ON [TOPIC]

I’ve decided to do something a little new en regards to this blog, journal, diary, whatever.

Reading my blog (as it is now) is kind of like eating nothing but Triscuits all day.

Sure, a handful of Triscuits is fine every once in a while. They are dry, and salty, and, uh, texture-y, and have some fiber and fat and shit (figuratively not literally, if you know what I mean), and that’s just what we all need sometimes, but other times I WANT FUCKING PEANUT BUTTER DOUBLE FUDGE FUCKING ICE CREAM. And, honestly. Triscuits have figurative SHIT against ice cream.

In other words: I lack motivation, skill, mojo, and pinache. I need FOCUS. And balls. And ice cream. I just grossed myself out.

I have a cat licking my elbow.

She is a rather cute cat.

OW.

So what I am going to try for awhile (until I forget and grow bored of it or squirrel) is this: FOCUS my entries around a particular topic. On Pizza. On Antagonization. On Hard Cider. On Obama. On Tegan and Sara. On Money. On Guitar Hero. Etc.

So instead of the usual watered-down emo shit like this: “oh my life sucks I can’t find the motivation ’cause I’m all alone and we live in an illiterate backwards religinut hypocritical society blah cheese and blah crackers” and whatnot…

I’m going to try to write something more like this: “On Procrastination. Period. Oh Guitar Hero is just so awesome look at me I know how to press the blue button with my little pinky finger now! Wow look how I have progressed but man does it annoy me when the sounds of the guitar don’t match up with the buttons on the screen wtf am I playing like two different guitar parts at once AND a synthesizer AND a kazoo?!”

Hell, maybe I’ll actually learn something about something this way. And find some of that elusive motivation. And maybe I won’t despise myself as much anymore. And I’ll be a little less alone. And I’ll learn how to be an expert at Guitar Hero. And I’ll probably continue to intentionally speak in incomplete sentences. And this might be a good time to go do all that homework and job-hunting and FAFSA-completing stuff I should be doing instead of writing this. Yeah.

Anyway, I think I’m gonna relax a bit with some Guitar Hero now (and oh, perhaps make myself some pasta and sauce), so, uh, taa-taa~!

On Brainstorming…

NaNoWriMo, bitches!

The most important thing is to keep writing.  No half-assery.  No apologies.  Just, DO IT and GET IT DONE.

Of course I joined the race at the very last minute (in the wee hours of this same morning before bed) so today’s going to be a brainstorming day first and a writing day second.  Hopefully, though, this will be the last day I have to devote so much time to such “productive” procrastination (and junk food… but hey, it’s the day after Halloween, so give me a break!).

NaNoWrimo, bitches!

I had already had in mind the handful of plots I’d choose from for this year’s novel-writing shenanigans. Well, in the last 24 hours, only one seems to be consistently sticking out from that mental list: Chatter. Chatter is an action-dialog sort of schpeel following the intertwining lives of five “crazy” people.  It takes place, for the most part, in a city somewhere between the sizes and atmospheres of Denton and Dallas.  It should be a little reminiscent of Kurt Vonnegut, Chuck Palinuik, Poe, Huxley and Ayn Rand (that’s completely off the top of my head, anyway) in terms of style, plot, and overall feel (if only I felt confident enough to say it could reach the caliber of such authors’ works!).  (In other words: cynical, philosophical, and downright weird.)

I’ve had the most basic and superficial overall plot for Chatter in mind for at least a year, and have even written tidbits of chapters, but for some reason I’ve lacked the inspiration and motivation to flesh the whole thing out.  Well,that laziness ends TODAY ’cause it’s NaNoWriMo, bitches!

I think I have to take another approach to this, and I think I know just what I need to do.  See, I’m a character-driven individual.  I’d probably dig Sims if I had the money to invest in such a game.  I LOVE role-playing, and I was even once one of those dorks painstakingly developing complex characters for online RPG forums (like *cough* X-Men *cough cough*), back in the day (*cough* high-school).  Have characters without plot?  Just give those same characters an environment to share and BAM!  A plot soon develops, if not several.  Have a plot without characters and what’s the bloody point, eh?  Are we living in a ghost-town or what?

So I have in mind the five (six, if we get technical) main characters of the novel and the most basic plot lines which begins and ends with this sentence: “Samuel McCormick has always believed he could fly.” What I’m going to do is write from the P.O.V. from each character in turn, flowing through the course of the basic plot line, adding subplots and details as inspiration kicks in.  The key to this story is character development, character interaction, and plot expansion and connections.  Every day, I will choose which one of the main character’s stories to work on, and then I will work on it, devoting roughly 10,000 words minimum to each character (thus reaching the 50,000 minimum for NaNoWriMo) by the end of the month.

She Wants…

Her, not me.

Rebound

Here’s Shy Thunder with a pocketful of sunshine she never spends nor keeps for long, sipping blood-red wine in the house with tight shutters and locked doors. She’s crouched behind the starting-line on the couch in the living room. Afraid to pull the trigger. No one will pull it for her. Therefore, nothing ever happens.

Her lips are pursed in contemplation. Her expression otherwise blank. She could be anything, feeling anything. Thinking anything. Doing anything. Saying nothing.

Here’s the ornamental boomerang displayed just above the cold glow of the fireplace on the mantle of painted rust. That toy the ever-constant reminder of all the feelings she has, has had, will have for the bird that forgot how to soar. It is a looker, not a toucher. To be admired. Never to be used.

She’s tapping Morse code along the rim of a plastic cup colored like the Caribbean Sea.

Here’s the knots gathering at the very back of her head and right between her grey eyes, feeding a ravenous beast of a migraine, a gathering storm in her brain built on all that is, that was, that will be, and all that shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, have been, will not be.

In the tangible silence she crosses the living room and removes the toy from the mantle of painted rust. That boomerang. That tenderness. That joy. That agony. That obsession. That contentment. That revelation. That confusion. That weakness. That resolve. That hunger. That complete loss of appetite. That ultimate ticket out of here.

Here’s the dullest edge of the boomerang pressed lightly against the largest vein on the right side of her neck. Her pulse drums the rhythm of her heart into the slightly-frayed waxy hemp and the smoked and treated and smoothed and painted wood. The beat is wanton. A silent wish. A quiet howl. An earnest dance waiting still to commence, creating tension in the ballroom. A track-full of sprinters and one-mile runners and cross-country joggers and triatheletes all waiting for the sound of the very same gun.

Here’s the front door swinging open, as if by a breeze or a miracle. She’s filling only part of the frame. Poised, listening. To gods striking-out once again. To cavemen and farmers still fighting the same old glorious revolution. To blood, rust, and spray-paint.

Here’s the sheer desperation she feels as she wildly hurls the toy out-and-away so far the naked I can’t see. Across the glowing horizon. Into space. Gone. Done and gone. It hums a hollow tune as it flies readily away.

She watches it disappear and sighs in relief.

The burden’s gone. The problem’s solved. Exhale. Relax. Release. Let it go. Move on.

Turn around… and just, walk away. She walks away.

And that’s when it hits her.

The Invisible Pane of Glass

A proud eagle flew overhead. It flew and flew uninhibited until it hit some invisible barrier, a giant pane of glass in the sky. Down it fell into and through a tree, hitting a monkey on one of the outlying branches. Down the monkey and eagle fell, into the brush at the edge of the invisible barrier. They got up quickly, the eagle ruffling its feathers in frustration and a sense of threatened pride, the monkey rubbing a sore posterior and scratching its chin in quiet curiosity.

On the other side of the barrier, on the edge of a swamp that stunk to high heaven (if only smells could cross the barrier) sat a toad, lazily eying the flies hovering above it for several minutes before the fat-bellied amphibian finally saw the hazy outlines of the monkey and the eagle just a foot away.

“Well, hullo.” It said to them.

The monkey and eagle listened, the voice partially muted and skewed in the time it took to travel across the inch-thick invisible pane of glass.

“Why hullo,” replied the monkey, “tell me, my friend: what is this wall in front of us that cannot be seen?”

“Why, it’s a territory line of course, silly creature,” the toad rolled its fat eyes at the monkey, “What else would you think it was?” The toad distracted itself by catching a pathetic little gnat with its thick, long tongue.

“A territory line? Between what-and-what?” The eagle was eager to know now, for it knew all about territories, or so it thought.

“Between here and there, of course.”

“What is ‘here,’ exactly?”

“Why ‘here‘ is the New World, of course,” the toad’s voice began slur with tested patience.

“What’s… ‘the New World?’” the monkey asked.

“It’s the place where all your dreams come true,” replied the toad with a touch of pride.

“And what if your dreams are all nightmares?”

“Here, they will come true,” replied the toad without a moment’s hesitation.

There was a long, tense pause. The eagle and monkey glanced at each other warily. For a split second, their thoughts were the same. Soon the moment of apprehension passed, and curiosity got the better of them.

“And what is ‘there,‘ exactly?” the inquisitive monkey spoke for the both of them.

“Why, it is everything that’s not the New World, of course,” the toad rolled its eyes again.

“And why must here and there be separated?” asked the eagle, its eyes piercing through the invisible barrier.

“Because if they were not separated, then the spell would be broken, and no one would get what they dreamed of here.”

The eagle began to feel offended. Even if barriers existed on the ground, never before did the eagle have to face a barrier in the sky. The sky was always free before. It ruffled its feathers again, eying the toad warily, and jabbing the monkey once, whispering, “I don’t like this. Not at all.”

The monkey was not listening. Under typical circumstances, the eagle and monkey were enemies in nature, and therefore the monkey felt no obligation to listen to the eagle. Some of what the toad said proved enticing indeed.

“Tell me, my friend,” implored the monkey, “can anyone ever cross through the barrier?”

“Sometimes.”

“And under what circumstances can this occur?”

“Why, if crossing the barrier made the dreams of someone already here come true, of course.”

“So, if I could make someone’s dream, say, yours, come true, then I could cross and have my own dreams come true?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The monkey smiled, and its eyes lit up, “So tell, me, my friend: have you ever dreamed of catching all those flies above your head without the slightest effort?”

“Perhaps,” the toad smiled, its mouth exhaling fumes the monkey could not smell.

“And would you believe me if I told you that I thought of a way to do so?”

“Perhaps. If you tried to cross and succeeded, then surely what you say, friend, must be true.”

The eagle huffed and tapped on the glass, peering over at the monkey with one of its gold eyes, “no use. It’s still there.”

The monkey ignored the eagle and placed a tiny palm on the barrier. Within seconds, the hand slid through. The eagle squawked in alarm; the toad smiled in pleasure. The proud eagle had all it could take and flew off, trying to get as far away from the barrier as possible. Never before had it felt so thoroughly offended.

The monkey gasped and continued to cross the invisible barrier, thoroughly pleased with itself. When it finished crossing the barrier, it was a gorilla. It gawked, patting its broader chest and frantically searching for its lost tail.

“Don’t worry, that happens to everyone, my friend,” said the toad, licking a wide, gaping mouth with a worm of a tongue, “I used to be a panther. So how do you plan on catching all the flies again?”

The gorilla rubbed its nose, trying to ignore the stench. It scratched a large chin in thought, hunkering down to something closer to the toad’s level and ever-careful not to step in the swamp.

“Why, by spraying them with a chemical that burdens their wings and makes them unable to fly away, of course.”

“Wouldn’t the chemical make me sick?”

“Only in large quantities. In small quantities, it only makes the flies sick,” the gorilla smiled, proud of its own ingenuity, “now what about my dreams? Will they come true?”

Later, the toad was gorging itself on sick flies and the gorilla was gnawing on the leg bone of a bird. Gold and white feathers, a proud beak, and ribbons of sinew and skin gathered at the foot of the feasting gorilla, who was quite happy on this day of all days, the day it discovered the invisible pane of glass in the sky.