First, the writing is coming along. Not as fast or as furious as I wanted it to, but that's they way these things go. Plus, it doesn't help when there are two very different story with two very different sets of characters trying to fight their way out of you.
Sigh.
As I'm writing, my thoughts will often turn to you, my dear reader. Not the anonymous ones, but the people that I know personally and have read my stuff in the past and will, hopefully, read my stuff in the future.
If you were to ask me where my ideas come from, there's only one obvious answer: nowhere. Really. As I stated in Post { 31 } I Suck at Life, it's all about the Magical Sentence popping in to my head to get the process started. Then things fall in to place.
However, even though I might suck at life, I don't live in a vacuum (HA!), so often friends and acquaintances make their way in to my writing. It's the curse of knowing a writer.
When you read things, you might think to yourself, "Holy crap! That's me! She wrote me in to a story!" Then you'll be either happy or furious, depending on the character and how you think I interpreted you.
Well, hate to break it to you, but you're only half right.
To date, the only things I have written that were actually about someone in particular are the two obvious examples: "Billy" and "Sam." I don't think it gets much more obvious than that.
But the rest of the time, characters and conversations and situations are an amalgamation of all sorts of different crap, some of it real, some of it not. That's why you might think, "Huh. She wrote about my love of vintage Converse High Tops and the time I burned off my eyebrows lighting a cigarette on the stove, so I know it's me, but why did she say I'm a pig farmer in Vermont? Everyone knows I'm a federal judge!"
Because it's not you, silly. I obviously borrowed what I needed and dropped the rest. When I'm ready to write your biography, I'll let you know. (FYI: I don't know anyone that fits any of that description. I wish I did.)
Having said that, my writings aren't autobiographical either. I do have a habit of writing females whose names begin with "B," but that's about it. Yes, somethings are real (I actually did work for a perpetually hungover manager that would send me texts meant for his girlfriend and get mad at me for no reason), but again, the biggest relation I have to my characters is that they came out of my brain.
I suppose I really don't need to explain all of this to you, with you being the smart people I know you are. But my brain gets all stupid and panicky about this sort of thing. I guess that's the curse of being a writer that knows people.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
{ 34 } The Words! They are a Killin' Me!
I just realize a swear a lot in my writing...
Sorry if you got offended at the words in my last post. I forget that not everyone lives in my brain. No matter: words are words, right?
Sticks and stones
May break my bones,
But words can never hurt me.
Sheesh: if people are breaking your bones, via sticks, stones, or whatever, you have much bigger problems than my swearing!
ON TO THE POINT!
In the last post, I gave you an excerpt from one of two things I'm working on. Well, today I have for you a synopsis of Thing Number Two!
Imagine it as the back-flap of the paperback, inner-flap if you're old school hardbound.
It's so pulpy! Read it out loud in your best movie-over voice. There's more to read post-flap, so continue on.
Enjoy!
~~~
He had nothing to lose...
Errol Bixby is on a mission to find his daughter and stop the violent career criminal that has married Bixby's ex-wife.
Sorry if you got offended at the words in my last post. I forget that not everyone lives in my brain. No matter: words are words, right?
Sticks and stones
May break my bones,
But words can never hurt me.
Sheesh: if people are breaking your bones, via sticks, stones, or whatever, you have much bigger problems than my swearing!
ON TO THE POINT!
In the last post, I gave you an excerpt from one of two things I'm working on. Well, today I have for you a synopsis of Thing Number Two!
Imagine it as the back-flap of the paperback, inner-flap if you're old school hardbound.
It's so pulpy! Read it out loud in your best movie-over voice. There's more to read post-flap, so continue on.
Enjoy!
~~~
He had nothing to lose...
Until he lost the child he didn't know.
Errol Bixby is on a mission to find his daughter and stop the violent career criminal that has married Bixby's ex-wife.
Following a dark path of lust, deceit, murder, and coverup, Bixby's journey will take him from Texas, to Colorado, to the very heart of America.
On a nonstop quest to find out what happened to his own daughter, and the daughters of many others, Bixby will stop at nothing to uncover the truth.
Even if he dies trying.
~~~
So, for my feedback:
~ Can you image this story?
~ Where do you think this story is going? Where do you think it has been?
~ Where do you think this story is going? Where do you think it has been?
~ Can you imagine the story and rewrite the flap?
Sunday, May 17, 2015
{ 33 } Undertaking
So, for those of you unawares, I took two weeks off from my job to write. What am I writing, you ask?
Whatever falls out of my fingers.
I've got two major works in the process. Here is an unedited excerpt from one of them. I can almost promise it will take a different form on the printed page, but here it is for now. Enjoy.
~~~
I once was a cook at a breakfast place where I had been the only female in the kitchen. Ever. The manager would constantly get drunk and confuse me with his on-again, off-again girlfriend.
“YOU NEVER LOVED ME!” he'd shout from his text.
“Um, yeah. But I filled all the sauce bottles.”
“SAUCE! You FUCKED Pete for fucks!”
“You realize you're not texting Abby right now, right?”
“You CUNTS are all the same!”
When I'd ask him about it the next morning, he'd deny, deny, deny. And then meticulously scrutinize the things he thought I had left undone.
“You didn't cut onions.”
“I left a note saying we were out of onions.”
“Well, you didn't fill the salt shakers.”
“The shakers were in the dish...”
“The note you left was long and stupid! Why the fuck did I ever hire a girl to work here!” And off he would stomp, content in his hungover brain that me, the dedicated employee, and Abby, the girl that done him wrong, were one and the same. Fucking cunts.
Whatever falls out of my fingers.
I've got two major works in the process. Here is an unedited excerpt from one of them. I can almost promise it will take a different form on the printed page, but here it is for now. Enjoy.
~~~
I once was a cook at a breakfast place where I had been the only female in the kitchen. Ever. The manager would constantly get drunk and confuse me with his on-again, off-again girlfriend.
“YOU NEVER LOVED ME!” he'd shout from his text.
“Um, yeah. But I filled all the sauce bottles.”
“SAUCE! You FUCKED Pete for fucks!”
“You realize you're not texting Abby right now, right?”
“You CUNTS are all the same!”
When I'd ask him about it the next morning, he'd deny, deny, deny. And then meticulously scrutinize the things he thought I had left undone.
“You didn't cut onions.”
“I left a note saying we were out of onions.”
“Well, you didn't fill the salt shakers.”
“The shakers were in the dish...”
“The note you left was long and stupid! Why the fuck did I ever hire a girl to work here!” And off he would stomp, content in his hungover brain that me, the dedicated employee, and Abby, the girl that done him wrong, were one and the same. Fucking cunts.
~~~
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