Last Comic Standing

It was like trying to talk someone down from a ledge. Reasoning was a futile effort. This wasn’t a rational person that logic would impact. Then again, hadn’t reason and logic both died with the rest of them? They might have been limping along down the street with everyone else who had died in the first wave of the virus.

“You don’t have to do this,” Pete said it anyway. He knew he would ignore it, but he couldn’t not say it. When you're watching someone up on that ledge- even if you know why they’re up there, even if it makes sense- you don’t just stand there and watch them jump. After all, no matter what the reason, it’s still a long drop.

“No eulogy, ok? Repo man, failed stand-up comic. I never looked good on paper,” Stan smiled at him. “Or better yet- I’ll do the eulogy. I’ll yell it as I lead them down the alleyway.”

Pete smiled in spite of himself. How the hell was he going to get through without Stan’s humor? There were so many days where it was the only thing keeping him sane. And that thought made him frown again.

“Oh, come on- don’t give me that look. You and I both know that only one of us is getting out of here and it’d be a huge waste to make it me.” Stan said with a now serious look.

“That’s not true!” Pete said.

“Really?” Stan asked with an incredulous tone and cocked eyebrow.

He didn’t have long- there was no denying that. Beads of sweat were plastered to his forehead and the skin around the bite on his arm had turned grey. Anyone looking at him would have given him no more than a few hours.

“Still, you can- you can come back to the camp. Live out the rest of your life in peace.” Pete knew it wasn’t true as he said it, but he couldn’t help it. If faced with wading into a swarm of hungry walkers or waiting for the delirium of the fever to take him out he knew which he would have preferred. He felt like a coward for admitting it to himself.

“I appreciate it, I really do,” Stan said as he smiled up at his friend again. “But you gotta take a look at it from my perspective. My whole life I was never good for much. I never had a family like you did, never took care of nobody. Hell, I never helped a single damned person other than me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Pete said.

“Oh really?  You try spending seven years in a cubicle calling up guys to tell ‘em their car is about to be repo’ed.  You see how many people you help that way,” Stan argued.

Pete wanted to tell him that there was more to life than what you did to make money or who you lived with.  That he had affected people everyday just by getting up on stage again to try and make somebody laugh.  That he’d affected him by being his friend after the world ended.  But there was no point.  Stan had made up his mind from the second that walker clamped down on his arm.  Pete knew that.  But you don’t just watch your friend walk out into hell without at least giving an official protest.  Even it was just a formality.

“Look, I know you don’t get it.  I’m glad you don’t get it.  It ain’t much to say the best thing you ever did in your life was to give somebody the chance to make a life for themselves after the world ended.  But it’s all I got,” Stan said, more to himself than to Pete.

Pete took a breath and exhaled.  “Not quite,” he said, reaching into his pocket.  It was the last gift he had to give his friend and he felt bad for delaying it once he saw that look of relief on Stan’s face as he took it from him.  Stan ran his thumb into the pin of the grenade as if it felt like the greatest thing he’d ever held in his hand. 

“Don’t you need it?” Stan asked him.

“Not as much as you do. Once I’m out of here it’s a straight run to the docks and I can make it with all of them… preoccupied,” Pete said. He almost chocked on the last, admitting that what was going to save him was the walkers chasing after his friend.

“Why the hell you leave me flappin’ in the breeze like that?  Goddamn- now we got us a party!” Stan said, jumping up excitedly.  “Alright, enough chit-chat, let’s get this show on the road.  Now look, the second- I mean the second I open that gate you start countin’ and when you get to ten you run and you don’t stop running till you’re back on the boat, you get me?”

“Yeah, yeah- I got it.  Don’t wait to long too pull that pin, you understand?” Pete asked, grabbing his friend and looking him in the eyes.

“You kiddin me? I been eaten alive by the audience before. Now I finally got a chance to go out with a bang!” Stan laughed. “No way, dude. I’m gonna knock ‘em dead. Or, at least knock ‘em so they can’t get up again.” Stan grinned as he put a hand on the gate.

Pete smiled at his friend for the last time and said the only thing there was left to say: “Thanks.”

Soiled- Part 2

Friday Night

He’d laid out the room the way he knew she would like it- her pictures covered the wall behind him. Her favorite blanket cradled her still form and saved her from the cold hardwood floor beneath. He’d lit the incense she had out and the sweet smell of vanilla filled the room. And laid out around her were her favorite flowers- lilacs. Laying there with the flowers haloing her softly curling amber hair he felt like he could weep- she was already an angel.

He stole himself for the task in front of him now, clenching his stomach as he straddled her. He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be timid- she deserved better than that. No, he would hold her tight, he would leave her no doubt as to where she was headed, he would give her the farewell she deserved.

This was not the cruel, thoughtless dismissal of a gun shot where the departing leave without even seeing who pulled the trigger. This was an act of love. In some ways he loved her more than anyone in her life ever had or ever could because he took this task upon himself with honor and respect. No one else in her life loved her enough to save her from the misery awaiting her on her path. He tightened his knees on her hips and gently wrapped his hands around her throat, waiting for her to awaken.

At first she didn’t respond, didn’t move. So he began to squeeze. Just a tiny bit of pressure, securing his grip. It had taken practice to get used to holding so tight with gloves on but he’d perfected the art over time. Her skin was too perfect, he couldn’t risk contaminating it. As he began to squeeze he felt her pulse in her throat and saw her eyes quiver. A burst of excitement shot through him as her eyes shot open and focused on him in horror. She opened her mouth to scream and he watched in eager anticipation as he squeezed the noise down her throat.

She bucked beneath him trying to kick and reached up toward his face with hands made into claws. But his arms were too long and his grip to tight for her to reach and his weight on her thighs made it impossible to kick. But she bucked with a strength that far exceeded what he would have expected for someone of her slim build.

He stared into her eyes, at the light that still shined there. He knew he wasn’t too late, he knew she was still there. The little girl smiling in the earlier pictures still lurked inside of her and he looked at her through those wide, horrified eyes.

He tried to imagine where she could have gotten the strength she now displayed in those bucking hips. Had she played a sport when she was younger, before the evil of the materialistic world had kidnapped her into the lifestyle he was now snuffing out? Maybe little league, he thought. But no, she was too feminine for something so rough.

He looked down at her slim frame, her arms waving wildly before him, the line of her neck. Swimming? Ah yes, he thought. She must have been a swimmer. He imagined her thin body gliding through the water, her strong legs kicking off the wall and propelling her forward with ease, her arms stroking strongly. He connected with the imagine in his mind so strongly that he almost forgot she was dry, her arms pounding on his chest and the strength in her legs buoying his imagination.

But then her arms flailed less wildly and her hips started a more involuntary spasm as if she were losing control. He focused on that dimming light in her eyes and spoke softly to her.

“Ssshhhh- don’t fight it. It’ll all be over soon. All of this will be over and you’ll finally be able to rest, secure that your serenity remains intact,” he cooed. Her eyes widened for a second and a renewed force began hitting his chest. He knew he would have bruises and he would savor them for as long as his body showed the mark.

“Ssshhh, just let go, my angel. I’ve got you. You can let go now.”

Her arms fell lower and stilled as his steel grip remained and the strength in her legs gave out. He inhaled sharply and her body began to let out its last spasms, its last signs of strength.

“That’s it, that’s it- just let go. Let yourself fall and know that you will land safely…” He leaned over to stare into her eyes as the light began to fade. Her body stilled and he felt the heartbeat under his grip fade until he no longer feel it. And he watched as the spark in her- the life that had been everything she ever was and everything she ever could be, faded and went out. “I love you, my angel. Sleep now.” And with that he let go.

Her now lifeless eyes stared up at him, still wide, still dark. But now the light was gone and with her perfect features she looked more like a doll than a human being. He reached out a hand and closed her eyes. And he smiled as the tears of relief started to run down his face.

My New Toy OR What I Owe John (and many, many others...)

Ok, so I understand the pointlessness of existance.  So I understand that dreams don't come true.  So I see how things work out in the end.  I know what you're thinking: big freakin' deal, right?  Those of you smarter and more evoloved than I am (which is probably the bulk of you) already saw that, understood it, accepted it and moved on years before I even began to devlop the notion that maybe most of what I formed my worldview on was B.S.  "I was jaded when you were in diapers!" or some such.

You have a right to have whatever reaction you had to my last post.  It was hopeless.  Appologetically so, but still- hopeless in a way that I have not earned.  Afterall, if I judge life on less than the "big picture" I've got a pretty sweet deal going on.  Maybe not what I wanted, but as I already figured out: what I wanted was a fairytale, or possibly the matrix (in that I was taught to beleive in it and didn't know I was dreaming.  Except I don't know kung fu.)

A friend of mine who, in my opinion, at least, has more than earned the right to be a hell of a lot more hopeless and jaded than I am has made the choice, and i'm sure has to continue to make it on a daily basis, not to be.  Instead of waking up and going "I'm going to be a miserable bastard today!" like i've been doing, he wakes up every morning and says "I'm going to make someone laugh today!" or "I'm going to surprise someone with something awesome!" or even "I'm going to write something great today!"  Whatever it happens to be, he doesn't say "I'm going to be a miserable bastard!" even though he totally has that right.

Strangely enough, I thought that having that right made you less likely to be a miserable bastard.  Afterall, if you have to struggle to get out of bed or sit up at a desk aren't you going to be that much more grateful for it when you do?  Won't the simple things mean more because you can't take them for granted?  And since I do take them for granted, aren't I incapable of being grateful for them?

The obvious answer is no.  I am not immune to enjoying the "simple positives" which my friend lives for nor should I be because, as he pointed out, that may be all I get.  I may have nothing more to live for than the simple positives and if so, i'm no better or worse off than anyone else.

My problem, is that i've been looking at the big picture and losing track of right now.  Right now, I may indeed have a big box in front of me with a big shiny red bow on it and the toy that i've wanted more than anything wrapped up inside.  I may, if I so choose, squeel with delight upon pulling off that big red bow and seeing said toy.  I may play non-stop with said toy until I either break it or get bored with it (both inevitabilities).  And then, two days after Christmas when i've spent the last 48 hours playing non-stop with my awesome new toy I will leave it on the floor and my mother will put it in the salvaion army box to be donated.

That's my problem- I get stuck in the salvation army box.  The two-days-after-Christmas syndrome, if you will.  Instead of looking at how much joy, how much fun, how much sheer delight I get from that toy for two days I look at the time when the toy is old and boring and I need something new to be super excited about.
Like a kid who, the second after he gets bored of the toy, starts screaming about the next toy they want.  I've lost track of what I have to be grateful for.  I've let myself forget how many kids there are not getting a shiny new toy on Christmas.  I've let myself forget how many people never get a shiny new toy cause all their moms can afford is my leftovers from the salvation army.  Or, as is often the case, no toy at all.

But getting stuck there does me no good at all.  In addition to making me miserable it will alienate me from people who see how incredibly ungrateful i'm being, what a spoiled brat, so to speak.  After all, who the hell wants to hang out with a miserable bastard?  No one I know.  Everyone I know wants to hang out with the person who has the wisdom to see the world for what it is and be greatful for it.  To taste the vinegar and smile, as eastern philosophy will tell us to do.

And, as my friend pointed out, there may still be a possibility for us to "do something awesome beyond happiness and pain".  We are still young, after all.  But even if we don't, even if hapiness derived from simple positives and pain dervied from the inevitable shitty stuff is all we get, we still should make the choice to be happy.  Not just because that's all we have, but because if we're smart about living our lives that's all we need.

So, I am looking at the simple positives.  This morning I got myself a big cup of coffe and a chocolate chip muffin.  Financially speaking, I shouldn't have- it's all those little expenses that add up. Time-wise I shouldn't have- I was already running late for work.  And i'm sure there are several other reasons why I shouldn't have. But I did.  And the muffin was tasty and the coffe nice and steamy on a bitterly cold day.  And I may want it to be more than that.  I may focus on how getting coffee would be no big deal if I made more or how I wouldn't have been running late to work if i'd left earlier.  Then I could do what so i'm skilled at: blame myself and feel bad.  But again, what's the point?  If I don't want to be a miserable bastard then i'm doing the wrong damned thing.

So my challenge is to see the world as I see it and to be realistic enough not to expect my dreams to come true, and to be happy anyway.  Not in spite of it, but because of it.  Because i'm zen enough to know that this is all we have and it's enough.  Because i'm smart enough not to negatively judge my life for being less than extrodinary.  Because i'm considerate enough to know that my friends deserve better than a miserable bastard to hang out with.  Because "miserable bastard" dosn't go well with my pre-existing personality traits.  Whatever the reason, it's enough motivation to pull myself out of the salvation army box and play.

My Apologies

I have to apologize for this entry.  It isn't what you want to read.  It isn't what I want to read.  I want to read what happens next in my sick murder story.  I'd like to be able to write what happens next in my sick murder story.  I live on the delusion that someone, somewhere, might read it and enjoy it for some random reason I don't know or care.
But instead I'm siting here, alone in my room, feeling a billion different emotions that circle over and over in my mind like a whirlpool, sucking me down as I try to swim.  Every positive thought I have is pushed down by a handful of reminders that I've thought that before and it didn't work then so why would it work now?
This is the breakdown I referred to earlier.  The downfall and destruction of my previous belief system.  I find it pitiful that it's such a common story it's not even worth telling, except that it's happening to me so I can't help but repeat it.
It's the story of the dreamer who opens their eyes and becomes disillusioned.  The true believer who loses faith.  The excited, curious child finding out about what fake is.  The thing that happens to people when they become "adults"- something I always swore I would never become.
It's the realization- the factual, reality-based understanding that my life is never going to match the dreams I had as a child, a young adult, or an artistic college student.  That real life actually is that- and here's the killing judgment- bad.
I don't mean to paint it so bleakly.  I'm not seeing a one-sided world of never ending pain and damage- that I could reality check and talk myself out of.
No, this is worse.  This is the realization that a job is just a job- whatever pleasure you get from it you create, if you feel like you're fulfilling a dream it's because you're convincing yourself of that.  That a relationship is just a relationship and that happily ever after isn't a reality- it's a belief that we hold onto because it's too painful to realize the truth.  That relationships are lives- they begin, and they end.  There are no guarantees of happiness and there is nothing you can do to secure them from pain.
I asked recently why those around me still believed that their jobs, their marriages, their lives would work out the way they want them to.  I think I figured out why.  It's isn't that they're stupid, it isn't that they don't see what I see.  It's because seeing what I see is entirely too unpleasant to do on a daily basis and they need to believe in something- as fictitious as it may be- or they wouldn't be able to keep going as we all we have to.  Day in and day out life has to go on, so we do what we have to to make that happen.
I've been thinking for a while now that I could get over this whole breakdown if I could accept life for what it is without that judgment that it isn't good enough.  If I could look at things as they are and instead of constantly comparing them with the dreams I grew up with (which real life will never, ever match because they weren't real) and instead just say that whole "it is what it is" slogan and move on I could be happy again.  I could be the person who I thought was myself again.
My favorite movie (Garden State) which I think of often comes to mind.  One line in-particular:  "I know it hurts. That's life. If nothing else, It's life. It's real, and sometimes it fuckin' hurts, but it's sort of all we have."  That line always struck me as so wise, so profound.  Like "Yeah, I know it sucks.  But that's what it is."  No judgment, no disappointment, no soul-crushing letdown.  Just acceptance.
I have none of that tonight.  Tonight I look at my life and even with logic pointing out that I feel hopeless right now because of the 7 going on 8 month long (and so far fruitless) job search and the issues in my personal life I still can't escape one, painfully strong question: If this is all there is then what the hell's the point?
It sucks me down into the whirlpool and I can't seem to get my head above water.

Soiled

Friday Evening

It was 6pm and she was right on time.  He’d tracked the trains she took often enough to time her arrival home to the minute.  He watched her lock the door behind her and sigh.  She seemed tired.  More than the general end of the week tired that most people get.  No, she seemed drained.  Maybe it was already starting to get to her.

He held his breath as he watched her throw her keys down on the hall table and reach up to pull out the barrette holding up her hair.  It fell in long, curly waves splashing down over her ears and landing with a small bounce on her shoulders.  She reached up and tossed it, working out the firmness of the hair style.  She did so with such carelessness, as if she didn’t know how exquisite the mane was.

A tear came to his eye as he watched her in the hall mirror.  He couldn’t help it, she was breath taking.  For just a second he allowed himself to take her in, all of her.  No one in her life could appreciate her as much as he did in this moment.  No one could know how perfect she was- otherwise why would let her age and decay?  It was a heartless facade and he couldn’t stand it.  He watched as she tensed her back and readied himself.

She reached down to undue the clasp on her mary jane high heels and he was behind her before she could hear his foot step.  He clasped the cloth over her mouth and nose and held her to his body tightly, turning her so that her legs kicked forward into the hallway rather than hitting the table.  He couldn’t risk her bruising.  She let out a few high pitched whimpers and futilely grabbed at his arms but collapsed before she could exert any real strength.  He knelt down and slid her body down to the floor, cradling her in his arms like you would a lover.

It had taken him some time, like all worthwhile things do, to develop the ritual.  He took great pains to make each individual death its own unique masterpiece.  These were not the murders of callous, hardened criminals.  These were the sweet whispers of love laid upon the ear of those on their death beds.  There would be no violence, no gore, no cruel dismissal.  No, she would know that she was loved.

He laid her down on the floor of her living room, making sure that if she looked up at him she would see her wall of fame in the background.  He perused the wall as he laid her out and felt a sharp, almost nauseating pain in his stomach.  There before his eyes he could see the process.  The smaller pictures, from she was younger, displayed a bright-eyed happy girl. One who was thrilled to be praised and didn’t know of the danger surrounding her.  As the quality of the pictures increased he watched the bright look in her eyes fade.  Her smile grew less and less as she became taller.  The flash of the camera washed out the imperfections of her youth.  

He imagined the vultures standing behind the camera lenses, proudly turning her into a product to be consumed.  He felt the same rage he always felt as he watched young girls being turned into marketable enterprises and he clenched his fists.

The central picture was large and professionally framed with thick, heavy wood and an ebony finish.  It held a tall, stately figure.  One who showed all the early signs of the transformation.  The smile was still there, but barely.  Just a slight curl of the lips displaying an emotion she couldn’t hide.  The body was trim, sleek, perfect.  She did not yet have the drawn look of a starved model.  The skin was too pink and healthy to be that of a real model, but it had lost the glow it displayed in earlier pictures.   

But most heartbreaking were her eyes.  Blue diamonds that once sparkled with a joy and hunger for life now dimly reflected the light from the camera.  He looked down at the still form of the floor and wondered if he was too late to her save her.  He said a prayer to himself and swallowed the sob that threatened.  No, he would not to be too late.  He would bring her back from the precipice and deliver her into the glory of heaven.  He would not be too late.

Neti pot

Gourd fertilizer wasn’t nearly as cool of a job as it sounded. Like a lot of jobs it looked pretty good on paper, what with the new breeds he’d created and the studies on variation in genomes he’d gotten published. But the day-to-day actions were pretty damned repetitive. Once you’ve swabbed seed on the inside of a flower you’ve crossed the thin line between interesting and sanity-crushing repetitive.

The studies, the molecular dissections, the gene mapping- that occupied about 10% of his overall time. The real work- the stuff he technically got paid for- was the monotonous, mind-numbingly dull reproduction of fertilization. He concluded early on that if he were going to survive he’d have to think of something to do with his brain while his hands repeated their simple actions flower after flower.

He’d always been fond of the picnic game as a kid- going over the items one would bring while cycling through the alphabet. Except that in his variation he would set the picnic location in a very strange place and try to come up with the most ridiculous items one could possibly bring there, in alphabetical order. It seemed like a waste of brain power for a botanist of his standing at first but then, what else was he gonna do?

Today he’d decided the picnic would be in space. He started with the basics- ant farm, balloon, things of that nature. But he found himself struggling later on in the alphabet. He was stuck on N and getting quite agitated with himself when his friend interrupted him from his thoughts.

“Man, the pollen is killing me today,” Jed said, making a loud and terribly elephant-sounding blow into his tissue.

“Why don’t you take something?” Ken asked without really paying attention. A night-light? No, too stupid. Nestle cocoa? Too obvious…

“Nah, that stuff makes me all wonky and sleepy, can’t take it. I just need my Neti-pot and a cup of hot-“

“Neti pot! Thank you!” Ken interrupted him.

Jed raised an eyebrow and then knelt to start spreading seed. Having known Ken for a disturbingly long period of time he had learned it was best not to question his random exclamations.

Forgive Me for a Moment While I Wax Philosophical

I figured out last year, as part of my big break-down, that my life plan was not going to work out. I imagine this revelation has hit many people over the course of their lives so I don’t see myself as terribly special for having had it (especially because I’m reading a book about how it is the common life passage of everyone around my age).

The thing that surprises me is that I figured out that it isn’t simply my life plan that didn’t work out. It’s that life plans, in general, never work out. What’s that John Lennon line? “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”? I always loved that line. So profound, yet simple. (The most profound things usually are.)

I get that, truly, for the first time in my life. Whatever my job, wherever I live, whoever I try to secure relationships with- nothing is guaranteed. My health may vanish before I recognize how lucky I am to be healthy and able-bodied. My job might be taken away from me despite my best efforts and innate abilities. My house could (god forbid) burn down. My car could be stolen. The people I love could die, or just change into people I don’t love anymore. Nothing is guaranteed.

As I list off all these vital things that may vanish in a second’s time I may sound like someone who doesn’t really get it- how devastating it is if these things do happen. And I agree that of the list I’ve only experienced a few. But I’ve experienced enough to believe that last statement. And, amazingly enough, I think I’m beginning to actually accept it.

The whole job thing, for example. I used to think the whole 9 to 5 thing wasn’t a choice, it was a survival tactic. It was something you had to do. And yet, all around me are people who have made a living and continue to do so by working in areas I never thought of as real jobs and in areas that are as far removed from an office as you can get. Not to mention that me with my safe 9 to 5 got screwed over like everyone else, so I know that doesn’t actually work.

I’d like to say that, knowing all this, I have the bravery that comes from knowing you have nothing to lose. And yet, as I look for another job I find myself searching in offices, preferring schedules that resemble 9 to 5. Is it fear? Partially, I’m sure. Habit? Again, it must be partially that, too. But the main reason is that, even though I KNOW from experience that the whole 9 to 5 office life doesn’t work, I don’t KNOW what does.

And there’s the rub, as they say. You can do the leg work, collect the evidence to disprove your world view and your operating theories about how things work. But you can’t destroy an entire belief system without replacing it with something else. Once you wipe the hard drive you have to put on a new operating system in order to get anything done.

So that’s where I am- trying to find a new operating system. It’s scary, for sure. I don’t know what to believe. And because my previous OS crashed and burned so painfully I’m trepidatious when examining new beliefs, understandably so. I don’t want to fully buy into anything because I don’t want it to blow up in my face.

My fear, I think, makes perfect sense. You get burned, you handle with care next time. What doesn’t make sense to me, and what actually confuses me, is how everyone else around me is continuing on with their life plans as if nothing’s changed. Getting married, having kids, getting excited about new jobs… Despite my disillusionment the American Dream continues, unabated. Except that now as I watch those around me pursue theirs I don’t feel envy anymore. I just wonder when it’s gonna blow up in their face.

Perhaps this is just another phase in the process…

Big, Fun, and Scary 2011!

Hello all!

Well, i've had my month off after the challenge on WriMo and given my fingers a rest (outside of work and regular e-mail, at least).  I can't say the time off has brought any great revelations, but at least the prospect of returning to my novel and the blog isn't terribly overwhelming.

Speaking of WriMo, a few years back those at the office of letters and light decided to challenge NaNo participants  to challenge themselves with a list of big, fun and/or scary things they wanted to accomplish in the coming year.  Both as a way to re-energize after a month off and as a possible way to motivate those who needed it after such a month.  I myself am always wanting for motivation, at least when it comes to activities that don't involve playing silly video games whilst eating terrible junk food, and am taking that challenge myself.

So, without further ado I give you my own personal Big, Fun and Scary Adventure!

1)  211 IN 2011!!!  Yes, that's right- I hereby swear to write no less than 211 blog entries for the year!
I thought about going for the official blog a day challenge, especially given a friend's recent success with completing a picture a day for her blog.  But then I thought 'what if work sucks my soul out that day?' and 'what if i'm really sick and can't get out of bed?' and 'what if I just really, REALLY don't want to write that day?'  I'd like to say that no excuse is valid but i've let far less real reasons prevent me from getting on the keyboard in the past so I didn't want to set myself up for failure.  So, 211.  I will still have to write very frequently (at minimum 4 times a week and then some) but if I miss a day here and there I won't fail.  I figure it's a hell of a lot better than I've done thus far and it may prove to be a good warm up to daily bloging.  We'll see.
Oh, and for those of you interested in seeing more flash fiction I promise that MANY of those 211 days will be Fridays!

2)  I WILL GET A BETTER JOB!  This is far more important to me than to you but it affects all of us in that me getting out of my current soul sucking position could (and should) lead to a happier Bev.  A happier Bev may well be a more creative Bev.  A more creative Bev will most certainly be a writing Bev.  See?
Now, ideally, I will use my new "What Color is Your Parachute?" and whatnot books to find a new job in a new field.  But even if I just end up with something different as I figure it out, that's what i''m counting on.  Don't know where i'll end up, not making any guesses- just know that i'm getting out of my current shit hole and into something better.

3)  I WILL FINISH MY NOVEL.  That's right, you heard me: finish it!  I left Factin's Story collecting virtual dust on my hard drive despite the knowledge that there was far more of the story to be told.  I will not do that to this year's novel.  I will finish it.  No idea how long it will ultimately end up being, no idea how long the process will take, and no idea when I will begin the long and arduous process of revising the monster- BUT I WILL!  As it pertains to writing in general I will certainly discuss my progress from time to time and may even post excerpts.  I have no definitive plans so far as that goes.  I just know that I demand that I finish the story before NaNoWriMo 2011- and I will!

4)  I WILL TRAIN, TEST AND BE AWARDED 2nd DAN IN TUNG SOO DO!  For those of you who don't know me, I take karate.  I received my first Dan (first degree in layman's terms) in 2009 and will be testing for 2nd Dan in June of 2011.  2nd Dan, needless to say, will be that much harder than first Dan was.  Which means I must train that much harder to succeed.  This is my challenge to actually run, do the push ups, strengthen the muscles, perfect the breaks and generally prepare for the biggest physical challenge I've yet pursued.  I hereby promise that I will push myself.  And I will train.  And I will test.  And I will earn my 2nd Dan!

5)  I WILL GROW.  This probably sounds pretty vague and it is.  Without going into any details this year has been a source of seemingly never-ending challenges (not good ones like these) and it has left me operating at less than my best for quite some time.  I understand that the coming year will undoubtedly throw some more challenges my way.  Ones that, like those of this year, I don't expect, I don't want and don't know if I can handle.  I know that.  But my challenge is to not fight it but to accept the things I encounter as more challenges to face up to and surpass.  More opportunities to improve rather than tests of will.  More arenas where I can become a better person rather than slipping back into the same old negative habits.  I have nothing against messing up.  I have nothing against messing up BIG, even.  All I want is to mess up differently and better than I have in the past.  To use the new schemas I'm forming to navigate with a few less bumps and a tiny bit more grace.  I'm sure that sounds like a tall order and it is- but I'm not asking for perfection.  I'm simply asking for improvement.  I know what that is for me, and I will be the judge.  But growth.

Wish me luck!

(and keep reading...)

Across Another Finish Line

Thanks to several days of 4k plus and the endless chorus of "Go Bevy!  Go!" from dear friends I have hit 50k.  Unfortunately, I find myself in the same spot as last year where, in spite of having 'finished' my story is nowhere near done.

Last year, I challenged myself to keep going by signing up for NaNoFiMo with the idea of tacking another 30k words onto the 50k required by NaNo.  If you were reading my blog last year you know the end of the story: I didn't meet the goal.  (I got close, upwards of 70k, but not 80.)

I refuse to give up on this story when it still seems to have a lot of steam that could propel it forward in my mind.  But I also don't want to sign up for another challenge and then face the very real chance of failing again.  No, i'd like to actually enjoy my new years this time.

So, for those of you who still care, here is what I will tell you: I'm not going to stop writing.  I'm not going to put any goals for word count, page count or any other measures on it.  I'm just going to keep writing.  I will let you know how it goes, what discoveries I make, what i've found out about my story, whether or not it's building steam or dying out.  I won't promise to write everyday and when I do write I won't promise to work solely on the story.  (I admit i've missed the short little bursts of craziness that dominated October and i'd like to get back to that.)  But I will write.  And I wil keep you posted.

For those of you who have followed me on this journey, thank you.  For those of you with no interest whatsoever in NaNoWriMo I will quote an old favorite of mine: "And now for something completely different!"

Channeling my College

So, the key to bulking up the word count in this story has proven to be recounting a million memories from my undergraduate years.  I've gone into great detail discussing the physical campus, the menu, my very first roommate, and a variety of characteristics of characters which are based directly on my friends from college.
I'm not sure if this is a good idea since my main character already shares so many of my own personal characteristics and I know that randomly changing the names of people and places doesn't make it any less true to my past.
However, as I said, it's allowing me to write many, many words and since that is the number one goal of this project I am determined not to judge it too harshly.
It does make me wonder, however, if this is sort-of breaking the rules.  I don't know enough about fiction to know if most of it is based on fact.  I would imagine that a lot of it is but I always imagined that there was enough fantasy that you wouldn't ever doubt whether or not it was truly fiction.
In this story, my main character isn't totally me because I never did what she's doing and what is the main focus of the story's plot.  However, as I've said, she acts like me, thinks like me, talks like me, and has all of my old insecurities.  She's in my college.  (Even though I changed the name and set it in the Berkshire mountains rather than the Green ones it's still my college.)  She has many of my friends regardless of how I've changed their names or other facts about them.  And I even gave her my favorite stuffed animal.  (Granted, I didn't have Mooby in college, but still- it's him.)
So with so much of her being undeniably me it leaves me wondering if I'm crossing some sort-of line that smarter, more experienced writers don't cross because they know better than I do.
Any thoughts?

Booyah!

3000 words in two hours!  Yippee!  Although it's really just catching up because I was so woefully behind.  (Still a bit behind, but in MUCH better shape than I was.)  But still, i'm excited.  And I figured out a few more keys to writing for NaNo:
1)  Fantasy wins over reality, always.  Do not question your characters, do not judge them, do not wonder if this is something that would actually take place or not.  Just write, don't think.
2)  Let yourself reminisce a little.  Especially if you're writing about something real.  I just wrote three pages worth of description about my college because that's where my story is set.  I changed a few of the names to try to fictionalize things but for the most part it was a love letter to Bennington.  And you know what?  That totally works for this story.
3)  Visual descriptions help.  They may not move the plot forward in any useful way and they may not even enrich the depth of your writing style (no way to tell until I go back and read it and I'm NOT allowing myself to do that.)  But they build your word count A LOT.
4)  When all else fails, extend your dialog.  So your characters are needlessly verbose, who cares?  I have some ridiculously talkative friends in real life so it's not a huge stretch.
There are more lessons to be learned, I'm sure.  And  a hell of a lot more writing to do.  I HAVE to break five digits this weekend and then some if I want to have any chance of getting ahead of the game.  But if I can keep this up for a couple of more hours and then do a few hours tomorrow I'll be in good shape for that.  Always better to use the weekend when you don't have work and daily life crap to suck out all your energy.
Off I go!

The Pros and Cons of Me

I have, possibly mistakenly, begun a novel in which my main character is based on myself.  Of course she's not exactly me because the events that are taking place are entirely fictional.  But the thoughts, feelings and insecurities are largely mine and the environment in which it is all playing out is familiar due to it being a revamp of my alma mater. 
Part of me fears that this may be a huge mistake.  Last year when I was writing in the fantasy genre I had a lot more freedom to do whatever would fit with the story.  The kingdom in which everything was playing out was based only vaguely on preexisting ideas so if I wanted something particular to happen I could make it happen regardless of how ridiculous it might be.  (I.E. ignore the laws of physics, make up ridiculous laws or norms, change the physical appearance of anyone and anything to make it fit my story.)  The characters, although mostly humanoid, had inhuman abilities and used magic so that allowed for just about anything to happen.  And because I wasn't operating in anyone else's map I could change the rules at any time I wanted.  Long story short, it was easy.
Now, in a world based largely on my own past with a character based largely on me, I find myself thinking "That would never happen" or "That's ridiculous".  This, needless to say, is not helpful.  Having to remind myself  that "No, it's your story, you can do whatever the hell you want" slows me down and with only 26 days left that's not good.
Also, I've picked a far more serious genre to work in now.   Not because I purposely wanted to challenge myself but because that's what the story is.  There are moral and ethical issues she's struggling with, there are problems she's facing (and they're not the fun 'this crazy wizard is after me' kind-of problems), and there are some pretty serious questions she's gonna have to answer over the course of her development.  It's valuable, don't get me wrong.  But it's a lot less fun than writing about magic and wizards and other crazy stuff like that.
The other problem?  My main character, who as I already said is based largely on my own past, has familiar feelings, thoughts, insecurities, etc.  These are based largely on real memory so I find myself spending a lot of time in those memories.  They weren't pleasurable then and they're definitely not pleasurable now.  They're downright depressing in a lot of ways and I find myself needing to remind myself that that's not my life.  I'm not alone (romantically) anymore, I am a hell of a lot more secure in my sense of self, and I have at least a vague idea of what I can reasonably expect out of life.  (The main character's career situation, unfortunately, is striking a very painfully familiar chord with my current status.  Oh well.)
I am hoping that these similarities will serve for good writing, and not needless suffering on my part.  But it is definitely a challenge to stay grounded in my everyday life while I spend so much of my free time and thought on this story.
There is one positive I've noticed, though.  Since my character is so familiar I can easily recognize what is missing for her.  Specifically, while driving home this afternoon, I had the revelation that she is in desperate need of a wing-man/co-conspirator to keep her grounded.  If it was nothing but her own fantasy world things would go very bad very fast (much like if left with nothing other my own thoughts I tend to deteriorate very quickly).  She, like me, needs somebody to run all these crazy thoughts and ideas by in order to be able to do anything useful.  My story arch, up until this revelation, did not involve a wing man.  It was a one-woman show and I can easily imagine it going very poorly for her and for me.
But with an outside voice to be reasonable, logical and challenging my character can be clarified and forced to grow in a way that she otherwise wouldn't be.  And I think that's going to prove to be an important part of her journey, just as it was and is for me.
Now the big task for me, I think, is to make that voice in my head that's saying how something I want to do is preposterous or focusing on a ll these negative memories from my past shut the hell up so that I can be creative and have fun in spite of serious subject matter.  Because otherwise there's no way I'm gonna make it to 50k words.  Wish me luck!

NaNoWriMo 2010

And so it begins.
Those of you who know me (which is most of you since I only recently exposed this site in any kind-of public arena) know how big of a deal NaNoWriMo was for me last year. To this day it remains the largest accomplishment I've ever had writing-wise.
Why?  Because I have the most active inner critic of anyone I've ever met in my life- and I've met a lot of people with some pretty damned loud inner critics.  I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that my inner critic could easily contend for the world title.  So shutting that up long enough to produce anything of length is a massive ordeal.
Yet, miraculously, I did it.  I shut it up long enough to pound out over 50k words.  Over 70k words, actually.  And when I did allow myself to go back and look at it I found I still wanted to keep writing. I may even revisit it and try to complete the damned thing some day- how crazy is that?
Needless to say, it was big deal in the life of Bev.  As is this NaNoWriMo.  Now I start fresh with a different story, different genre, different characters, different world, and a different writer.  I can only hope that all of the lessons I learned from last year's experience will be quickly remembered and push me forward in a progressive way.
I'm not hoping to write the next great American novel.  I am completely expecting a giant, steaming pile of you-know-what with a few precious nuggets stuck in like corn kernels.  I'm expecting to make mistakes, to write poorly- to suck, for all intensive purposes.  But my wish is that I will suck in new and different ways by making new and different mistakes.  Because one of the lessons I learned is that that, and not the production of a really good final product, is what growth is all about.
So, without further ado, let the sucking begin!

Mischief Night

He’d had enough. After years of toilet paper in trees and eggs smashed on the walkway and bags of flaming dog poop he had finally hit his limit. Apparently his live and let live philosophy wasn’t enough for these maggots. He knew what they wanted, they’d told him in their lists of demands. It all boiled down to the same damned thing: candy.
He couldn’t understand why he was obligated to provide candy to people he had no relation to, no interest in and who had never done anything for him. Because of some archaic ritual that, like so many others celebrated every year, had altered so much from its original form as to be unrecognizable. It was a poor excuse to hold someone’s house ransom.
It had taken him a long time to figure out how he was going to get back at them. The neighborhood kids weren’t terribly original with their ideas for torment and he wanted, if at all possible, to prove his chicanery superior to theirs.
In the end had actually been one of the neighborhood bullies that gave him the idea after he’d observed him pelt a friend of his with small balls filled with paint shot at high velocity from a gun. A small amount of research led him to uncover that this device was called a paintball gun, apparently from an entire “sport” based on the idea of reliving epic battles without fear of death. This ‘sport’ was apparently so popular that there was a supply store not too far from him.
So he went, he invested far more than he ever would have if he weren’t driven by revenge, and he purchased himself a small but high powered paintball gun. He had guestimated the size limitations looking at the rifle before purchasing it and was delighted to find that standard sized sour balls would fit perfectly. As he loaded up his gun that Halloween morn he happily thought to himself ‘If it’s candy they want, it’s candy they’ll get!”

The Autopsy

The medical examiner had experienced rather large productions over autopsy results before. When the waiting room was filled with detectives on a high profile homicide there’d been quite a lot of pressure to get the results quickly. Or when the mayor’s daughter died suddenly and his advisors were eager to pin it on a political rival. Or when a somewhat famous soap opera star was found face down in his Jacuzzi in the mountains nearby while on vacation. So having to do a detailed autopsy in a pinch was something he was used to.
But in all his years Dr. Stroud had never seen anything quite like the scene waiting for him now. The room was literally bursting with people, all desperately eager to get the results of Mrs. Moyer’s autopsy. What was unusual about her death wasn’t the fact that it had been caused (or so everyone feared) by the sudden reappearance of her late husband while she and the rest of the family were burying him. No, post mortem mobility had become common place for reasons his better paid colleagues were still trying to uncover. What was strange about Mrs. Moyer’s case was the fact that there had been so many precautions against exactly the thing that had happened.
First, there was the undertaker who had charged for the “safe service” wherein the brain is removed so that motor reflexes are cut off at the source. An earlier autopsy of Mr. Moyer’s body had revealed that the undertaker had missed this critical step. In some ways he was already screwed, but would be much more so if Mrs. Moyer’s autopsy revealed that the undertaker’s careless mistake had lead to her untimely death.
Next there were the inventors of the “Rest in Peace” coffin which was designed to destroy the brain-body connection via removal of the head through a special mechanism inside designed to go off upon closure of the lid. Why open casket viewings were still so popular he would never understand, especially with the risk of the dearly deceased climbing out in the middle or services. But it wasn’t his money. At any rate, Mr. Moyer had appeared in the examining room with head and brain intact, thus it would seem the patent-pending system might still have a few kinks to work out.
Last were the family members of Mr. and Mrs. Moyer who, although appearing genuinely distressed, would have the most to gain from the findings that Mr. Moyer’s rise had directly lead to Mrs. Moyer’s death. They had made the biggest scene when he’d poked his head in earlier, especially the one daughter who insisted on caterwauling throughout the ordeal. He couldn’t help but notice that she quieted significantly when he saw her alone in the hallway during his water break and he suspected that her waterworks were less genuine than staged.
All in all, there was a lot riding on this case and Dr. Stroud was working quickly to reach a conclusion. In spite of the obvious- the fact that seeing one’s late husband bursting out of their coffin in the middle of the funeral and shambling over towards you could make just about anyone’s heart stop from sheer terror- there was much more to be considered. And it was important to be absolutely, 100% sure when the results would almost definitely be used in several legal cases.
So in addition to fully examining the organs Dr. Stroud had also insisted on doing a toxicology screening of the old woman, even though everyone in the family had said that would needlessly delay the results. But it was partially their desire to be done with everything so quickly that had convinced him that this step should not be skipped. So the family, the inventors and the poor, desperately tired looking undertaker had sat in the waiting room for what was now going on 20 hours and waited.
When he had the report in his hand he raised an eyebrow at the findings. Even he had to admit he hadn’t seen it coming, although it did explain the abnormal deterioration of the woman’s heart. He stood up from his desk, took a deep breath, and made his way to the waiting mass.
When he pushed through the double doors a quiet fell over the entire crowd. The obnoxious daughter stopped her crying instantly and looked on with wide eyes. The tired undertaker looked as though he was holding his breath. The inventor and his wife sat there wringing their hands. And the t.v. in the corner blared on it’s endless advertisements, taking no notice of the proceedings. He picked up the remote nearby and switched it off.
“Eh- ehm,” he made a sound clearing his throat. “I have the toxicology report here and it has validated my findings from the physical examination.”
“Well, what does it say?” this from the daughter who seemed to be spilling out of her seat with anticipation.
“Well, the ultimate cause of death was heart failure which-“
“See? See, it was fear!” the daughter interrupted him. “Fright killed my mother, that’s right! You hear that, you bastards? You’re going to pay for making such shoddy merchandise and for having such horrible service!”
“Excuse me, ma’am- I wasn’t finished,” he interjected.
“Oh, oh- I’m so sorry. Please continue,” she said in an obviously fake sweet tone.
“As I was saying, the ultimate cause was heart failure but what seemed unusual about the case since the moment I opened the body cavity was the fact that her heart was in such bad condition.”
“Why is that surprising? She was 87,” came a small voice which belonged to one of the elder grandchildren.
“Well, her heart was in bad condition for an 87 year-old. Actually, her heart was in bad condition for any year-old. It’s rather miraculous she hadn’t had heart problems earlier. At any rate, the toxicology report exclaimed this abnormal deterioration.”
“How?” this from the undertaker who had turned whiter than the walls he stood in front of.
“It returned with large amounts of methamphetamine,” he said and then was still, waiting for it to sink in.
“Wait, you mean speed?” came a question from the inventor.
“Uh, yes- speed, crank, however it’s referred to nowadays.”
“Well, what does that mean? I mean did that cause her to get so frightened that when she saw my father get up she died?” the daughter asked. There was a confused, yet hopeful tone in her voice.
“Uh, no. Actually it means that the drug- not the fear- caused her heart to stop.”
“Wait, so the zom- er, post mortem mobility wasn’t the cause?” again, the inventor.
“Not directly, no.”
Silence fell over the room as the point sank in on each face. The youngest grandchild was the first to break the quiet.
“Huh. Who knew granny was a meth head?”