A friend from my writers’ group in Nebraska is now posting her artwork on DeviantArt.
I can’t help but picture Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean whenever I see her nickname, Savvy.
She has a couple pictures posted so far. I’ve seen her creativity and skill firsthand, so I am definitely looking forward to more.
WattPad is running a contest / writing challenge for 2015. The goal is to write 10,000 words of a story within 30 days–originally within the month of August, but they’ve extended the deadline to September 30th to allow for those who may have started late.
After NaNoWriMo last year, 10K seems like nothing!
I’ve posted the first chapter of my Echoes story to the site. I plan to have some fun exploring the world inside Hope’s head, and the interplay between Forsephore and her soon-to-be-revealed nemesis. I’ve already got the climactic confrontation sorted out in my head, more or less… but I feel there’s a lot of winding paths along the way that I can explore.
Care to join me? Check out Echoes.
Here’s a glimpse of Hope and the host of Echoes that exist within her.
Today’s been one of those “Why am I even bothering with writing?” days. Maybe none of you have them.
After a lot of moping and video games, then some inspirational videos on YouTube, I’ve come to a conclusion that serves as a good reminder to myself for next time:
Writing is not a waste of time. Worrying over that thought is.
Off to pick up the teen, then I’m getting back to work. These stories won’t write themselves.
So I joined WattPad and started a project.
I’ll be honest. At first, I was put off by grammar errors and amateur mistakes. Even more, the commenters who gush over the simplest sentences with “I so get u” and “omg this ^^^ right here” and other such text-style feedback.
Then my wife kindly reminded me that everyone’s on a journey to being a better writer, and any mistakes I see now are only because I’ve had quality writer friends supporting and educating me along the way. I’m guilty of some of the same–if not right now, then certainly in the past.
And let’s face it. Feedback is feedback. If a character, quip, or interaction resonates with a reader, I am happy, whether they tell me, “Poignant and touching; Splendid work” or “oh wow sooooo many feels.” Any connection with a reader is a good thing, and the teen fangirl who says “omg” today is the young adult who clicks “buy” on Amazon tomorrow.
The short stories I’ll be posting in “Pieces” aren’t all new. Many appear somewhere on this blog. But I figure WattPad is another avenue to gain a following, and a fun way of doing so. My “Echoes” story (mentioned in a few previous blogs) will be posted entirely to WattPad.
Plus, my wife’s comment reminded me of the point of all this. WattPad is full of unique content and interesting takes on existing material. It’s a bunch of people who are expressing their passion for good characters and stories. Is that what I find valuable? Is that what excites me? Or is it grammatically correct, properly formatted, everything-just-so writing?
No, the point is to have fun and share the experience with others.
So I went ahead and drew an amateur cover for my project, incorporating scenes of most of the various stories into sections of different puzzles. No, it’s not professional quality. No, it’s not what will garner attention.
But I loved the process of expressing myself through a different medium, and I’m having fun with my own amateur mistake.
Here’s the cover to Pieces:
I hope you’ll visit me on WattPad, especially if you have an account and post your own work.
“I can’t take the Dude outside to play at the park,” Teen Son declared. “There’s broken glass everywhere there.”
Apparently some kids got a hold of a microwave and decided the appropriate thing to do was shatter the rotating glass plate on the public use cement patio behind our house. I sighed in frustration, bemoaned the wicked deeds of “darn kids these days,” and decided to call the housing area manager since the park isn’t actually my responsibility despite its proximity.
Then, a few hours later, my daughter tells me there’s glass in the front yard. “No,” I reply, “it’s at the park, in the back. Isn’t it?”
“Well I think there’s glass out front too.”
I investigate to discover the remains of a Vlasic pickle jar, not five feet from my front door, shattered on the cement walkway to the sidewalk. Chunks and shards sparkle between blades of grass beside the cement.
I’m out there sweeping and picking up shards in the dark with a flashlight, listening to my middle son describe what he saw, and thinking about the conversations I need to have with some neighborhood parents.
“[Kid 1] had the jar, and he wanted to break it. So he put a bunch of rocks in it and shook it really hard. But it didn’t break.”
ok, so first I need to make sure some parents talk to him about how dangerous and dumb it is to break glass in your own hand.
“Then [Kid 2] said he’d help. And he took it and smashed it on the cement.”
Then I need to discuss the fact I don’t want a sea of glass shards outside my front door.
“Yeah,” Teen Son adds, “those were the kids who broke that stuff in the park.”
Maybe I should take a closer look.
We check and discover not just a microwave but an assortment of kitchen items turned refuse. Plastic cups and jars, and a blender–plugged into the patio outlet and seemingly used to blend aluminum cans.
I don’t know any way to explain that to parents other than “So, boys being boys, it seems the kids decided to blend some cans and break appliances in the park patio, and that seems not too safe.”
Maybe it’s a form of karma. I broke bottles on train tracks and threw florescent tube lights like spears. I even punched one once–yes, that ended poorly. I was friends with the kid who tried to build bombs in his garage, so maybe my parents thought, “Well at least David isn’t blowing anything up.” Or maybe they didn’t know the full scope of my nefarious activities.
Now I can imagine what a number of homeowners must have felt back then at finding shards of glass scattered on their curbside. I didn’t think of it then, but I get it now. So I expect the neighborhood kids will be mad that someone talked to their parents, and they’ll probably be upset about being grounded (or whatever form of discipline if any they receive).
I don’t care.
I’m pretty sure that the vast majority of parents would rather be aware of their kids’ behavior, however blissful ignorance might be. If you catch my kid shattering jars on your front door (or throwing light-spears or lighting things on fire or planning to build a bomb), I’d love to hear about it. I’ll probably thank you and apologize, blushing profusely.
Then my kid will come clean up the mess. I might even hold the flashlight.
I walked into the room and heard the video on my wife’s computer.
“They announced another expansion,” she told me. “I’m watching the description of what’s coming next.”
My first reaction was “Of course they did. This surprises no one.” Then I listened to a few snippets, then I found myself watching with mounting excitement.
Stupid WoW. When will it end?! (Probably not while people are still paying and playing.)
I’m interested about the artifacts… partly because I liked the idea of levelling weapons in LOTRO, and partly because these are cool, lore-related items in most cases to which players have begged to gain access. But most of all, they keep talking about how “You’ve seen Doomhammer wielded by Thrall, or Ashbringer carried into battle by Tirion Fordring. Now you’ll go recover the artifacts from the events of the beginning of the expansion, and you’ll found a new class-specific order by virtue of carrying this artifact from them on.”
So where’s Thrall? Where’s Tirion? I’m looking forward to a shake-up and a lot of death in the list of main NPCs. Muahaha!
I’m walking on my treadmill with my makeshift desk, typing out the broad-brush concept of my Echoes short story, thinking about the beliefs and possibilities we either cling to or cast aside.
“What weakens certain dreams?” I write. “What broke down the belief ‘I am beautiful’ or ‘I can be a writer’ or ‘I will find my true love’ in this fictional character? What breaks that down in each of us?”
Over the last few days, I’ve found new interest in conversations where co-workers discuss the struggles involved in trying to change their lifestyles or develop better, healthier habits. I’ve noted in myself as much as in others the ease with which we settle on the worst possible outcome in certain situations, seemingly assured by past experience that there’s no point in hoping for something better.
Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves really suck.
A muffled voice and motion in my peripheral vision gets my attention, and I pop out an earbud.
“Daddy,” my wild middle boy asks, “can I go outside and play?”
“Sure, if Mom’s cool with it.”
He darts off, and I notice our 4 year old Dude trailing behind him down the hall. And back again, as his brother heads for the door wearing a sweatshirt hoodie on Okinawa. I call his brother back and tell him to change his shirt into something more appropriate to the humidity and heat. And there goes the Dude, following his brother back down the hall once more like a duckling with its mother.
Who do we follow in life? Who do we look to for inspiration? Whose statements about the world around us hold the most weight in our minds? Whose statements about us do we accept as obviously true?
I have a coworker and friend who is a fitness beast. He does all that CrossFit / TacFit stuff that scares the crap out of me… stuff where you pile a bunch of weights onto some torture device and walk down the street, or you lay out giant tires and pound them with sledgehammers, or you squat untill your legs erupt in fire like volcanoes (and then you squat some more). He and his wife built themselves a gym in the garage, and he posts pictures of their workout efforts fairly often.
He’s also a great photographer with a gift for capturing beautiful moments with his wife and kids. One of his recent pictures came to mind as a perfect example of what I’m writing about here:
Who are we looking up to in life? Whose example are we consciously or unconsciously following?
And who might be looking at us, deciding what stories to believe about themselves based on our words and actions?
Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves really suck.
Write better ones.
Packing a bag again for a few days away from home. At least it’s not months.
Explaining to my 4 year old that I’ll be gone for a little while. At least I’m leaving when he’s awake and I get to say bye for now.
Cancelling my leave that was scheduled for six months in advance because “we don’t have the bodies.” At least I didn’t spend any money on it and it’s not use-or-lose leave that might disappear on October 1st.
Stepping onto a plane for the 11th time in 13 days. At least I’m supposed to get some down time later this month.
Hitting my maximum allowable flight hours within a particular period and then got the waiver to just fly more. At least they’re still paying attention to the rules. At least we’re not in a situation like combat where dire and urgent need trumps the regulations for routine missions.
Flying several days for questionable reasons with little chance of accomplishing the mission. At least it was with a good crew that is in the same frustrating circumstance with me, so our individual miseries have great company.
Landing each day with enough time to get home, sleep, and go do it again the next day. At least the schedule changed so I usually see my kids’ faces for a few minutes before they go to bed or before I leave for work.
At least I am coming home each day (usually). At least I am not in a combat zone, threatened in the air or hunkered down on the ground. At least my family is well taken care of, and at least my wife is unquestioningly supportive and undeservedly patient.
I often joke that “I love my job” when there are reasons to complain. At least there are parts of it that I really do love.
Not all our servicemembers can say the same. Not all of them can claim the “at leasts” that I can. My heartfelt thanks to my brothers and sisters in arms in crappier places working longer hours doing harder jobs in worse conditions. Much appreciation also to the family members, friends, and loved ones who provide that support to the men and women wearing America’s various uniforms. You all make me proud.
I raised my right hand and swore an oath of my own free will. At least I serve a nation that–while admittedly imperfect–rewards honorable service in support of lofty ideals instead of demanding subservience to the whims of a dictator or ideology.
I’ll settle for these things today.
Have you ever stopped and considered the “what might have been” options in your life? Those doors once open that now seem so unlikely? Those dreams and lofty goals that too easily find themselves set aside by the mundane demands of the daily grind?
“I want to run a marathon.”
“I plan to travel to Ireland, or Australia, or go backpacking through Tibet.”
“I could write a memoir.”
“I want to be an astronaut.”
I saw a link to a short story contest on my Stateside writers’ group Facebook page, and the urge to participate churned in my brain at once. And the more I thought about potential stories, the more my mind homed in on the concept of our deferred dreams and primary motivations. What are the principle visions of ourselves or beliefs about ourselves that govern so much of what we accept as possible or achievable?
We all have these grand plans and aspirations, but life sometimes buries them deep down beneath the crushing weight of bills, daily chores, menial but tedious work, and mindless entertainment to distract us from the numbing effects of our busy lives. Worse yet, there are “facts” we believe about ourselves that keep us from even attempting to achieve. “I can’t write.” “I’ll never have the time to spend on that.” “No one wants to see what I can create.”
For example, in my teenage years I distinctly remember a comment from my big brother telling me I couldn’t sing well. To be fair, my voice was changing, and everyone has bad days, so maybe his judgment that day was fair. Maybe it was an offhand comment or a big brother picking on little brother moment. He probably wouldn’t remember saying it.
That defined my ability in my head for several years. Rather than sing, I held onto the thought, the belief even, that I really ought not subject others to the sound. I could play piano really well; I should stick with my strengths.
It took a friend’s compliments and encouragement to get me to even try singing a duet with him in public. It took the praise of many members of the congregation to convince me I should keep doing it, and it took some time for me to really believe I could sing capably into a microphone where others would suffer the sound of my voice.
All because of an off-hand comment.
No judgment on my brother, whom I love dearly. I merely bring this up as an example of how easily certain parts of our personality can get crushed by the voices around us.
So my short story is going to be about these Echoes, the “could have beens” and “maybe one days” that all exist within the same jumble of emotions as “this is the best my life will get” and “who am I kidding, I could never…”
What happens to these Echoes when dreams die or when doors of opportunity close? What can motivate a person to change which voices hold sway in their mind?
When one of the Echoes starts to fade into nothingness, she finds a last chance at reshaping her Prime, the mild-mannered cubicle dweller to whom all the Echoes belong. To do it, this Echo has to avoid the judgmental ire of the current Alpha in charge, who is determined to maintain the status quo while enlisting the aid of other weakened dreams and forgotten hopes. Perhaps if enough of them come true, the balance of power can shift. But if not, then all those dreams might be lost forever.
Sound fun? If so, help me out… and maybe you’ll appear as one of the “Echoes” in our cubicle dweller’s head.
How? It’s easy to do, but maybe a little challenging to consider:
Leave a comment with a few of those deferred dreams or “I wish I had” hopes that you think might be clinging desperately to the thought of “maybe one day” in the mind of the cubicle dweller. These could be silly ideas you think a frazzled woman trying to avoid becoming a crazy cat lady might hang on to. Or on a more personal level, these could be your own thoughts of what could have been, wishes you never got the chance to fulfill.
I’d love your input.
Also here’s Shia reminding you to not let your dreams be dreams.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuHfVn_cfHU
I ran out of Sumatra coffee and wasn’t able to run to the store to get more. This is a dreadful state of affairs for a coffee fiend.
With a busy flying schedule, my options were limited. The 24-hour shoppette on our base had Dunkin Donuts coffee, which I count as vile, acidic filth not worth my time. It’s got a thick and bitter aftertaste that I despise. I like strong coffee with intense flavors, but I don’t want it to coat my throat like an oil slick.
McCafe was the only other option. (Ok, Folgers and Maxwell House might have been on the shelf too, but come on.)
I brewed up a pot this morning to prepare for my flight.
Yeah, it’s pretty much McDonalds coffee brewed in my own pot. I fear that’s some kind of sin.
It leaves that similar oily coating like the old commercials for Pepto-Bismol, an intended feature of the latter product, and a terrible failure in a cup of coffee.
I won’t be trying this again… unless of course it’s 11 PM and there’s no Folger’s on the Shoppette shelf.