Idealand

Inspiration can come from the strangest places, and ideas generally follow.  This weekend I had time for a lot of both, since I’m not doing a lot of writing, and this free time has my brain in “creativity mode” for the most part, so strange things come of these things.

I spent a lot of time designing a house.  Not just any house . . . this was something I did for my Annie, my friend and–well, it’s complicated, as they way on The Book of Faces.  (That could be a title for an episode of Game of Thrones, where The Imp looks about for the leather-bound document that is a list of all the whores he’s bedded . . .)  We talked about things past, and I mentioned that I could using one of my new programs to create an image of a place that is one of her favorites.  Since I was going to do this anyway, I didn’t wait for her to say “Yes”, and just started in on my work.

As with anything creative, it took time.  But by yesterday afternoon I was finished, and she was happy with the outcome.  It was then we started discussing our own characters, and how they would fit into a story, and how . . . well, we’ve had this conversation before, and the problem always comes down to taking characters that were created for one world, and putting them in another.  How is this done, and more importantly:  how do you keep them interesting.

Answer:  nothing is easy.  Trust me, I’ve done this.  It’s not easy.

Of course, Annie is tenacious.  She pushes, she rocks, she roles.  She knows if she can get me to thinkin’ enough, I’ll come up with something.  And it was while this “Something” was going on that I hit a Eureka! moment.  So I told her, “I gotta go grill, but I’ll be thinking,” and with that I was off to the back yard to start cookin’ and get thinking.

See, something crept into my head when we were talking–something that I’d thought of a few weeks back when I was working on an old story idea.  I’d imagined some organization that is sort of one part Illuminati and three parts Crazy Secrets of the World investigators.  And what if . . . what if they know about things that only one in half a billion people can do, and when they find one of these people they do what they can to get them trained before . . .

Never mind the before.  I had a kernel of world building growing, and I didn’t want it to go stale.

Needless to say, when I told Annie what I had, she was happy, but she also had questions; apparently she didn’t realize that building a new world doesn’t happen while you’re trying to keep your Italian sausage from burning.  But I have something here.  I have an outline in my head.  And I even . . .

I have a map starting.

Oh, yeah.  It’s that sort of days.

It would be a lot better day if work wasn’t making me do things–

Mindmelding Elements

Made it through a good day yesterday, one of the better I’ve had in a while, and today–well, that’s another story.  I’ll get through all the “The Forth Be With You” crap and probably remind more than a few people that my 4^th of May involved hearing about four college students being shot to death.  Yeah, Yoda can bite my ass.

Where to go now, dear Cassidy?  How is your new project coming along?  Glad you asked–

Yesterday also dealt with the upcoming story, because I was talking a few ideas to some people, and though I’ve joked about how I’m going to just “write smut” so I can make a quick buck or two, I still want this to be a good story.  I can’t help it:  even my erotica has to be about more than just fucking.  I’m strange that way.

For example, when I’m talking about the cabin where my story will take place, I bring up a cabin.  What does my cabin look like?  Gander to the right, if you will . . .  I was speaking with Annie (yes, she was around!) and we discussed how sometimes you have to see something in order to describe it.  I’ll admit, I never used to be that way, but when it comes to buildings and apartments and the like, there are times when I need to know how everything is laid out.

I created the interior using Sweet Home 3D, which is a fantastic open source modeling program (check them out, download, and drop them a few bucks for the effort).  I only needed a few simple templates to show me how everything is suppose to look, and with the split screen I can design and get a 3D look at everything in real time.  (One of the great things I liked was as I moved objects onto the design screen, I’d see them moving around in the 3D screen, and if I adjusted then in modeling, they’d adjust in 3D.  It’s like moving furniture in your house, only you’re doing it on a computer with a lot less back strain.)

So now I have a good idea what things sort of look like, so when the action gets hot and heavy, and I need to knock things over because of way too much Sexy happening, I’ll know where the knockage occurs, and how it’s going to break.

It’s not only the look of the story I want right, but I started wondering, late last night, if my mental flow is going the right direction.  So I brought up FreeMind and began mapping out my ideas into something logical.  This is another open source program I use from time to time, when I need to “think” about how I want a scene–or, in this case, a story–to flow.  It’s another great tool if you feel yourself stuck on something and you want to shake your mind loose . . .

I have my thoughts and ideas collected here, as you can see.  I know how to read the flow of the picture to the right, and there are arrows to show me where I need to go from one set of ideas to another.  I’m not finished laying it out all–after all, I was working on this until about eleven-thirty last night, and the eyes were starting to burn a little–but I’ll have it all worked out and into Scrivener by this afternoon.

There was a point last night when two questions came to mind:  one, am I spending way too much time developing a story that’s suppose to be a short (for me), quick, tale of fantasy screwing?  Finally, two:  is there enough hot sex going down?  I mean, yeah, I do erotica, but I also write about characters, and knowing why you wanna get laid is just as important to me as getting there.

Ah, well, perhaps I’m over-thinking this story.  Then again, it is my story–

I can do that if I want to, you know.

Blessed Be the Cabin

Blessed Beltane, Happy May Day, Good International Workers Day . . . whatever is getting you in the right frame of mind today, I’m there with you.  At least I’m trying; I spent the better part of a couple of hours writing code with the payoff of getting two items to come out in the correct order on a report.  Can I get a “yay”?  Yay . . .

The 1^st of May is the traditional beginning of summer, regardless what they might say in America, where we make our own holidays to keep from making the Commies happy.  It’s a time of change, a time of transitions, a time to make a new start.  It’s a good time to go around and leave goodies for your friends and neighbors, though I’m tired of the kids around me playing in the street and looking at you like you’re some kind of idiot when they decide they won’t get out of your way.  So no goodies for you . . .

Here I am, however, at the start of summer, and I’ve no project ongoing.  My novel is being reviewed, and the final edit awaits.  I likely won’t see it back in my inbox for at least a week, so I’m in the process of cooling my heels on the writing front.

But I can’t.

Last night I sat around and wondered about what I was going to do.  I pulled up the idea file and started puttering about, thinking about the things before me.  I looked at the story I want to do for Camp NaNo July, my little erotic fantasy that will take its place among the Smashwords elite.  I looked at it and thought, “What can I do?”  And the answer was, “Build a cabin.”

It’s like this:  the story takes place in the middle of nowhere, with three writer friends deciding a great way to spend Camp NaNo July is to go out and actually rent a cabin, and spend the weekend writing.  At some point during this endeavor, something magical happens–literally–and the writing degenerates into . . . well, I know what happens, you’ll have to buy the story once it’s published.

I found an open source floor plan designer and started in on my house, because if there’s one thing my precious Annie taught me, it’s that you sometimes need to see a design before you can imagine the stories there.  I designed the cabin, put in doors and windows, added a kitchen, put in the furniture, added the sofas and the beds–

The scene is built.  Now what?

Now I write, that’s what.

I have that bug where when I get these ideas I have to act upon them.  With nothing to do right now I feel a bit lost, and not in an Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 way.  I feel like I should do something, because when I’m home at night I feel like I’m without purpose.

I feel I should write, because that’s what writers do.

So the hell with Camp NaNo July, I gotta write this sucker now.  I’ll get my thoughts together, give my characters names, determine my locations, and crank out the story.  Oh, and I need a sexy writer’s name, ’cause I’m thinking it might not be a good idea to put this out under my name.

Then again, why not?  This story could be like a milkshake–

It could bring the fans to my front yard.

 

The Sofa By the Hearth

With everything that’s happened this week, I can at least say that writing continues, and another chapter bit the dust last night.  After four hundred and twenty additional words, Chapter Thirteen of Suggestive Amusements came to an end, and was put to bed with a glass of warm milk and a biscuit to keep its tummy filled.  It was time to stop The Tale of Izzy and Elektra, and time to start on The Continuing Adventures of Keith and Elektra, and see if Keith is going to freak over what comes next.

What am I saying?  Sure, I know what he’ll do.  You just have to wait.

As I was heading off to bed last night, I looked outside to check the weather, because this week has seen the weather get very strange.  It’s been a little warm, then cold, then rainy, then snowy, then . . . well, the drive into Chicago was a bit like ice skating off and on this morning, so go figure.  But the weather made me think of times gone back, of stories from the past . . .

Of Annie and Kerry.

Yesterday I though of their story quite a bit for some reason.  Maybe it was the weather and the cold and snow I’ve seen the last week.  Maybe it’s the idea that they could end up in the same universe as Her Demonic Majesty, and with the rejection of that story, I thought of two of my favorite characters . . .

Maybe I just miss the hell out of them.

The thing with role playing character, rather than just write about them, is that you throw your emotions more fully into them that you might a literary character.  You crate the mindset that you’re occupying the character, and that some of what is in you goes into them.  That happened with both Kerry and Annie; we fell into those characters to the extent that they became an extension of me and my role playing partner, and the more we played, the more we understood who are characters were, and what they wanted–besides each other, that is.

There was an interesting thought I’d had with them once.  At their school, Salem, they had something called “The Midnight Madness” every Friday and Saturday evenings.  It was a chance for the student to get in their pajamas, head over to the Great Hall at nine-thirty PM, and hang out and chat until midnight and a little beyond.  I saw it as something that an old institution would do to lighten up the rules and make the kids feel as if they are at home, when home may be a thousand or more miles away.

One of the things I imagined for Kerry and Annie is that, for some reason, the sofa they pick to camp out on during the first Midnight Madness sort of becomes “their” sofa.  It’s up towards the front of the hall, close to the majestic hearth, and no matter what time they showed, or how many people were in the hall, their sofa was always there, waiting for them to arrive.

Why did I do that?  I think I was trying to show a connection between them and the school, that their presence there was something important to . . . who knows?  The spirit that watched over the place is the best bet, but I’ll only know for sure if and when I ever write their story.  The idea that they will always have their little home away from home intrigues me, though, and also haunts me–

Oh, you don’t know what I mean?

Just ask Jeannette.  She knows.

The Snows of Saint James

Getting on late Friday night as I write this, because I’m judging a grade school science fair early Saturday morning, the third in as many years.  If there’s one thing I like to do, it go out and encourage young people to do something different, and if that means getting into science, then so be it.  At the same time, my daughter will participate in our regional Science Olympiad, so I hope I’m doing something good.

Tonight was night a writing night.  Still coughing like made, and after putting a few hundred records into a data base today, I felt pretty brain dead.  After I return from my science fair I’ll get my writing in, then maybe write a little more tomorrow night.  I know I can get three thousand words in this weekend, not a problem, and that should get me set up around forty-seven thousand words before I call it a Sunday night and head for bed.

I’m already thinking about what’s coming next, which is a bit of a fantasy thing:  not fantasy as in “I have a muse looking over my shoulder as I write,” more like, “Oh, I didn’t know you were into wearing PVC school girl uniforms.”  Something strange is happening, and I’m just the person to bring it, because if there is one thing I know, it’s strange.

Like the dream I had last night–oh, did you see what I did there?  I know you did.

I was talking to someone tonight about it, because it was a dream that really comes out of an idea I had for my character Kerry, he of the young child learning magic at a school in the middle of Maine.  He and his bestest flying buddy, Emma, are on a three-day survival flight that they undertake during their third year of Flight School, and since Emma and he are so damn good at what they do, the instructor gave them the hardest flight of all:  fourteen hundred miles from a point near Churchill, Manitoba, back to the school.  All of this happening in the middle of January, so you know it’s a party.

One of the main events that happens, however, is that as they are coming into Ontario–after making a mad dash across James Bay–they run head-on into a brutal blizzard.  Instead of flying for a few hours after sundown while navigating by the star, they are forced down in the forest south of the Eastman River, where they have to set up camp and get inside before they freeze.

In my idea for at story they spend the night in zipped-together sleeping bags, huddled for warmth, because their heater is very low on fuel.  During the night, close as their are, Kerry is asked if he’s scared.  He admits he is, because at thirteen, he’d never had to deal with conditions like this.  Emma says she’s worried, too, and wonders if they’ll make it back.  Kerry tells her not to worry; they’re going to get back to the school come tomorrow, if for no other reason, as Kerry says, “Annie’s waiting for me, and she’ll be upset if I don’t come home.”

My dream was inside the tent, late at night, with the wind hollowing outside, and the cold all around the two kids.  Emma asks Kerry if he’s worried, only I’m the only saying yeah, but don’t worry, we’re getting home tomorrow, and I’m going to see Annie.  Only when Emma looks up at me, it’s not her, it’s Annie, and she tells me she’s not worried–

Which is the point when I realize it’s not really Annie, but someone else I know.  Someone who tells me, “If anything were to happen, I’m right where I want to be–here with you.  But we’ll get home, because I need you back where you belong.”

Fade to black as the wind dies out in the darkness . . .

I haven’t had a dream like that in a while.  For a long time I was having some extremely vivid dreams, but my time at The Undisclosed Location put a serious kibosh on that for some reason.  I’ve been home a few months now, and it seems like the dreams are returning, they are starting to grow strong once more, and they’re telling me something.  Maybe something good, something bad, or something I haven’t heard in a while.  (I’m trying not to hear that in Phil Collin’s voice–I believe I succeeded.)

My story of the Polar Express was one that keep me intrigued for some time, because it not only helped my character grow, but it gave me a chance to grow as well, and not just as a writer.  I learned something while imagining all those things happening, all the way back in December of 2011.  I’ve kept it close to my heart the whole time since, even when I was sinking into one of my darkest times last summer.

It’s still with me.  Maybe I’ll even see it tonight, when the wind picks up and the snow begins to fall.

And once more I hear Annie call my name, and she tells me the thing she tells me every day.

The Torture Muse

Last year, this was a time of wonder for me.

I’d finished the story that would become Kuntilanak (still for sale, still good, still a good slice of horror from across the seas), and was in the process of doing the first edit on it before giving it to the public via the self-publishing route–and learning a hell of a lot of things about self publishing alone the way.  I was working on another story that would eventually become Captivate And Control (also for sale, if you like a neat little slice of adults having a bit of a go with each other, say what?), and would finish that up in the months of September and October.

I was spending time reading, role playing online with sweet Annie, talking about ideas we had about gaming and our characters, and where they were headed.

To paraphrase a line from Goodfellas, it was a glorious time to be an up and coming writer who has the world ahead of them.

A year later, I’m a lot wiser, a little better with my writing, and a whole bunch of more tired.

I am getting more sleep these days, and I’m dealing with my personal issues a great deal better.  The panic I felt the last few months has pretty much gone away, and I’m discovering a better balance throughout each day.  Still not happy with the job, and I do wish The Undisclosed Location would just up and piss away for good.  That’s not happening yet, and it may not happen any time in the near future, so right now it’s deal, deal, deal.

As for the writing . . .

It seems as if the moment I finish one story, and decide to step back so I could recharge my mind, spirit, and need to do something creative, I get hit with ideas.  I have an idea for my NaNoWriMo 2012 novel.  I have ideas for a new novel based on a character design I did for a writing class two years ago.  I have an idea for a Halloween story a friend suggested I write. And I’m getting hit with images of an old story I started some twenty years ago, a trilogy about a ship, a mission, and a group of people who have to made a very hard decision about their duty . . .

I won’t lie:  I struggled writing Diners at the Memory’s End.  It was hard.  It was hard trying to write while feeling as if you were going to fall asleep at any moment.  It was hard writing with tension and anxiety from the moment I got up to the moment I finally crawled off to bed.  It was hard writing when the words were in my mind, but my fingers just wouldn’t work the way I needed.

The story took a long time to write because I couldn’t write.  It was shear will that allowed me to finish the story.

Now that it’s out of the way, is my Muse now saying, “You’ve cleared out all the crap while doing that last sucker, but lookie here, dude, I got somethin’ sweet for ya . . .”  It’s strange that I was so totally blocked up with a story that I wanted to do, and now that it’s out of the way–everything is dumping on me creatively-wise.

I swear, my Muse is one jacked up creature.  She whispers that I need to do things, that I need to write even when my heart isn’t in it, because . . . who the hell knows?

If I didn’t love her so much, I’d kick her ass outta my head.

Fly Me Away

I was flying with Annie last night.

After a long week–after a long day–I finally was able to crawl off to bed and get some sleep.  Seriously, I think I was barely able to get comfortable before I was sound asleep.  Because, up to that point, I was running on empty.

Didn’t keep me from working, however.  While it was slow coming out, and my head really wasn’t in it, I churned out another 625 words for the current part of Diners at the Memory’s End.  I liked what I was writing, actually, because it was sort of a affirmation from my other major character, Albert, about why he was feeling like a total shit.  Yes, he got conjugal with his study partner, Meredith, and while it might have felt good at the time, right now he’s feeling a lot of stress over what happened.  He’s never been in this sort of situation before, having a steady relationship and ending up sleeping with someone else, and it’s twisting his mind around, and not in good ways.

It doesn’t help that when your girlfriend, lover, and companion actually arrives by floating up the sided of forty meter high tower, and hovering off the side just so she can scare the shit out of you–yeah, you’re a little out of your class already.

If not for the fact that I was falling asleep while I was writing, I might have actually hit a thousand words last night.  That used to be the norm, but these days it seems the exception to the rule.  I’m going to fix that, trust me.  I probably need to stop chatting it up at the Mean Girls Table, trading our lunchroom advice to each other as we scope out all the other writers were ready to hate.  Like, you split an infinitive; you are like soooooo lame.

So then it was off to bed, and to my dreams.

I haven’t remembered much of my dreams these days, but last night I was back in vivid dreaming land.  Something about creatures growing, and people telling me where I could go and what I could do–yeah, I get that.  I’ve been going through that a lot of late.

That part I only partially remember.  Because there was a point where Annie showed up, and she flew me away.

I haven’t dreamt of Annie in a long time.  Which is a shame, because I used to love seeing her in my dreams.  She’s always been someone special to me.  After all the frustration I had trying to bring her story to fruition–and to bring it out correctly–she vanished from my mind.

But I was thinking of Kerry the other night, and here, suddenly, Annie shows up, broom in hand, and handed me mine, and tells me, “Let go while the light is good.”  And my younger self–because I am young, maybe thirteen–I straddle my broom and follow her off into the sky.

There was a part where some hicks were pointing at and making fun of us, but that was a minor part.  The rest of the time it was Annie and I, in our flying clothes, zipping through the sky at 80 mph.  We were chatting, but I couldn’t tell you what we were saying, because there was nothing but blue and sun and light clouds around us.  Every so often she’d turn to me, and smile, and something I felt a long time ago returned, something I haven’t felt in a while, and something that I’ve needed for a while.

If only for a little while, it was good the share the sky with someone close.

For when you do, you know they are never far away.

We Said Goodbye Hello

Last night was one of my rare nights out.  As in, I actually get out of the house for some conversation and pizza.  The last time was a month ago, and what with everything that’s went on in my life of late, it felt like a good time to get out and relax.

But I didn’t relax.  I was tired most of the night.  At one point I almost fell asleep watching TV.  The pizza didn’t have flavor.  And when I drove home, my mind was in neutral.  It was one of those cool, cloudy evenings that I usually love, but the drive home was . . . well, there wasn’t any traffic, which was the high point of the trip.

Everything seemed a note or two off.  Hell, I couldn’t even get a good scene up in my mind.

Not that I didn’t try.  I went back to that well I call, “Twenty Years of Stories You Want to Tell, Man!” and latched onto one that, believe it or not, I actually wrote and completed back in 1990.  ”And how did that happen?” I hear someone asking?

Glad you asked.  I wrote it for four women in my office.  No, really.  It came about because of a lunch where I was out with these same ladies, and I was talking about writing, and it was sorta like, “Hey, Ray, when are you going to, you know, show us some of this mythical writing you do?”  Not being one to have four women throw the gauntlet back in my face, I sat down and cranked out a very long story (do I write any other kind?) titled, Dinners at the Memory’s End.

At the time I thought it was good.  It still is, but I thought of it a lot last night, because there are certain things in the story that is pretty doggy.  There’s no other way to put it, because there are aspects of the story, as it was written 22 years ago, that wouldn’t work today.  No how, no way.

So were I to write this story today, I would change it in some significant ways.  Notice the “were” part there.  Of course, if I’m thinking about writing this story, it’s because I’m interested in writing this story.  Or rewriting it, as the case may be.  And it would be a major rewrite, but it would also bring back a story that, for me, was something of a favorite.  And not just because I got to show off like some beat poet trying to get laid.  It’s a favorite because it was the first novella I wrote, and completed.

And it was good.

I’m learning that a good writer knows what to write, what to rewrite, and what not to get into.  One of the reasons I was a bit off last night–perhaps a bit off for a while, come to thinking of it–has to do with the idea of writing a YA story about two of my favorite young characters, Annie and Kerry.  I saw “Annie” yesterday, and told her my idea for the prologue to the novel.  And she loved it.  She thought it was great–

Then . . . I realized I couldn’t write this story.  Not yet.  Not now.

Part of the truth is that I don’t really have it in me, at the moment, to make this a real story.  I’ve the idea, and the idea is good, but that’s all it is.  I can run with ideas, because I’ve done that before.  Stories are ideas, and you put them in the car with you, hit the gas, and head towards your destination with a basket full of tunes and some tasty beverages to pass the time.

There’s something else here, however.  That something is Annie.

Annie is a character, but she’s also a person, someone I’ve known for a while.  And I know her investment in that character.  Yes, she’s told me, “Take the character, make her your own, and let the story fly, you creative little scribbler, you!”  I would, you know.  I totally would.

But I love the character too much.

It’s a awesome responsibility to take something created by another person and do with it as one likes.  Happens in comic books all the time.  I mean, is the same person who created Wonder Woman still penning her stories?  No.  One, he’s dead.  Two, if he were, we’d still have Wonder Woman running around playing bondage games with the other Amazon ladies.  Instead, we totally find out the Amazons got no use for their baby boys, and pretty much sell them off into slavery, misery, and death.  Shit happens, you know?

That’s what happens when you have others playing with your characters; they can end up doing very strange things, or acting in ways that don’t seem right.  With Annie, I want to get her right.  I don’t want her to be a shadow, or a shade, or act in a strange way.  The only way to do that right is to have the Real Annie work with me on the Character Annie.

At the moment, that’s not possible.

So there is no telling of this particular story, at least not now.  Maybe not for a while.  Maybe not ever.  I’ll write the prologue, because it needs writing, but for now . . . no, I won’t go there.  Because every time I think about making that move, I get this thing in the corner of my eye, and it bothers me.

I care for Annie, a lot.  To use a Jack O’Neill (with two “l’s”; the guy with one “l” has no sense of humor) comment, “I care for her a lot more than I should.”  Because I do, I can’t run off with her character.  I have to be careful.  I have to be honest.  I have to be loving.  Until I’m ready for all that, I can’t write the story that will, eventually, be written.

Every story comes in its time.  Annie’s will come–

When it does, it’ll be beautiful.  Just like her.

I own it to Annie.

Caution: Wild-Eyed Dreamer Ahead

Writing:  what’s it about, who did I look up to when I started, and, most importantly, why am I doing it?  This is all very easy to explain.  See, it all started . . . What?  You think you’re getting the wisdom of the pharaohs here? Not a chance, pal.

Hang on, you’re probably going to get something a lot crazier.

I “got into” writing more than a few times.  The first time was high school.  I know it was around 10th Grade–1972, to keep the dates straight–when I started writing my first story.  I had a lot of grand ideas, but the one that remains with me is and idea I came up with was about a co-ed pom-pom squad (yeah, before they became dance teams), that was allowed to protect themselves with high powered weapons from bullying.  As you can see, I was well ahead of my time, as I was either predicting the future of anime, or Colorado in 2012.

The story never went anywhere for many reasons.  One, I couldn’t type, so I had to write longhand.  Two, I can’t spell due to mild dyslexia.  Three, anyone who found out I was trying to “write” went out of my way to tell me I was nuts–and in my school none of the girls wanted to hang with a geeky looking guy, no matter how sensitive he might have appeared.

So, strike one in the game of calling myself a writer.

Now, a lot of my push to want to write came from reading.  When I was a kid a read a lot; by the time I was coming up with the idea that I wanted to tell tales, I owned about 350 books, and had read another 500 or so from the local library.  Most of what I read was science fiction, and so a lot of my mind was geared in that direction.  My biggest geek crush at that time was Arthur C. Clarke, who, as I’ve pointed out elsewhere, was the first adult writer whose novels I read.  By 1973 I had read all his work, many times over.  I love his ideas, and loved his style.

Clarke wasn’t the only writer I enjoyed.  There was Asimov, Heinlein, Spinrad, Le Guin, Dick, Simak, Niven, McCaffrey, Bester . . . I bought and read them all.  But one of the things that triggered my writing at that point was discovering two anthology collections:  Dangerous Visions, and Again, Dangerous Visions.

That was when I discovered Harlan Ellison.  And I knew what it really meant to be a writer.

His stuff was imaginative; it was gritty; it was real and fantasy.  There was also a lot of swearing and sex, but hey:  happens, right?  What his work did was open my mind and truly blow me away.  That’s what I wanted to be; that’s what I was going to be.

Just as soon as I could write . . .

I kept reading, but writing stayed on the back burner.  Stayed there until about 1987, or so.  Now, let me preface this part by saying I can be pretty hypercritical of entertainment–usually of the TV and movie variety.  So when I was ranting to my wife and stepson and son about something we had seen on TV, and how piss poor it was, and so forth and so on . . . I was just being me.  As always, I turned what I thought was a cultured eye towards something I’d see . . . and I do remember, at that moment in time, calling Stephen Spielberg a fucking hack.

And my then wife said something like, “Why don’t you try to write something that’s better?”

Boom!  Back into writing I got.

I signed up for one of those adult education classes:  creative writing.  I went at night.  I wrote.  I turned into my stories.  I freaked my instructor out–  Um, let me explain this one:

For our first assignment, she wanted us to put together something “short”.  Quick story, couple of characters, nothing fancy.  Everyone did just that.  They wrote their stories, edited them, and turned them in.  All around 500 to 750 words, maybe 4 pages max depending on spacing.

My story was 6,300 words.

She took the story, and at the next session was really at a lost for words.  So were 3 or 4 other people in the class.  Afterwards I was ask if I wanted to join her writer’s group, and I accepted.

I began getting a feeling for being around others who wrote.  I also, for the first time, encountered that rare breed of writer who hasn’t published, but you better not criticize their work, ’cause you have no idea what you’re talking about!  Yeah, had more than a few confrontations with a guy who was writing a science fiction novel that was, to put it bluntly, deadly boring and full of logic holes.  After a couple of weeks of hearing him going on about his story–really a novel–I started pointing out some things I thought he needed to address.  He told me I was wrong.  I told him I didn’t think so.  He told me I didn’t understand science fiction.  I rattled off the titles of about 20 novels I owned, then asked him he wanted me to stop, ’cause I could kept going for another 30 minutes if he liked.  He left the room, never came back.

Oops.  Happens.

I started writing again.  I tried a couple of short stories in the horror genre, and my then-wife liked them.  But I found myself getting constrained by the format, and suddenly decided I wanted to write a novel.  I took the three characters I created in my short story, added a forth, and started writing my great science fiction novel.

After a few months and about one hundred and fifty thousand words later, I was lost.  I really was.  I tried writing other stories–stuff that took place in an role playing game universe I knew inside out, stories that, these days, would be called “fan fiction”.

This went on for many years.  And then I stopped.  Why?  There were a number of reasons.  One, my writer’s group finally broke up.  Two, my wife told me I was wasting my time, and that the only good thing I’d ever written was the first horror story I’d completed after I’d finished my writing class.  Three, I got divorced, and depression pretty much killed me.

Strike two, and the count is looking grim.

Tried editing my novel in the late 90′s, with little success.  Tried editing it again in the middle 2000′s, but still: there wasn’t any feeling to work on it there.  However . . . I did discover various forms of fanfic on the Internet, and it made me thinks, “Whoa, this stuff is crap!  I can do better than this.”  So I started writing fetish fiction part time.  It wasn’t paying any bills, but it saw me writing, even if I didn’t publish any of this stuff under my name.

It also got me back into working on my novel again, and this time I even added close to one hundred thousand words.  It still wasn’t finished, but I didn’t feel totally lost.  I did, however, feel–bored.  There was little feedback; no one to come around and say, “Hey, you’re doin’ great!”  And, to be honest, I wasn’t happy with the sort of fiction I was writing.  I mean, I was creating erotica for the lowest common denominators, and it felt very limiting.

It wasn’t quiet strike three, but it was close to it.

And then I was laid off from work, and looking for another job became my work.  And it was like that through what was left of 2008, and all of 2009, and all of 2010–

It was in the last quarter of 2010 that I wanted to do something once more.  That “something” was writing.  I enrolled in an online writing course.  I got acquainted with the instructor.  I became acquainted with some of the people in the class.  It was fun to be writing again, to sorta semi be creating.  See, I wasn’t doing a lot of writing, but I was picking up tips here and there, and that was helping me.  I’d been away from The Great Writing Game for so long that I thought anything relating to the gig was gonna help me.

Problem was, when it was all over, I still wasn’t writing.  I mean, I was talking about it, and taking some more classes, but I wasn’t writing.

That doesn’t mean I wasn’t spending time talking about it.  Oh, yeah, there were a few people from this online writer’s class that I kept in contact with, and we talked writing, and we discussed what we were going to do, and even a few showed their latest scribbling.  But I wasn’t doing . . . anything.

So just about time for strike three to blow across the plate, which probably would have happened, because I was online, chatting about writing, but not actually doing any, and I was about to go do something else when this message popped up on Facebook–  Let me see if I can remember what is said . . . oh, yeah:

“Ray–RAY!  I need you to come play with me, Ray!  Will you?  Will you come Play with Me?  Please?  I so want you to come Play With ME!  RAYYYYYYY!!!”

That was Annie, coming on a bit like Fluttershy after being fed large quantities of meth.

Annie got me into an online role play.  I started writing there.  We talked about writing.  We got kicked out of that role play and started another.  We talked more about writing.

Then something else came up; I received an email in June about doing a ghost story for a website–something they could publish for Halloween.  I thought, “Why not?” and got the idea of doing the story about a ghost from another country–one that doesn’t have Americans in it, so no guns that won’t work, and no nubile blonds getting naked and showering when they’re about to die.

I wrote that story.  I met Trusty Editor^tm, who helped me make changes where needed.  I wrote.  I finished the story.  I self-published it when the website said, “24,000 words?  Are you nuts?”  That story is Kuntilanak, and it’s sold all of 6 copies.  But it sold, and it’s mine.

Then came NaNoWriMo, and Her Demonic Majesty, a full novel, and a little something that I sold to an erotica press that will be published in May, and Echoes, and Couples Dance . . . and finally . . .

I finished my first novel.  Transporting.  300,000 words.  It’s done, finished, and will be edited.

And published.

What about strike three, you may ask.  It’ll never happen.  I’m writing now.  I may not always feel like it, but I am.  I don’t get all sorts of support, but I don’t need it, ’cause one or two people are about all you need.

I will say this:

You want to write, the person who is going to hurt you the most is you.  You will do the most to stomp on your imagination; you will do the most to kill your dream.

You gotta make yourself understand, this isn’t always going to be fun to do.  It’s a job, and like any other job, it can get to you.  And it’s a job that, most of the time, you have to face alone.

But the end result . . . yeah, you make magic.  Or shoot someone in the knee–either can happen.

You got that pitch coming your way.  You gonna take strike three?

Or you gonna knock that sucker out of the park?

Sleepytime Theater

This must be come kind of record for me.  Since Friday night I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep every night.  Not only that, but I was in bed pretty early both Friday and Saturday nights.

Something is telling me something.

Ever since starting the “real” job in January, I’ve been running about like a madman.  During the week I’m up at any time between 4:30 and 5:20 in the morning, and I get on and write my entry for the day.  (For the record, it’s 5:46 AM right now.)  Then I get ready for work, go to work, “work”–yeah, I know how that sounds–come home, eat, chat, write . . . and before you know it, it’s 11:00 PM and I’m ready for bed.

When you throw in a two and a half to three hour drive every Friday and Sunday afternoons, then you are setting up for some serious tiredness.

Even though I still got work in on the new chapter in Couples Dance, it felt like  struggle.  Last night it took two hours to get 1150 words down.  It might have had something to do with not really knowing what to write, and I was sort of skipping along the path of, “Oh, look!  This happens,” as I was writing.  A lot of times I usually have some idea of what I’m going to write before I write it, though . . . well, that’s not always the case.  It could be my mind playing tricks on me.

My friend, Katherine Gilraine, herself a published writer and blogger, yesterday wrote a post on the pricing of ebooks.  While it is a great post–Katherine is a great writer–it makes a very good point about how insane the pricing of ebooks can be, she makes a very good point about those of us who decided we wanted to be able to write “Writer” on our 1040′s at the end of the year (I’ll have to check if the IRS will allow, “Semi-crazy Penmonkey” as a legitimate profession), she points out something else that I have said as well:  writing is work.  It’s hard, baby, it’s hard.  Yeah, you might only spend a couple of hours at the computer (in my case) actually writing something down so that, after a period of time, you have something to toss to the masses, but you’re always, doing research, be it making notes, or looking up something on the internet, or every working on something in your head.

I did that yesterday.  During the drive to The Undisclosed Location, the traffic was very nice, and because it was nice I was able to keep the cruise control on nearly the whole time, and that meant I could let my mind wander just a bit.  And I talked out a scene that could, eventually, end up in my one-of-these-days story about Annie and Kerry.  I’ve been getting into Annie’s head, and this scene I worked out–yeah, I thought about it the entire drive.  Two-and-a-half hours.  Oh, and I was talking it out between the characters the whole time.

Yes, I’m strange.  I never said otherwise.

Actually, there were four of us in the car, because The Muse was along for the ride, giving me the eye, making sure I went in the right direction, and kept the conversation on the characters at hand.

There is some mental weariness going on, I know it.  I’ve been pushing myself pretty hard since last July, and there is a lot of work ahead.

But this is what I decided I wanted.  This is what I said I would do, and I’ve been doing it for almost a year.  And even after I get published–then what?  Kick it down to the Bahamas and sit on a beach for a while?  Not me, man.  Maybe go hiking in the mountains and give myself a heart attack, yeah–though I would love to do a week at The Stanley Hotel.  Redrum, bitches!

And what I’d do if I went to the Stanley for a week?  I’d work on ideas.  I’d work on stories.

I’d have my computer and I’d probably start writing.

In between the screaming, of course . . .

Joined At the Hips

I feel much better today; no aliens trying to bore their way out of me today.  Staying up late also helped, because I slipped between the sheets and got a solid . . . well, maybe four and a half hours of sleep, which is normal for me.  Anyway you look at it, I’m already ahead of the curve.

Last night was somewhat surrealistic.  I intended to do some editing, and I managed that very well.  Can’t say for sure how many words fell to me last night as I burned through Chapter 8 of Couples Dance, but it was over three thousand, and probably closer to four.  It’s not just adding words to get things nice and neat, but I’m back to rewriting things that need it–and there were a few places that needed it badly.

I know there are a lot of writers who, when they get into editing, they’re going, “Oh, man!  This is killing me!  I hate editing!”  I don’t very much dig it myself, but . . . I’m starting to enjoy it.  For one, I’m having to reread everything, and when I do I begin to see and feel the narrative.  This is where I’m learning how to tighten things up, or just rewrite the damn thing when it makes less than some sense.  Now, true, I haven’t gotten into anything truly huge yet and done that, but with Couples, it has a good length for one to go through, read it, edit, and not feel like you’re stuck waist deep in the Big Muddy the whole time.

I did not look for places to sell my story.  I know: bad writer.  I will.  I will start this week.  I will, I will, I will.  I do not wish to be mocked by people whom I consider friends, so I will get to it.

But . . . part of the reason I didn’t get to it last night is because I was talking with Annie.  She showed up, and we chatted.  She wasn’t online Sunday, so I gave her the link to my Sunday post, which spoke of her.  I was a little worried, because I was chatting about Annie in the post–both her and her lovely alter ego, and didn’t know how she’d react to my little scene with her character.  Like it?  Hate it?  What to disembowel me and leave me for fire ants to devour?

There wasn’t any need to work; she told me I put a big smile on her face, which is the same as saying I got the Annie Seal of Approval.

So we chatted.  We talked writing.  We talked characters.  There are the notes I have to give her for my new world, and I have to do that this week.  (This part should be easy; there aren’t a lot of them.)  We have to start working on new notes.  We already have one, are first real collaboration for this story, and I set it up in a secure spot for us to find.

I would appear to be, as they say, on.  Our collaboration, that is.  We’re not ready to beginning writing yet; as I told Annie I need to get into her character more, find that which makes her work so well, and make that a part of me.  Because one thing we both agreed upon, this is Annie and Kerry’s story, about how they grow together, both in their magical endeavors, and as individuals.  Therefore, both characters have to be real.

So we are back, Annie and Kerry, more or less joined at the hip once more.  But where is the problem in that?

After all, if I gotta be stuck with someone, who better than Annie to find myself stuck to?