Archive for the 'Musings' Category

Quiet Time

Lan keeps yelling at me for not updating this blog, but I don’t really have much to say. She was always the primary audience anyway, and I can always call her, and soon I won’t even have to do that.

Fact is, writing fiction is a great creative outlet, but I get the same rush, so to speak, from writing for the Roleplayer’s Lament, and I have a way bigger audience and way more positive reinforcement there. I’m not ungrateful for the fans of my fiction, but when I want to write, I’d rather write there because I feel like I’m accomplishing more, y’know?

In the meantime, this site’s probably on a bit of hiatus. I might even come up with a static page to demonstrate that fact, but we’ll see. If anyone needs me, you know where to find me – Le Twittre, and RPL. Plus there are always my existing stories as seen on the sidebar and menu at the top.

For now, a friendly  – hm. Not ‘goodbye,’ but ‘hang on a minute.’

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Biffed It

So I’m already giving up on that writing thing. I’d decided so last week, but I’m explaining now.

Essentially, I don’t want to half-bake good ideas when I don’t feel like writing. I’d rather put more time and effort into other things – Courtney, WoW RP, the Roleplayer’s Lament. RPL especially is something where I know I have an audience, one that seems to like our work, and I really want to write when I know people will read it. I do want to keep writing, WoW, Wilson, and otherwise, but I’m not going to force anything. Instead my energies will go toward things that are less exercises in writing and instead on things that are actually useful.

I hate to cut this short, but I’m in the middle of some RP with Courtney, which is one of the more-important-than-writing things. Poof!

Proud of My Failure

Back in Monroe. It feels different here. It smells different than Madison. I miss State Street a bit already, but no matter.

I’m sure that there are plenty of real writers that would laugh at me and call me a complete scrub for what I’m about to say, but I don’t care. I’m a lazy and easily distracted individual, but I want to do more writing. Therefore, I’m employing the age-old principle of shame to get me to write more. This is me making a promise that I will output, on average, a page of writing a day. That’s not a lot for most people, but professionals probably don’t have work at C-town and Civilization IV distracting them. This is in addition to the one post a week I’m aiming for on The Roleplayer’s Lament. So. Every Sunday night, I will check in with my progress for the week. If I don’t put out seven pages a week, I am a failure, but I intend to not do that. Wilson, WoW, otherwise, I’m cranking out seven pages a week of Real Content. It might not be much, but it makes me feel like a big man.

There’re lots of occasions when I can’t seem to write anything substantial. I don’t really want to cram a lot of filler into the Cliff’s story I’m working on, since of all the subplots in Wilson, that’s the one I like most. So chances are that if I can’t think of anything brilliant to write, I’m going to start something else. There’s a tiny Saelar & Brux story floating around in my head right now, and I also want to get to work on a Wilson story about the town’s sesquicentennial that isn’t a ripoff of the Simpsons any more than anything else on earth is at this point. We’ll see how that goes.

It’s late, I’m tired. The Page-a-day challenge starts May 17 at 12:00 AM. If I don’t have seven pages written by May 23 at 11:59 PM, I’m officially the worst writer ever. Excluding everyone here.

I Assure You that I am a Boy

So. Ever since Courtney went and saw Wicked, I’ve been kind of investigating this whole ‘musical’ thing. The only one I’ve ever seen, at least professionally, is Spamalot, which was great. What I’ve discovered is that when an entire nation of people can break into song as convention, you end up with really, really catchy songs about weird things. Like hating people.

Long story short, I’ve had What Is This Feeling? stuck in my head for about twelve fucking hours. Somebody help me.

Unexpected Relief

I’ve worried for a while now that I’m simply not crazy enough to be a good artist. Hemingway killed himself, Dickenson was a recluse, even Jerry Holkins is on antidepressants. I’m in a happy relationship and not suicidal, so I’ve worried that I don’t have what it takes to put out some art. Today, though, I feel better. I may not be suicidal, but I am crazy, for I have written a poem from the point of view of a Nigerian prince falling in love. And I honestly think it has potential.

It’s called Happenings in a Bar in Lagos, and you can click the title to read it on the Scribd. I don’t think it’s finished yet, but I feel like with the right word choice and audible considerations it really could be beautiful. We’ll see how much effort I can make myself put into it. In the meantime, enjoy it for what it is.

Either Cowardly or Polite, I Can’t Tell

I’m active once again this year on the Edgewood Review Editorial Board, the group of people that read things submitted for the literary magazine and critique them. I like this job, but when I’m also submitting pieces for consideration, it can gum up the works.

Today was the day we reviewed my story, which was distributed without a name at the top. One of the participants in the meeting said as an aside before the meeting began that she hated the story. However, once it came to light that I had written it, she didn’t say anything of the sort. I hate when this happens. I’m a grownup, I can handle criticism. Never mind the fact that I have my own misgivings about the story that I submitted, Always Happy to Serve You. After all, while I do feel it’s one of my funnier pieces, I know that it’s not about anything significant other than itself, and that I don’t go into much depth with the characters, et cetera. I’m okay with this, though, because I can still take solace in the fact that I’ve written something entertaining. The great literature part can come later.

So. Well-read people don’t like my stuff. On the other hand, some of the other well-read people in the room seemed to, the editor going so far as to call it “an example of good writing,” which is really all the praise I can hope for. What I take solace in, though, is that the people that aren’t English majors that read my things tend to really enjoy them, or at least do a convincing job of lying about it. I value accessibility and try not to be elitist about my literature choice, so I’m gonna mark that one down in the plus column.

On the other hand, now I really wanna rewrite Golden into the real world and submit that. Goddamn that one’s good.

Insomnia Theatre

I’ve been making a habit out of reading some Howard Phillips Lovecraft every night before bed, which is probably the worst possible time to be reading Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Normally it’s not a problem, as the endings get predictable at a certain point – At the Mountains of Madness avoids this to an extent, as does The Shadow Over Innsmouth, but I won’t get into that here, because tonight I was finishing up The Shadow Out of Time. Its ending was more predictable, which should have meant a good night’s sleep. However, I still wasn’t tired, so I decided to pop on some Futurama to fall asleep to, picking at random – or so I thought – A Bicyclops Built for Two.

Bicyclops is a solid episode, poking fun at one of my favorite shows, Married… With Children and just generally being full of laughs. Sleep soon began to fill my mind. However, as I neared the end of the episode, something occured.

The Shadow Out of Time is the story of the Yith, a time-travelling alien race. In the story, they’re described thusly:

They seemed to be enormous, iridescent cones, about ten feet high and ten feet wide at the base, and made up of some ridgy, scaly, semi-elastic matter. From their apexes projected four flexible, cylindrical members, each a foot thick, and of a ridgy substance like that of the cones themselves.
These members were sometimes contracted almost to nothing, and sometimes extended to any distance up to about ten feet. Terminating two of them were enormous claws or nippers. At the end of a third were four red, trumpetlike appendages. The fourth terminated in an irregular yellowish globe some two feet in diameter and having three great dark eyes ranged along its central circumference.

And here I am, laying in bed, having absorbed this information less than an hour before, when I see this.

Sweet literary allusions aren’t nearly as cool when it’s nearly three in the morning and you’ve been up too late reading Lovecraft. Your mind is primed for insanity. I’m lucky I didn’t have to change my pants.

So. We’ll see if I get to sleep tonight.