Easy. Promise.”

“Then you take it.”

“I can’t.”

“Then it must not be so perfect after all.”

“It is.”

“Then give me one good reason why you’re trying so hard to give it to me?”

“Mom’s making me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So you see, if you don’t take this one, then I’m going to be in even more trouble than you will if you screw up again.”

“I seriously doubt that. Besides, that’s even more of a reason why I shouldn’t take the job.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well, to rub more cliché’s in your face, how about something like revenge and a cold dish? Or maybe: Payback. Bitch. Do the math.”

“That’s not it.”

“Well, true, but it’s something nice to go with not doing it.”

“You’re a chicken shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, yeah. Dude, you really need to get out more so I don’t have to translate everything I say. Chicken shit equals you’re scared.”

“There was a slight pause.”

“Okay. I can admit to that without shame. But can you blame me??

“Nope. Not a bit. We’re all scared. Every time. The point is, if you don’t get out there and get the job done, it’s going to catch up to you. I didn’t always have only three fingers and toes. Gottem chewed off for failure. Same with the ears. The iron spike in my shoulders, knees, and elbows help with creating the mood when I go up to harvest, but truth be told, I’d rather be without them. Meh. Shit happens and you roll with it or it rolls you.”

What I'm reading

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 22:22:52 GMT

JOHANNES CABAL, THE NECROMANCER by Jonathan L Howard

This book continues to be surprising, and the writing is continually fresh. I'm not going to give away particulars at this point, because I don't want to ruin a single surprise. However, go get this book; it's fun and worth the price of admission.

THE FIRE IN FICTION by Donald Maass

This is super agent, Donald Maass's newest book on fiction. My dad got it for me today. I've been reading the introduction while waiting for my Project Pipeline class to get going.

In the intro, Maass describes two types of novelists, Status Seekers and Storytellers. He describes how each of them approaches a career in publishing, from beginning to mid-carer. In reading this, I have realized some things about myself and gotten clues to why I may have been having problems keeping myself on task with writing. I'm looking forward to this book even more than I was when I picked up his other book, WRITING THE BREAKOUT NOVEL. It feels like this book is speaking directly to the conflict within me. Hopefully, it will help me come to terms with internal and external stresses on my writing.

What I'm reading

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 15:59:57 GMT

JOHANNES CABAL, THE NECROMANCER by Jonathan L Howard

http://www.amazon.com/Johannes-Cabal-Necromancer-Jonathan-Howard/dp/0385528086
(no, I'm not getting kickback for the link)

I started this novel last night. I discovered this first novel by Mr. Howard with my friend Clint on a whimsical trip to Barnes and Noble. I read the first interchange of dialogue between the main character and a demon he has summoned. We were both hooked. Clint bought the book, and now that he's done with it, it's my turn.

The banter is as witty and fresh as I remember it. Johannes goes from bantering with the demon, to the ex bank clerk who created the newest, unofficial circle of hell (paperwork), to the general of hell's armies, to Satan himself. The banter stays just as witty throughout, and just at the point I started to think that this was going to be a story where the main character - I can't call him a protagonist in good conscience - is just going to verbally spar his way to victory through the novel, Satan throws him a curve ball, as the Prince of Darkness is want to do from time to time. There are hints of Cabal's mysterious past, mysteries that he manages to keep hidden from Satan. Please don't consider these things spoilerz, because all this wonderful storytelling happens in the very first chapter.

I'm really looking forward to seeing where this journey goes, and while I'm not necessarily rooting for Johannes to succeed at the task set forth by Satan, I don't think it's going to go anywhere near where I, or Johannes, expects.

It's out in hard back, and I urge any student of writing to pick it up cheap from Amazon as I plan to. It's going to go into my collection of stuff to read and reread to study how other people master the craft of certain elements of fiction. Mr Howard has an ear for dialogue, and I plan to revisit Johannes's conversations again and again.

Writing Prompt

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 17:35:55 GMT

“Write two pages with two characters in conflict and then cut 50% of the writing—overwrought explication and dialogue, passive verbs, etc—without cutting out the meat of the story. Then compare the before and after versions.”

THE LONG VERSION
“Whiskey,” he said, spitting a glob of chew at a stray cat in the Gutter, “will change your life.”

I walk past the wino and his stench and get into the line. It wouldn’t be so bad if not for my cold feet. I tried stamping them to keep warm, but that only gets more snow on the inside of my shoes. I wish I could afford boots, but if I could afford boots, it would mean had work and wouldn’t be stuck waiting in this line.

I hear some guy talking right behind me. The way he’s muttering half under his breath, it’s obvious he doesn’t realize that he’s talking out loud. He’s got that angry half-whisper that lets everyone around him know that he’s either drunk or crazy or both. I try to ignore him at first, but after a while, I can’t help but lean backward a little to try and catch what he’s saying.

Yeah, eavesdropping is rude, but at least it’s something to break the monotony of this day in, day out purgatory-like existence. I like that word, “Purgatory”. Only Catholics believe in it, but sometimes I think they might be onto something. God might have put us black folks here on earth as a sort of purgatory before we gets back into heaven. I’ve told this idea to a couple of my friends, and they can’t argue with me about it after they’ve had to stand in line with me.

Crazy Drunk Guy is spouting off again. Opera? Who sings opera these days?

At least he’s got it right that it’s the worst music ever invented. Nobody but old folks want opera any more. All the rest keep heading uptown to the Savoy, Cotton Club, or the Alhambra for the sweet sounds of Basie, Calloway, or Chick Web.

I start humming a little Basie to myself. “Swinging the Blues” is a good up-beat song. A couple of other colored folks join in with me. Two even start harmonizing. It makes the time go by a little faster. Momma told me stories about the how they used to sing in the fields to help keep their spirits up while the sun was burning down on them.

Well, this is a switch. From blazing heat to freezing cold. I’ve come to the polar opposite of my Mamma and her folks. Maybe I’ll start another song tomorrow, and then the next day. See if it keeps helping time to pass just like Momma says it did.

Please god let me get some work today so I can afford the two bits to get into the Savoy tonight. That would make standing in this line worth it. I might even learn a few new songs.
It’s the big battle of the bands. Chick Web against Benny Goodman. Goodman’s alright for a white musician, and he’s even got a couple of Black fellas in his band, but Chick’s gonna show him how things really get done uptown. Ain’t been one white band to cross 148th street and go home with the title. Just like ain’t no white dancers gonna sweep it at the Harvest Moon Dance contest, at least not while they have Lindy Hop as one of the dances and Whitey’s kids keep entering.

Now I think Crazy Drunk Guy’s talking about me, because his voice is a little louder, and he’s spouting off about how I don’t know what work is like. I wish I could turn around and lay into him, but I can’t. My kind just doesn’t do that sorta thing to his kind. So I just stand there and take it, knowing all my kind knows is what work is.

This country was built on the working backs of all us undesirables: Chinese, Irish, Italian, Jew, and Black. We’re the ones who built the things that really needed building, did the work that needed doing, and felt all the hurts they didn’t feel like hurting.

Crazy Drunk Man has it all wrong. It’s the “proper” folks who don’t know what work is, just like they don’t know what real music is.

THE SHORTER VERSION

“Whiskey,” he spit a glob of chew at a cat in the Gutter, “will change your life.”

I walk past the wino’s stench and get into the line. It wouldn’t be so bad if not for my cold feet. I stamped them to keep warm. I wish I could afford boots, but that would mean I had work and wouldn’t be stuck in this line.

I hear some guy behind me muttering half under his breath. Guess he doesn’t realize that he’s talking out loud with that angry half-whisper that lets everyone know that he’s drunk or crazy or both. I can’t help but try to and catch what he’s saying.

Yeah, eavesdropping is rude, but at least it’s something to break up this day in, day out purgatory-like existence. I like that word, “Purgatory.” Sometimes I think they Catholics might be onto something. God might have put us black folks here on earth as a sort of purgatory before we gets back into heaven.

Crazy Drunk Guy is spouting off again. Opera? Who sings opera these days? At least he’s right. It’s the worst music ever invented. Only old folks want opera. The rest head uptown to the Savoy, Cotton Club, or Alhambra for Basie, Calloway, or Chick Web.

I humm a little Basie to myself. A couple of other colored folks join in “Swinging the Blues.” Two even harmonize. Momma told me stories about the how they used to sing in the fields to help keep their spirits up while the sun was burning down on them. Well, this is a switch – blazing heat to freezing cold. Maybe I’ll start another song tomorrow. See if it keeps helping time to pass just like Momma says it did.

Is Crazy Drunk Guy’s talking about me now, cause he’s louder and spouting off about how I don’t know what work is like. I want to turn around and lay into him, but I can’t. My kind just doesn’t do that sorta thing to his kind. So I just stand there and take it, knowing the truth. This country was built by all us undesirables: Chinese, Irish, Italian, Jew, and Black. We built the things that needed building, did the work that needed doing, and felt all the hurts they didn’t feel like hurting. Crazy Drunk Man has it all wrong. It’s the “proper” folks who don’t know what work is, just like they don’t know what real music is.

Writing Prompt part 2

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 18:25:14 GMT

It all started with Jonny and Boy Scout. God, has it really been forty years? It’s hard to tell with all the memories I’ve given up, and all the ones I’ve taken from others. But I’ve never let myself give up the memories of Jonny. He’s the reason I got into the memory trade.

Mom inherited Jonny the same way she inherited the dogs and cats. He was wandering the streets like the other strays. When I first met him he was scruffy, a little dirty, and had that look in his eyes that came with not having eaten in several days. I promised I wouldn’t fall in love with him, just like I did with all the other strays. But I loved all of them anyway, only not in the same way I loved Jonny. Loving Jonny was like an addiction. I knew it was bad for me, but I couldn’t stop. At least not until I caught Jonny – naked – in between my mom and younger sister, who were also naked. My last meal threatened to come up as I fled the house.

I wandered around for a long time and finally decided that I was going to kill Jonny. I was young, and my passions got the best of me, so I went looking for a gun.

I went to the Tombs. That’s a place where I had heard that you could get anything for the right price. I wanted a gun. “Go to the Boy Scout,” I heard more than a couple of times. “He’s always prepared.” So I go to Boy Scout and he looked strung out as hell. He asked me what I wanted a gun for. I told him it’s none of his business. “No story, no gun. That’s the rule.” I figured that no one would believe this stung out junky if it ever got to court, so I told him who and why. “I used to know Jonny. For him I’ll make you special deal for a special gun. Fifty bucks and the memory of your first kiss.” That seemed like a weird thing, and I didn’t believe him, so agreed and handed him fifty dollars. Now I can’t recall the details of about five minutes after Derek Myers walked me home from the homecoming dance.

That was the first time I’d lost a memory in trade, but it wasn’t the last time. In time, that habit got more addicting than Jonny.

Writing Prompt part1

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 18:23:04 GMT

"Write a scene in first person with two characters in conflict. Then, still in first person, write about that scene from the point of view of that same character from 5, 20, or 40 years later."

Mom inherited Jonny the same way she inherited the dogs and cats. He was wandering the streets like the other strays. When I first met him he was scruffy, a little dirty, and had that look in his eyes that came with not having eaten in three days. I promised I wouldn’t fall in love with him, just like I do with all the other strays. But I love all of them anyway, only not in the same way I love Jonny.

I’m looking up at Jonny with my head on the pillow. They heady scent of our recent love making – oh hell, who am I kidding, we fucked – hung around the bed, but his fresh cigarette was quickly overpowering it. God he looks so sexy sitting on the edge of the bed with the cigarette in his mouth. I can’t decide whether I want to kill him or have him fuck me again. For the former option, I’ve got a gun hidden under my pillow. I stroke it with my right index finger.

I got it in the Tombs from a guy who everyone calls Boy Scout. Boy Scout was this guy who looked strung out as hell, but that’s where everyone on the street pointed to if I wanted a decent gun for pretty cheap. “Go to the Boy Scout,” I heard more than a couple of times. “He’s always prepared.” So I go to Boy Scout and he asks me what I want a gun for. I tell him it’s none of his business. “No tell, no gun. That’s the rule.” I figure that no one would believe this stung out junky if it ever goes to court, so I tell him who and why. “I used to know Jonny. For him I’ll make you special deal for a special gun. Fifty bucks and the memory of your first kiss.” That seemed like a weird thing, and I don’t believe him, so I say okay and hand him fifty of the two hundred that I brought with me. Now I can’t recall the details of about five minutes after Derek Myers walked me home from the homecoming dance. “If you want to get Jonny, you’ll have to do it when he’s relaxed and hi guard is down.”

So I seduced Jonny. Let him fuck me one last time. Happened so fast that I didn’t even get my dress off. So here we are. Me stroking the gun almost like I was just stroking him. Him pulling a long drag off the cigarette. Did I mention that he’s like completely sexy?
Jonny finishes his drag and exhales through his nose. The smoke floats around his head like a dark halo.

“I saw you watching the other day,” he says. “Did you like it?”

The movie screen on the inside of my eye starts up against my will. There’s Jonny – naked – in between my mom and younger sister – also naked. My last meal threatens to come up. His comment kills my momentary indecision. My hand brings the gun out from under the pillow and points it at Jonny’s head. My finger pulls back the hammer. The metal click that comes from that action echoes through the room like a cracking whip. My heart pounds against my chest, as if the organ is trying to escape. I’m really going to do this.

“Put that away,” Jonny says. “You could hurt someone.”

I want to scream, That’s the idea fucknut. I want to pull the trigger before he can work any of his charms on me, but my finger seems frozen on the trigger. Part of me doesn’t want to kill someone as beautiful as him. Part of me wants him to see the muzzle flash right before he dies.

He turns his head toward me and all my blood turns to ice in my veins. His eyes look like a photonegative. Where they should be white, they’re black, and where there should be color, it’s white. The temperature in the room drops at least twenty degrees, and the cigarette smoke freezes in the air.

“You got that gun from the Boy Scout.” His voice whispers. “Well. What are you going to do?”

Writing prompt

Fri, 03 Jul 2009 16:37:57 GMT

"Write a scene where one character's motivation is to suppress the motivation of another character. This must be something the first character believes is in the best interest of the second character. Then have the second character realize what's going on an confront the first character."

Eris stood amongst the ruined bodies. He counted seven. Even at his best, which had passed away decades ago, he would have been sore pressed to have defeated six - a feat he hand never accomplished. Five was his personal best, and that had been mostly luck: the best of those five had been a journeyman swordsman at best, Eris had started that fight and killed one even before the others knew there was a fight going one, and he had been sober, where they had not. And in that fight, Eris had not escaped unscathed. Ht had a scar on both his ribs and upper left thigh to remind him of that.

Of the seven corpses, at least three had been masters. One of those might have been a grandmaster, and thus had been a match for Eris all on his own. The rest were easily high-ranked journeymen. As far as Eris could tell with a quick mental inventory, he had killed those men without suffering so much as a scratch. Hells below, his muscles should be screaming at him for the exertion he'd just undergone to kill these men, but he felt ready to slay seven more.

He spun on Someris.

"What did you do?"

"I helped."

His fingers shifted their grip on his sword. Ten paces between then. He'd killed sorcerers from longer distances, though none so powerful as the one standing there with the self-satisfied smirk. Then again, he'd never killed seven men at once before either.

He spoke between his teeth, voice hissing like a newly-forged sword being cooled. "Do. Not. Presume. To. Help. Me. Again."

The smirk vanished as her lips tightened to the point her mouth almost folded in on itself. Where her eyes had been smug and amused a moment before, now they were hard, and cold, and not just a little scornful.

"Do not presume to order me. You are in my service. I will aid you in whatever ways I deem necessary. You will accept it without question or rebuke."

Eris leaped forward. Somewhere in the space between where he started and reaching Someris, they strength flowed out of him. Not just that which Someris had given him to defeat the seven men, but all of it. His sword clattered to the ground. He followed a moment later, his legs unable to hold him upright.

Someris rolled him over with her foot. Her smirk had returned, as had her bemused eyes.

"Do not trifle with me. I plan to make you great again, but that is only as a means to my own end. Do not forget that."

Writing Prompt

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 16:15:25 GMT

"Choose a distinctive setting, or at least a setting that is distinctive to for a specific character. That setting must also be an important place for the character. Have the setting change in some major way. Write about how this change affects the character."

The airport shuttle service drove off as Jack opened the gate. Taking in the yard, Jack shook with a chill that had nothing to do with the biting winter wind. No wonder Mom and Dad had been suffering financially. The old tractor sat in the far corner of the main yard, tires flat and rusting away next to the compost piles. Someone had tried to protect the old machine with a plastic blue tarp, but the unforgiving wind had pulled several of the bunji cords free and only two held the tarp in place so that it just flapped in the wind, drawing attention to the familiar friend.

The barn, now easily two, maybe three, times bigger than it had been before Jack had left for the army. This increase in size came from the additions to the main body, well-constructed as Dad would have done, but a waste of space and resources -- or at least it would have been back before Jack had left. The western addition held a large double doors.

Jack imagined the yard in spring, just after this new section had been completed. Dad had probably given Jenny permission to back the new Tractor into its new home. Dad always did get the spending bug in the spring. He had probably invited the salesman over to watch and then grill out -- Dad's term for bar-b-qing. Mom promised Jack that she wouldn't let things get like this.

Jack wondered what the house like, and then stopped. His imagination might make it worse, or better, than it was. The one thing he missed most about being home was Dad's piercing whistle coming across the yard. It never had a tune, or at least no tune that Jack could discern. It was like a cross between tribal chants and Miles Davis improvised jazz -- weird and cool and one hundred percent dad.

Walking toward the house, Jack started the whistle "The Halls of Montezuma." Wasn't anything close to what Dad could do, but so many things had changed a lot the songs around the farm could change too.

The Truth About Fiction

Fri, 29 May 2009 06:24:15 GMT

A while back, my boss took the entire staff of the dance studio to this big motivation seminar. It was pretty cool. I got to see Colin Powell, Michael Phelps, and Rudy Giuliani among others in person. I took copious notes and thought about how to apply them to managing the staff at the studio and about my writing. One thing that struck me though, is when Zig Zigler spoke, he mentioned that he reads every day, but he doesn't read novels. He doesn't like novels because he's only interested in the Truth. (The capitalization is my own supposition due to context.) I'm going to go out on a limb, though not too far, and imagine that Mr Zigler was actually referring to fiction in general. I know that Mr. Zigler will never read this page, but I must speak out about this in some sort of public forum, and Livejournal is the best I've got right now.

As a fiction writer, I take exception to Mr. Zigler's insinuation that there is no Truth in fiction. While fiction is not true, much of it contains some piece of Truth about the Human Condition. Throughout human history, humanity has embraced fiction as a way to explain the world and humanity's place in it. While the myths of ancient cultures are not true in any sense of the imagination, those myths were created in a search for Truth, or at least to explain those things that man did not understand.

The face of fiction has changed over the years, though its purpose has not. It is still a struggle for the writer to explore some aspect of the human condition that puzzles him or her. Some writers consciously strive for this, while others do not. When I fist started writing, I was unaware of the questions - all unanswerable - I wanted answered. But now that I have learned what to look for, I can see the recurring themes that appear throughout my body of work. Each of these themes is reflected in my life somehow, and writing about them is my way of seeking the Truth behind these things.

The problem is that Truth with a capital "T" isn't something with an answer. Usually, it's a question, an unanswerable question about the human condition. Fiction, especially good fiction, doesn't usually try to answer the question, but rather explores it, allowing the reader to determine his or her own truth from the text. For at its heart, Truth is subjective. On the other hand, nonfiction rarely deals with Truth, but rather opinions.

I wish I wasn't so tired, so I could articulate this better. My concentration is fading, and I want to save some of it to work on DEAD WEIGHT for a bit and maybe do a writing prompt. Actually, I think I'll save the prompt for the morning. Stay tuned. I think I'm going to revisit this later.

Writing prompt

Wed, 20 May 2009 06:42:25 GMT

Write a scene where a character experiences extremely minute twists in reality; nothing so grandiose as a Dali painting, but enough to throw the characters' world a little bit off kilter.

The limp was more pronounced than it would have normally been, even on a day as cold as this. Steam came in ragged gasps as Jack trudged across the frost covered high-prairie, a bucket of feet in his left hand and his shotgun cradled under his right arm. It wasn’t usually this much effort to get out to the quarantined horses, but the cold had come early this year. Sun had already been up for almost half an hour, and the frost shouldn’t still be hanging on like this for another couple of weeks at most. This sudden chill spell hadn’t given his injury time to acclimate, so it was especially stiff. Heart rate was up with the effort of lugging the feed.
His left foot came down and almost slipped out from underneath him. Jack slid the butt of his shotgun down to steady himself. Once he got his balance, he looked down. His foot had come down on a patch of green grass, slick with dew.
Jack blinked and shook his head. It hadn’t been there before. Even though the patch was only slightly bigger than his boot print, that shocking green oval would have stood out like beacon against all the white. He blinked a couple more times and looked away. When he looked back it seemed smaller, as if the frost was closing back in on his boot.
Despite the pain, Jack hurried on, this time using the shotgun as a cane. He couldn’t know for sure, and sure and hell, he wasn’t going to tell anyone about it, but that patch hadn’t been clear a few moments before. He managed about a dozen steps before he glanced back. It was against his better judgment, but he couldn’t resist. The clear patch was gone – all frosted over, with a dandelion sticking straight out of the frost. Right in the center of where his boot had come down. He could see the outline of his boot print embedded in the frost all around the tiny yellow sun in a white sky. The dandelion stood strait and tall when it should have been crushed, and the cold should have made that bright a bloom impossible.
He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds, and let it out, slowly. No steam. A warm breeze kissed his face for a moment, then the chill air nipped his nose, checks, and ears. The steam returned to his mouth.

Greatest Dad evARRR!!!

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 05:14:39 GMT

My dad knows a guy who works in a rare bookstore. Last Friday he ordered me a first edition of A GAME OF THRONES by George RR Martin. How cool is that?

Irony

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 06:15:32 GMT

Talk about full circle.

In January of 2005, I stopped being a Dance teacher due to continued health problems resulting from an accident in January of 2004. Wow. A lot has happened in the past five years. Robin suggested that I go back to school while I was out of work. Six months later, I started at American River College in pursuit of an English Degree. I now have a Bachelor of Arts in English with a Focus in Creative Writing. What am I going to be doing with that degree? I'm going to teach dance.

http://www.dancestudio18.com

I met with the owners today. He likes me. I like him. I'm meeting with him on Friday morning to verify a schedule for me. Good times. I'm jazzed, because the pay is better than some other studios I've taught at, and it beats sitting behind a desk.

It's official!

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 07:04:11 GMT

After navigating the San Francisco State University website for the umpteenth time, I finally found confirmation that I did, in fact, graduate with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English with a focus in Creative Writing. The official date of my graduation was 1/6/2006. It was a little line at the top of my unofficial transcript that I hadn't noticed before.

Job Interview

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 06:40:25 GMT

I had a job interview at a local high school for a tutoring position with this special class that prepares students for the rigors of college. I think I did alright. I believe I overheard someone say that there were around thirty applicants for three positions, so one of them should go to me, considering that whole degree thing and passing the CBEST. I'll find out on Monday. the best part about it will be actually using the degree I spent four years working toward.

I want one!!!

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 18:14:27 GMT

http://dsc.discovery.com/news/2009/01/22/flying-car.html

God technology is cool.

A dream from the game

Sat, 17 Jan 2009 23:01:04 GMT

This is a collective dream that the characters in my game are all experiencing. They have already had one similar to is, but this one goes into more details. I enjoyed writing it, so I figured I's share:

You are walking along a beach of black sand. The sky above you is a deep purple rippling with eddies of black and gray and deep blue. The sky lacks sun, moon, and stars. In the dim light that permeates everything, the surf rolling up the beach is a deep red, and seems thicker than normal ocean water should be. A mist rises, the off-white of a long dead bone. Occasionally, sparks of blue-green, gray, yellow, black, and brown snap and sizzle within the mist.

You continue walking along this never-changing landscape, until you take yet another step and find that yourself no longer on the beach. You are back in that temple, the one that might be right at home in Ancient Greece, or maybe Rome. Each of you enters from a different side, never mind the fact that there are only four sides to this building. This is a dream, and so you don’t even bother to ponder this impossibility. The mist permeates the floor here, and the huge gem is back in the center of the room, still glowing with a faint, pale blue light. You each walk toward it. Every time one of you takes a step, something happens. Small thunderclaps peel as Samantha’s feet touch the floor. Chains rattle with every step that Paige takes. Bel’s right footfalls produce the sound of faint dinner bells, while her left hit with a resonating gong of steeple bells. Mocking laughter echoes with each of Kevin’s steps. Then there is Twich. Twitch is silent as he moves across the floor. At first you think this might be due to all the other noise going on, but then you realize that you can hear the sounds of everyone else’s steps distinctly, and that he is silent.

The tables that were here before are all burnt and broke, the vials of chemicals and powders spilled and shattered. Likewise, the Gregorian chanting is gone. The bells still hang from the ceiling, chiming pleasantly, and the occasional gunshot cracks in the distance. In shadowy places throughout the vast chambers, you think you can make out tables with dolls set to tea time.

The woman returns, and you can see her more clearly. She is beautiful with eyes an unnatural color of blueish-amber and skin the color of burnt caramel. Her long black hair spills out from underneath her shawl and circlet like a waterfall reflecting a midnight sky. Even underneath the pocket covered cloth wrapped around her, you can see her body might as well have been sculpted by Michelangelo for its proportional perfection. She reaches into two pockets – there are faces on the pockets, but this time one of you thinks that he or she recognizes the face on one of the pockets – and removes a parchment from one and hammer from the other. She looks each of you in the eye and whisper to you without her lips ever moving, “You must do this if ever I am to leave my torment and ascend.” She places a parchment under the crystal and shatters it with a mallet. All the clutter disappears and a pentacle appears on the floor. Each point has a symbol: a shining key, a thorn bush, a dark coin, a gauntlet, and a book made of stone.

wOOt... and I say again wOOt!!!

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 21:51:02 GMT

Just got a call back from an administrator and a local high school. (Local being the greater Sacramento area.) I am scheduled for an interview next Thursday, being the 22nd at 2:15 in the afternoon. Looks like I'll actually be able to do something with the useless degree I got besides ask people is they want foam on their lattes.

Of course, if I don't get it, I might very well drowned myself in a toilet.

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 06:18:42 GMT

Write about a character in a mundane situation and have his internal monologue drive the story while ultimately revealing interesting facets of the character’s personality.

Sam walked down the canned goods aisle, wondering why all grocery store music stations can’t seem to play anything other than love songs. The song, which he was mostly able to tune out, was about true love. Something about that word made it impossible to ignore. Love. Hard to come by, easy to lose. Thinking of the word, love, made Sam desperately aware of the warmth that enveloped the first two fingers of his right hand.

Sam glanced down. Two blue eyes peered back at him, stark blue so pale they seemed washed with white, like acid washed jeans. The eyes smiled at Sam just as the face that held them smiled, full and big, showing off the two missing top teeth in the middle of that smile. A mass of curls framed that face, curls that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be auburn or strawberry blond. This was the face of true love, the only true love he could afford himself, and yet, a painful, bitter-sweet reminder of true love that had come and gone, only had it been truly true love or just the memory of what he’d hoped had been true love?

Shaking his head, Sam kept up the aisle to the prize the little smiling face had earned by cleaning its room. The wall of Spaghetti O’s stretched for several feet, a wall of white and red amidst the bombardment of colors from Campell’s competitors. With his right hand occupied, Sam reached out with his left for one of the cans. Plain, the smiling face attached to his other hand wouldn’t eat any other kind. A large, yellowish circle dominated the white portion of the paper wrapped around the can. Sam glanced at his unadorned ring finger. He could still see the indents from where the symbol of that other true love had molded his skin.

Bleh

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 19:20:55 GMT

Job hunting sux! Someone should pay me to sit around and be clever.

Gaming as it relates to writing and vice versa

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 19:17:46 GMT

I ran the first session of my new game last Sunday afternoon. Previous to the game session, I was very excite; I couldn't wait to get into my massively epic tale of modern horror. The session opened with the characters in a group therapy session in their halfway house. It went well with great role playing and character development. I felt this was a great way to introduce the characters to each other. Then, I started with the creepiness. One of the characters died with the arteries on her wrists, throat and upper thighs slit open; only, there was no blood. At All. That night, the characters had the same exact dream, which they discovered they had shared the next morning during group therapy, where they also met a new resident (the replacement character of the one who died) who had also appeared during the dream. Creepy weirdness continued, and all the players had a great time.

I, on the other hand, did not. I wanted to get on with the characters solving the problem. When they didn't, I became disappointed. In fact, I though none of them were having a good time. I found out later that everyone was having a blast. Still, I was too wrapped up in what I wanted out of the story to pay attention to that little detail.

At World Fantasy in New York, Robin and I became close acquaintances with Steven Erikson, author of the "Malazan Book of the Fallen" series. He actually spoke more with Robin than with me, which is ironic because she's never read any of his stuff. (But I'm not bitter about that at all.) He told her that running a game was the best way for a writer to learn how to deal with characters who won't do what the writer wanted. I remembered this and fired off an email to Mr Erikson. We bounce some ideas back and forth, and he helped me realize that I didn't need to be such a control freak. I also had an IM session with my brother, Damon about it, and he helped me come up with some stuff.

One of the things that I learned in my writing classes was not stifle my writing when it goes in directions that I hadn't originally intended. It might not work out in the end, but usually there is something important within that unexpected work. I have this control freak problem in my writing. Now I'm starting to understand what people mean when they use terms like "Plot Based" and "Character Based." I had an idea where I wanted the game session to go, but the characters were interested in other things and their own agendas. Luckily, I didn't make the mistake I have in the past, where I would have rammed the characters into the plot I'd developed, no matter what it took. I'm looking forward to the new session; because since they procrastinated so much with figuring out and dealing with the problem, I no have the chance to heighten the creepiness and horror that's taking place around them. Also, by reflecting on this, I've learned about my writing, and when something unexpected comes up for characterization, description, or any old thing that doesn't get right to work on the plot of my project, I'm going to see where it takes me.

It's official

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 19:10:35 GMT

I passed all my classes last semester, so I am officially graduating.

New Game

Tue, 06 Jan 2009 14:27:47 GMT

After taking a break from gaming, I'm going to step up and run a new old-school, pen-and-paper, table-top role-playing game. The last one I tried didn't work out so well with players flaking out left and right, and me trying to pigeon whole the players into the plot line that I had planned out. the two big problems I saw with the last game were:

1) I tried to add too much to soon. I had so many ideas that I wanted to add them all right away, which didn't work out very well. I wound up bogging things down with too many sub-plots and side story lines. Kind of like a few of the novels I've worked on.

2) When I saw things going wrong, I tried to fix them. This usually ended up making things worse.

This time around, I've got a starting point and an idea of where I want the storyline to go, but I'm not going to be such a control freak. I'm also going to let the story unfold as it unfolds, not rush into developing plots too early because the players are whining about "Not getting what's going on."

The game is set in modern day San Francisco. The characters all live at a halfway house where, after experiencing dome sort of mental/emotional trauma, they are working on becoming productive members of society. This particular setup came from my brilliant wife. Looks like it's going to be much fun.

Writing prompt

Tue, 06 Jan 2009 02:23:47 GMT

Write a scene in which a character is confronted by a past mistake that must be responded to. Explore the character’s view of this mistake and the reactions of the other characters.

Jereth placed his left foot on top of the last step. He’d counted carefully how many steps he’d have to take from his seat, to the steps, up the steps, and finally to the casket. Looking wasn’t an option, not today. Maybe in a year, but not today.

His right foot stretched out. Jareth shifted his weight onto it and picked his left foot up. As this left foot swung like a pendulum, carrying him forward, Jareth closed his eyes. The rest of the family stood behind him. None of them would be able to see. He’d shown enough courage just by being here. He couldn’t trust his reaction if he looked, and he couldn’t risk not trusting himself, not with the trials so close. Any betrayal of emotion here could cost him another year.

Jareth leaned his head forward and counted four long breaths. He normally used heartbeats to measure time, but he heart beat so fast he couldn’t trust it either. On the other hand, his breath was something completely under his control. Four long breaths, then he did one small thing to break from the tradition: he stepped backward instead of turning around immediately. When he knew he would not be able to see, Jareth opened his eyes and turned around.

Mother stood there, wild eyed with furry. Behind her, the family glared at him. Somehow they knew. Mother grabbed a fist full of his hair and twisted him around.

“Look coward,” she shrieked. “Look and see your brother.”

writing prompt

Tue, 06 Jan 2009 01:58:15 GMT

Have a character in a tense situation do something dramatic that both resolves the conflict and reveals something about the character’s inner nature.

It would have been a challenge to get three Lawyers, four siblings, and three spouses of siblings to get come to an amicable agreement under the best of circumstances, but when we’re talking about the kind of money mom left without having updated her will in ten years, I couldn’t see any solution to the biggest problem. I’d been the last one to talk to mom, and she’d asked me to, “Make sure you guys don’t fight over any off it.” Yeah. Sure.

I glanced over at Ross’s Lawyer, one Mr. Daniel Striles. He was the worst of them, with his gold Rolex, Armani suit, manicured nails, and perfectly- ultraviolet-polished smile. It was almost cartoon-like the way he looked over mom’s assets like a grinning great white shark. He’d convinced Ross and Darcy to change their collective minds about what they wanted four times already. It was as if I could see the dollar signs reflected in his eyes.

“Hey, guys,” I said when there was a break in the discussion between the other two lawyers. “Can we try talking about this for a second without counsel or our spouses? Just for fifteen minutes? Please?”

My two younger brothers and older sister glanced back and forth at each other.

For a second, it seemed like they were going to acquiesce, but then Mr. Striles placed one of the asset sheets down.

“I recommend against that, Ross,” Mr. Striles said. “If I’m not here, how can you be sure that your legal interests will be taken into consideration?”

I waited for Ross to protest or otherwise tell his lawyer to stick it. He didn’t, and no one else stood up for my request either.

“That’s it,” I said. “I promised mom we’d all get along, but it looks impossible with the way things are. Bill,” I addressed my lawyer, “Draw up papers to take me out of the will. Fax them to me. I’ll sign them and fax them back.”

Rachel, my wife leaned forward, mouth drawing open in a prelude to an objection. I’d seen that look dozens of times in the month since mom died. I gripped her knee under the table, not hard, but enough to stop her.. Her head snapped around to look at me. I gripped a little harder, then eased up and stoked her thigh with my thumb. Her face softened. She gave me the slightest nod, placed her hand on mine, and gave a little squeeze. Thank god for that, otherwise I might not have had the strength to stand up and walk out of the conference room.

Thoughts on yesterday's promt

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 20:43:40 GMT

At first I wasn't too happy with it. It's riddled with fantasy cliches, though I play on that a little bit through Eris's internal thoughts. If I was going to go back over this, I'd throw in more observations from Eris, both about the girl and his surroundings. I'd also go into more detail about the girl, give her more physical mannerisms and work on her speech patterns a bit. All-in-all, not a bad first exercise.