Also, to the first journal entry from january 2014 – fuck you.
Borris was picked up by Danse Macabre Online Literary Journal.
Also, to the first journal entry from january 2014 – fuck you.
Borris was picked up by Danse Macabre Online Literary Journal.
I hate death. It is unequivocally the most debilitating fear that I have in my life. I try not to think about it, knowing that it will grip me and I’ll be lost to it. This most recent face off with it was brought on by the season finale of Doctor Who Season 8 “Death in Heaven”. It was an irreverent and unforeseeable play on viewer’s emotions that was designed in my belief to root us further into the story by sautering this anchor in our minds. During the final minutes of the show I did tear up, I was able to compose myself and steel my heart against my fear. But in the quiet of the bedroom where things creep in the night I could stop my thoughts no longer. I began to remember my family, pets, deaths and separations that haven’t even occurred yet.
Jean. Norma. Grandma. Grandpa. Gramdma Ina. Pepper. Snickers. Buttercup. Shaggy. Pepe. Cookie. Mandy. I began again to fear my death, and it’s the leaving that fucking destroys me. The fear of leaving Briana. Of Annabelle. Of Evangeline. My mom. My dad. Molly. Ronnie. Autumn. Gracie. Then Gracie trigged there latent fear. When I was little I always used to counsel Norma telling her to take better care of her diabetes. Drawing her pictures, making books on how she can do it. I remember her talking about how she wouldn’t take insulin until her blood sugar was 600. I remember thinking when I was little how easy it was to have self control, and now I look at me and I see a serious lack of self control in myself. I have been constantly high lately despite the insulin I take. I see Gracie now that she has diabetes. She’s me and I’m Norma, and I’m failing to take care of myself and I can’t help but be scared of diabetes and that I’ll end up like Norma. Remembering the dialysis. Remembering the scars on her legs and the way diabetes destroyed her. I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be the person my niece looks at and says uncle chad its easy, just take your medicine, why can’t you do that? Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I don’t want to repeat it. I have to remember that I have the power to change, I can be the person gracie looks at and says I will be like that when I grow up, diabetes doesn’t have to stop me.
But the fear, the eventuality of goodbye is there still, even if I wasn’t diabetic, one fucking terrible god awful cursed devastating day I am going to have to say goodbye. And I don’t want it to come.
Ice Storm. Ice Storm. That’s what happened today. There was an inch of ice on my car, and it was glorious in its absoluteness. Annabelle brought me a diet coke today, it was insane. In she comes, holds up the can to me, and I’m hers. It was rad.
Anyway! Todays writing prompt ;
Write a letter to your 10-year-old self. Tell your younger self about the life you’ve created.
Ten Years old.
I’m writing this letter to us from 18 years in our future. I’m going to go ahead and say it, you need to work hard in school, you have to focus on English more than anything, because little do you know, but in 10 years you’re going to sell your first book. But only if you continue to work your butt off. Youre going to make mistakes; one of them is coming up real soon, in 5th grade. But don’t worry, it’s going to be the mistake that changes the direction in which your life travels. You’re going to make your first real friends in middle school. Go to Brossart. Anyway, I’m missing the point here. The life you’ve got waiting for you. You’re going to meet a great girl at Convergys, that’s where you’ll take on your 2nd management position and the first in tech support, her name is Briana. You two won’t get along at first, but don’t let that worry you. She’ll come around. You’ll have a daughter named Annabelle who will be born on Saint Patrick’s day with eyes more blue than the atlantic shoreline. You will get married. Keep up the hard work on learning languages, you’ll be learning a lot more than them. You’ll co-own & Code your own online game at around 25, and it will go great for a while, just remember your friends and who got you to where you are. But dang, 10- youre still at Camp. Spoilers; no cure yet, but they say they’re close…when you turn fifteen convince your parents of how much trouble you’ll stay out of if you become a CIT – it will pay off.
You’ll have a dog named Paisley, and a cat named Quinnie. You’ll have more nieces & nephews than you’ll know what to do with. You will discover red river gorge, you’ll work night shift at Kroger for a while after high school until you learn that you’re better than your current station, and you’ll go back to college. Don’t let some chick, some stupid girl, get in the way of your dreams. Go to more concerts. Read more. Learn more. You will have a professor in college who tells you ‘if you lack the time to read you lack the talent to be a writer.’ This is the truest lesson you will ever learn in school. The second truest lesson should be never go to bed angry, it’ll unfortunately make sense later.
R.L. Stine is still around by the way- he’s doing alright. You’ve started on Jack London by this point, and dabbled in low fantasy- keep your eyes out for a book called Harry Potter when it comes out, and get t to reading Stephen king, it beats the streetsign’s off Fear Street. BTDbus, you can tell your parent’s Lafarge, (Itll make sense later) won’t buyout all of Silver Grove, they don’t have to move if they really don’t want to. ALSO – and this is critically important: Ian Martin goes to jail. CJ Stull, who knows. Sean Martin goes to jail. They remain hoods, and don’t really make anything out of their lives. The bullying and torment you experience will end, and you will be on top, just keep going.
Narnia. Read it.
Writing prompt for February 4th 2014 –
Hey, what’s this? Writing another journal with only 2 days difference? Way to go nubbins!
General Things going on: Briana got her taxes done, I still have to get mine, good news; she gets 4,500 back!!! Sooooo this means that the reception is paid for. Photos can be, dj can be, cake can be. UH! Glorious! I’m excited.
Things have been stressful for Briana lately, and I guess it’s wearing on me too – I seem to have 0 patience anymore, and I always fight the feeling of not being able to comfort briana the way I should be able to. She’s got a lot of crap going on with pain, headaches, blargendy. Seems anything will set her off lately, and I have a bad habit of wanting to make it better but it seems like Im not able to do that. Because if she’s pissed, fuck everything else; she’s pissed and im not gonna like it cuz its gonna last.
I’m doing my 14 days of valentines now, so that seems to make her happy. Which in turn makes me quite happy.
So that daily writing prompt? What’s it gonna be today?!?
Write about the day the music stopped
I will listen to this under the influence of Paramore.
There are thousands of other ways this story can be told, but I’m going to tell you the truth about what really happened. I remember right where I was, my college professor had asked us to give a speech on an indelible moment as an exercise one day. Nobody really had a solid idea on what to talk about that day, it strikes me as funny now that that day became my indelible moment. It all started when the fanatics of the world who had passed laws about practicing religion started in on the music. They stated in the seven years since freedom of religion had been outlawed, crimes had dropped. Naturally, they suggested, music must go next as it was a shared consciousness. Think of all the young people going to shows, chanting the same words, it was the sharing of something larger than themselves. So the radio stations went first, the talk ones stayed. Venues shut down. Music instruments were burned in bonfires and people channeled Bradbury, it was a pleasure to burn. There were leaders who stirred the people up, suggesting that it was music that was to blame for the falling standards of American’s and ultimately the world. Promiscuity was truly born because of Elvis’s gyrating hips & the Beatles’ suggestive lyrics. Music had started to make the world more evil, and without it we would surely be led to a more beautiful peaceful world.
It was bullshit then, and it’s bullshit still. Doesn’t matter them though, you get caught practicing music, singing, anything the sort, and you’re locked up in one of their specialty holding workhouses. I once saw a kid drumming at a table using just his fingers. He was gone. Just like that. I’d snap my fingers, but you understand the risk of doing such. I’m giving them a few more days, they’re still stumped on how to make songbirds obey their law. Live long rebels.
Why shouldn’t I write 2 entries today? Shit, I wrote 3x in Janvier.
So on pinterest there’s this thing, 29 ways to stay creative.
BTDubs, Katy Perry’s new album is pretty substandard compared to her others
Ways to stay creative:
Onset- the talking lizard that I first formed from looseleaf papers and held together by bread twisties. To Mrs Riancho’s haiku about Lampchops, Bratface. To Forrrest Brandt’s synopsis of The Falling Away, To Lipstick Trace’s first reading in Nathan Singer’s creative writing 300 classs with Beth Coyle & Adam Bass, to Andrew Miller’s creative writing with Alice Mendell & William Delslie, to Stephen Leigh learning about Mictch Donnels & Sergeant Scott Carson, with some random dude having quoted “ I’ve been drinking the father Oren kool-aid since the beginning” to Lipstick Trace being completed in 2010. I am a writer. I will do this, nothing in my life matters except this. If I succeed, I am born in this moment and should I fail; I will die in this moment —- I dedicate my life to word; for it Is in It’s mysteries that revelations are made, and in it’s inexpressible homilies are saint’s forged.
Okay! So! Writing prompt for today;
Describe your love interest’s office from your antagonists point of view.
Too much lord marcam nonsense.
Write about the color of pain and the taste of happiness.
As the couch came crashing on my foot I yelled at the tip top of my O2 deprived lungs. I saw cherry red and the jet black string of profanities rushed off my tongue at the speed of blind hatred. He tried apologizing, my co-worker, yet I wasn’t in the right state of mind to make amends. If you’ve ever seen a shatter resistant glass shatter, you might know what was happening to my calm. He sat down his side of the couch and said ‘maybe we should take a breather.’ I agreed with him as I double over and admired the stains of questionable origin on white carpet. I ran my hands across it, reveling in the stimulation of harsh fabric against my calloused hands. As he offered me a swig of the mysterious liquid from his cold gray flask I nearly leapt with joy. The sting of the alcohol eased the burning forest fire stemming from my foot and sated the fiery demons laying siege to my phalanges. As I looked up into his passive blue eyes and easy grin, I conceded, maybe he wasn’t all bad.
Alright – this wasn’t bad. Upon reflection, maybe I’m reminded most of my writing portfolio in College Writing 101 – I remember being big on show not tell – and I think this accomplished more in one paragraph than most of my writing has done since 2007.
Writing prompt: Turn to page 49 of the book closest to you & take the first sentence & use it for a writing prompt. Mine was Kiss of the Night by Sherrilyn Kenon, a Briana book.
And better yet, he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to finish, but rather took his time with her. Yeah. Fuck this.
Oooh blub blub blub, It’s Friday. Ive taken to editing lipstick trace the last 2 days, it been fun. I decided it was a better hook to have Quincy’s pov be dominant in the first book. So that’s in revision now. Next part is to work on small portions of GW&FK that seem not in sync with Quincy’s personality. After that, maybe elaborate on Frostbitten, or make The bitter aftertaste show more of Quincy & Alice’s budding relationship to where it goes from chick dislikes dude, chick dislikes him a little less, chick likes dudes to flirting. Then let GWFK deal with the actual relationship build.
Thirty minutes into work, only started with 3 jobs, Briana’s bringing chili. SO! Lets look on pinterest for a writing prompt!
OK! So – according to a random pinterest click my prompt is “Write about what your villain does on Tuesday nights.”
We have 2 stories with clear antagonists; Borris & Fisher of Men’s Lord Marcam. Borris is really a one track mind kind of villain. So we’re going with Lord Marcam.
There was a darkness settling over the realm of the Desinder’s, and Lord Marcam felt it cling to his borrowed flesh. He passed by his prized armory and admired his collection. He enjoyed seeing his face and wiry hair reflected in the gleam of axes and swords. He lifted a sword from its place and withdrew it from the scabbard. He yelled at a servant to sing to him as it would help him get in the mood for dancing. Dancing, of course, beings Lord Marcam’s favorite pastime, though his partner was made of refined steel. The servants song was dreary and hollow, and the words did little to warm the night.
The king of perversion sits on his throne, watching his wretches wither away
To pay homage to the lord, take what we have to give
Our hands, our hearts, our very eyes, til under the ground our mangled corpses lie
Let it be to please the lord, and never may we falter
Accept our blood upon your altar
Lord Marcam grinned at the tune and parried and turned blows with his shadow, his sword slicing through the air. His footsteps were never too heavy, and he loved the feel of perspiration on his brow from his swordplay. He danced until the servant could sing no longer, and feeling very grateful that he had let this one live, Marcam dismissed his servant.
“Go.” He commanded.
Counting his blessings, the servant did as was requested.
So Professor Brandt in college encouraged us to write every morning, if just for 20 minutes to help get us into the habit of writing. It seemed to have worked in 2007 so why not seven years later in 2014. Good God, seven years ago I was a freshman in college and convinced that my writing was the best in the world. I’m still convinced of that yet I continue to be 30 some hours away from that degree I started on SEVEN years ago. Seven years ago Molly & Ronnie were getting married. Funny stuff. Right now, I get to listen to my upstairs neighbors roll dead bodies around without regard to the fact that I can hear their crime. Just had guys night with corey mike & Justin, I almost used a semicolon, I have to remember to stop doing that. Pompous bullshit. Just saw anchorman 2 with the fellas. And after seeing it, it was funny I’ll admit, but it …backstory. Borris was declined today by an online circular that wanted submissions for Vampire Humor. Silly me, I thought Borris would be a shoe in for such a magazine. So at about 537 I got an email stating ‘thanks for letting us have the chance to read borris, unfortunately it isn’t what were looking for at this time.’ I was upset. I was disappointed. I was annoyed. I hadn’t submitted anything for publication since a year before I left the bitch. Its amazing how well you think a wound closes up and is completely healed until you pour alcohol on it. Then you remember that son of a gun is stil susceptible to real good hurting. So backstory given, onto the crux. Anchorman 2 was funny, it really was, and I would have loved to have had more time with everyone, but after sitting through almost 2 hours of it, I was like ‘how the hell does this garbage make money, yet my writing can’t get published?’ Again, I will emphasize I enjoyed it and laughed. But still IT WAS NONSENSE.
It centered around 4 dudes, newsmen. One of whom was so mentally deficient that he could never be viewed by anyone as a character that could ever be believed, and I’m saying this about ron burgundy, not the one anchorman who actually did have a mental issue. Guns from the future, racial insensitivity, slamming slow people, raising baby sharks. The story line. I left the movie feeling like how the hell does anyone get published. How do we deal with rejection letter after rejection letter after rejection letter after rejection letter for years unyielding, and yet THIS makes it to the public eye. People will commit these lines to memory, people will quote this trash. Yet my work goes unseen.
It is the single most frustrating feeling in the world, and I have to wonder why did it not get published. Why hasn’t lipstick trace gotten published. I have to question, maybe its not the right time. Maybe its not in Gods plan for it to EVER get published. I ask, am I okay with that? No. No I’m not. What if its for me to craft, but to never have admired. What if my pride is keeping me from being the published author ive been wanting to be ever since Mrs Greiss in 3rd grade asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. What if like artists my writing will never be appreciated until after im gone, someone comes across it in a box and marvels after it thinking, why didn’t he ever publish this?
If that’s the case, im’ not okay with it. I don’t want that to be God’s plan, and if He’s doing this to teach me something, I wish I’d hurry up and learn the lesson because I’m tired. I’m tired of being the waiter on santa monica who says he’s just waiting tables until his acting career picks up, when you know damn good & well that that guys acting career will never take off, but you leave him a good tip, its your way of compensating for the cosmic naiveté that the person possesses. Here, have a quarter, I care.
I have this talent. It is the last childhood dream I possess. Is this punishment for neglecting writing for three years? Nearly 4? Maybe. But even then, how many times was I turned down? How many piles of rejection letters did I receive? How many bogus stereotypical generic and completely trite rejection letters were sent back to me? I remember Stephen leigh talking to us all about never giving up. About the author who had gone to every publishing house, until eventually all that was left untried was the publishing house who published car manuals. They looked over his manuscript and the rest was history. I’m tired of feeling like my writings a joke, when the real joke gets published. When the real joke gets put on screen.
I grow so tired of people online talking about how Christopher paolini Is such a great author, and how they are so upset that people don’t think more highly of him.
Sorry. Little …mm. The only reason your ‘books’, and I use that term graciously, got published is because your mother was in the publishing business. Come on, let me have that break. Just one break is all I need to catch. This is my page per day. Lets hope for a good update tomorrow.