Do you remember when I said that writing a novel in a month was most effective at producing lots of raw material? I knew that before I even began to look over the book, that lots of it would be crap, and some of it would have fabulous potential, but I'd have to dig through and find the good stuff? The small bits that I've edited have felt like panning for gold. I scoop up a whole lot of the stuff that I wrote in the first draft, swish it around in the sieve with some water, and almost all of what I wrote disappears.
Actually, it doesn't disappear, I have to delete it after I realize it sucks, and must be redone. Which isn't as bad as it sounds, though I would have jumped off tall, tall things if someone told me that halfway through writing the rough draft. Sheesh.
I haven't edited a whole hellava lot of the book, yet, to be honest. It's a terribly daunting task. And as a stubborn neophyte who just wants to figure it out on his own, I don't know if it would be better to hand my manuscript over to a professional editor, do a least one edit and then hire a pro, try and edit on my own? I feel like a new born calve, knees buckling, covered in shit, thinking "One step at a time? One step at a time? Mother fucker what the hell is a step!"
So the editing has been interesting. Mainly, it's consisted of me taking each scene, almost completely rewriting it, and liking it much more than what I wrote at first. But then I worry about the little things I left out. I let my friend Gabriel read the rough draft, and when he read one of the revised scenes, he burst out, "But what happened to that exchange! I really liked that part!"
Mostly, I wonder how different the last draft, hopefully something that gets sold somewhere, will be from what I originally wrote. It makes me wonder how different all first drafts are, and appreciate how nice it is to get first tries, at things, and even more how wonderful it is to go back and first what's wrong, or what doesn't work. Lemmings don't get to do this. And a little piece of me hurts for them.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Ye Olde Editing Process
A few weeks ago, I read somewhere that writers tend to fall into two categories. First, you have those who most enjoy the actual writing process. The second group is composed of those folk who get a bigger kick out of editing, tinkering with things until the fall into place just right, till things fit.I would have to say that I do not like editing, not one bit. I finished writing on July the 20th, and per the book/kit's suggestion, did not pick my printed out manuscript for two weeks. Two weeks! It was a good idea, however, as I feel fairly sure that if I had read through everything right away, I would have been happy with it, perhaps even thought it was good.
Let this serve as a notice to anyone who may attempt such a feat in the future (and please do, I
think I'm going to do this again in November, which is the official National Novel Writing Month), to keep in mind that you are working on the first, rough draft of a novel. Chanting the words 'only a rough draft, it was only a rough draft' as I read through my 'manuscript' was the only thing that kept me dousing myself and my two inch stack of paper with lighter fluid and having an 'accident' in the kitchen. Whew, that thing was rough.Reading back over it a couple times, it doesn't seem as bad as it had during the preliminary run through, though I know I have a shit-ton of work to do.
Yesterday I finally grouped things into chapters, whereas before the only breaks in writing had been all cap letters announcing another day ('START DAY TWENTY-TWO'). I also very, very briefly summarized who is in each chapter, and the action that occurs. Today, I took those notes and transposed them onto index cards, breaking it further down, from chapters into scenes. Have a look see. I'm not even going to say how long it took me to do all that crap.My crack-addict internet broke down a little while ago, so I didn't have a chance to upload the even prettier pictures of my masterpiece before my camera battery died. I know, even pretty, if you can believe it. More pictures tomorrow, and some explanation of the color coded system (and by tomorrow, I mean three weeks from now).
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Forgive my Absence...
The kit came with the envelop you see to the left, emblazoned with the words "I QUIT" on it. This was included in the kit just in case myself, or anyone who ever tries to write a novel in a month, give up, bites a bullet, and decides they can't take it anymore. I wanted to include a picture of it because I did not read what was inside until I was done. I read it out of sheer curiosity.So I've had some time to reflect, to look over what I finished seventeen, maybe eighteen days ago, and of course, to have a little celebration. Wow, there was entirely too much celebration. There are just a couple of things that I would like to say, not as a final post, far from it. This is the beginning of something completely different.
First off, I have to thank all of you for your support and encouragement through this crazy process. Anytime you made a comment on the blog, called and left me a message, or even sent me a large envelope full of gummy bears, you helped me keep truckin' along. Booya to you. I would never have finished this without your help, or without the fear of letting you down. There was so much fear.
I would like to let everyone know that I plan on revising and editing this damn thing, and hopefully, getting it published. I'm sure Penguin books or someone will offer me their whole company as retribution for me letting them publish such a poetic, sweet laden work, so keep your eyes peeled for islands that might be on the market. Should this fail to happen, well, I may just post the damn thing online (maybe here) in word form, and you can send me some Bubble Yum in lieu of payment.
Lastly, peruse these lovely pictures of my triumph, if you will. I will be posting from time to time on here, describing the editing process (THRILLING), the search for agents and publishers, and, please Lord, an announcement that my book is going to be sold. Look back here in about three years for that information. Until then? Look at the pictures, and check out toothpicking.blogspot.com. I had so much fun keeping this blog, I may just start, I don't know, doing what my friend Trey does (dantzlersmith.blogspot.com) and write about shit that interests me. What'd you say? LOTS of people are doing this? Crap. Always late to the party.
Thanks, again to everyone, I love ya'll mucho. To some pictures!
Directly to the left is my 'Mighty Novel Progress Log'. Each day that I wrote down my goal, how many words I wrote that day, and my surplus. If I reached or exceeded my goal, then I put a goal star (indeed, gold) next to that day. A supreme mark of achievement.Below is my finger, wielding the last star of the month.
To the right, we have the last star, placed next to the final word count (it says July 20th down
below, ignore the 13).Friday, July 20, 2007
Day Thirty-One: Fin
Holy monkey I wrote a novel in a month! I'm kind of in shock that the whole process is over... I'll try and post something here, tomorrow, a conclusion of sorts. There might also be pictures of the celebration that is going to take place tonight. (Yes, celebration is playing in the background, right now).
Daily Goal: 2500
Today Word Count: 2656
Forget surplus and the Jimeral Word Bank Account, now. No need for them. Ha!
My goal, and the goal prescribed by the "No Plot, No Problem" novel writing kit, was 50,00o words. My final word count was 70,003 words. They need a lot of work, lots of polish and varnish and such, but there they are.
The final excerpt (before you buy the hardcover, gold-plated first edition from Borders for $5o0.00).
"Pulling out his journal and his pen, he turned to the back of the nearly full book. ‘One more page?’ he thought. ‘so much in here.’ He put pen to paper. This is what he wrote.
It’s hard to believe that after three months away, I’m finally going home. Soon, I will be drinking a beer and eating a burger at my favorite bar, with some of my favorite people.
This has been one of the hardest trips I’ve ever taken in my life. No, it was been the hardest. I wanted to go home from the minute I landed in Hanoi. Did I tough it out? Is that what we would call it? I don’t really know. I don’t feel any tougher, any stronger. If anything, I feel destroyed, battered, beaten in my lungs, my brain, in my heart and soul.
Regardless of whether or not I will admit to being tougher or weaker, I am still here. I made it through. For the most part, I am alright. And if no one else is here to witness that fact, this journal is. It has been with me every step of the way. Through the uproaring laughter… Through too much wine, women, and song… Through more tears than I have ever shed in my life. And more that is not in words, that I can’t write now, or ever. It’s all here, splashed across these pages.
I am going home.
We will be home soon.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today Word Count: 2656
Forget surplus and the Jimeral Word Bank Account, now. No need for them. Ha!
My goal, and the goal prescribed by the "No Plot, No Problem" novel writing kit, was 50,00o words. My final word count was 70,003 words. They need a lot of work, lots of polish and varnish and such, but there they are.
The final excerpt (before you buy the hardcover, gold-plated first edition from Borders for $5o0.00).
"Pulling out his journal and his pen, he turned to the back of the nearly full book. ‘One more page?’ he thought. ‘so much in here.’ He put pen to paper. This is what he wrote.
It’s hard to believe that after three months away, I’m finally going home. Soon, I will be drinking a beer and eating a burger at my favorite bar, with some of my favorite people.
This has been one of the hardest trips I’ve ever taken in my life. No, it was been the hardest. I wanted to go home from the minute I landed in Hanoi. Did I tough it out? Is that what we would call it? I don’t really know. I don’t feel any tougher, any stronger. If anything, I feel destroyed, battered, beaten in my lungs, my brain, in my heart and soul.
Regardless of whether or not I will admit to being tougher or weaker, I am still here. I made it through. For the most part, I am alright. And if no one else is here to witness that fact, this journal is. It has been with me every step of the way. Through the uproaring laughter… Through too much wine, women, and song… Through more tears than I have ever shed in my life. And more that is not in words, that I can’t write now, or ever. It’s all here, splashed across these pages.
I am going home.
We will be home soon.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Day Thirty: My Fingers, Someone, Help my Fingers
Tired. This story is going crazy. Make it stop. I think I might have to keep writing through the night. Only one more day. Lord have mercy. My fingers are getting ready to fall off. Ahh hooo hoo!
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (actually tomorrow's) Word Count: 3888
Surplus: 1388
J.W.B.: 6789
Excerpt. Do it to it.
"When they got back to the front of Bob's house, Jim followed him up the porch at his insistence. Bob walked in and began rummaging through drawers and files across the living room. The house looked a little messy, a little worse for wear, but Jim would not have picked a crazy person to live there. Bob kept true to his word of needing to always be moving, as he danced around the house, looking of something. Finally he held up a shining key and said, “Follow me!” and walked out the front door, again.
Motivated by pure curiosity more than anything, Jim tailed this strange man as he rounded his house, and walked down the grass hill beside it. There was a basement built in to the house, accessible by a door at the bottom of the hill. Bob pulled out the shiny key, inserted it into the door, and turned. The door clicked, and Bob pushed it open. Jim could not put his finger on it, but as they approached this door and Bob opened it, he grew nervous. Very much so. His anxiety only increased as Bob stepped in the dark room and beckoned Jim to follow with a silent, waving hand. Looking at the half moon window pane set at the top of the door, Jim heard the panicked thought in his head “If he traps me down here, will I be able to break that window and squeeze through?”
Jim followed him in.
A quick word about the impossibly beautiful woman in the picture below. Without Nicole's patience and encouragement, for a long time now, none of this would be possible. Thanks, pumpkin.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (actually tomorrow's) Word Count: 3888
Surplus: 1388
J.W.B.: 6789
Excerpt. Do it to it.
"When they got back to the front of Bob's house, Jim followed him up the porch at his insistence. Bob walked in and began rummaging through drawers and files across the living room. The house looked a little messy, a little worse for wear, but Jim would not have picked a crazy person to live there. Bob kept true to his word of needing to always be moving, as he danced around the house, looking of something. Finally he held up a shining key and said, “Follow me!” and walked out the front door, again.
Motivated by pure curiosity more than anything, Jim tailed this strange man as he rounded his house, and walked down the grass hill beside it. There was a basement built in to the house, accessible by a door at the bottom of the hill. Bob pulled out the shiny key, inserted it into the door, and turned. The door clicked, and Bob pushed it open. Jim could not put his finger on it, but as they approached this door and Bob opened it, he grew nervous. Very much so. His anxiety only increased as Bob stepped in the dark room and beckoned Jim to follow with a silent, waving hand. Looking at the half moon window pane set at the top of the door, Jim heard the panicked thought in his head “If he traps me down here, will I be able to break that window and squeeze through?”
Jim followed him in.
A quick word about the impossibly beautiful woman in the picture below. Without Nicole's patience and encouragement, for a long time now, none of this would be possible. Thanks, pumpkin.
Day Twenty-Nine: Closing In
Today was a rough day, not going to lie. The words just weren't coming for a long time. You know who I blame? Me. Why? Hubris. I went out last night and bragged about how much I had written, how lovely everything was coming along. You can't do that, folks. It never works out in the end.
Another note: don't be fooled by today's numbers. I had to start over on today's section several times, and I don't erase any of the stuff I didn't like, i.e. the reasons I started over. Could be something in there when I go back over this madness.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 3100
Surplus: 1100
J.W.B. 5401
Excerpt? Let's see what we got.
"Dinner was had at the house of an Italian ex-patriot. He was a brilliant chef, and a serviceable waiter. Doing both, he was exceptional. Myself, Amodile, and Louis were joined by another ex-pat, a man of Greek origin, with runaway wavy hair and eyes as insane as Saturn. Without a doubt, this man was mad as a march hare. The only other people at the cozy eatery was a small family of Italians, also moved from their country to the green of Goa. A mother and father, and their young, five year old daughter, who spoke as if she were at least twice her age. I tried not to be shocked when her parents pulled out a strange looking pipe, took some puffs, and handed what was undoubtedly the oddest pot pass I ever received. Taking a quick puff, I could not take my eyes off the little girl’s, who was smiling innocently, sweetly, as if I was trying Mommy or Daddy’s pasta. ‘Good?’ her shrugging shoulders seemed to say, and I answered her silent, unasked question with my own face. ‘Pretty good,’ I nodded, and she seemed to smile wider.
Another note: don't be fooled by today's numbers. I had to start over on today's section several times, and I don't erase any of the stuff I didn't like, i.e. the reasons I started over. Could be something in there when I go back over this madness.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 3100
Surplus: 1100
J.W.B. 5401
Excerpt? Let's see what we got.
"Dinner was had at the house of an Italian ex-patriot. He was a brilliant chef, and a serviceable waiter. Doing both, he was exceptional. Myself, Amodile, and Louis were joined by another ex-pat, a man of Greek origin, with runaway wavy hair and eyes as insane as Saturn. Without a doubt, this man was mad as a march hare. The only other people at the cozy eatery was a small family of Italians, also moved from their country to the green of Goa. A mother and father, and their young, five year old daughter, who spoke as if she were at least twice her age. I tried not to be shocked when her parents pulled out a strange looking pipe, took some puffs, and handed what was undoubtedly the oddest pot pass I ever received. Taking a quick puff, I could not take my eyes off the little girl’s, who was smiling innocently, sweetly, as if I was trying Mommy or Daddy’s pasta. ‘Good?’ her shrugging shoulders seemed to say, and I answered her silent, unasked question with my own face. ‘Pretty good,’ I nodded, and she seemed to smile wider.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Day Twenty-Eight: One Day... Early?!
Indeed. One day early. I was thinking about writing another session earlier, going for three in one day, but I'm not so sure anymore. My fingers hurt. My brain is a little mushy. If not today, then tomorrow or Friday will be a double session. I gua-ran-tee.
By the way, as you'll see in the excerpt, I've left my name in this time. The book is somewhat autobiographical, and I don't see the point in hiding that from you anymore, dear cheerleaders. Thank you for understanding my earlier hesitations and shyness. Now, have at it!
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (Tomorrow's, actually!) Word Count: 2821
Surplus (I don't do deficits, anymore): 321
J.W.B.: 4301
“You’ve probably heard someone my age say this before, but just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m stupid!” Jim blushed involuntarily, and the old woman pressed her point, “See, I know what I’m talking about! That look on your face wasn’t you being mad at your girlfriend, I can tell.”
“How do you know that?” Jim asked defensively, “I could very well be…” Why was he arguing with this woman?
“No you weren’t, you were debating something else in your head. It’s okay, I understand. Sometimes the things in our head need to get out somewhere. If you don’t let it out, it can drive you crazy. That’s why I keep a journal,” she finished.
Shocked, Jim stared at the woman, mouth hanging wide open. “How did you… You can’t possibly…”
“Can’t possibly know what?” she smiled.
“Nothing,” Jim said. “It’s nothing. My name is Jim, by the way.”
“Gloria Fortuna,” the old woman said, shaking Jim’s outstretched hand. “Oh, nice grip, young Jim, I hate men who won’t give me a strong handshake! Just ‘cause I’m old doesn’t mean I’m weak!”
Jim smiled in spite of himself. He did not know who this woman was, but he liked her. Crazy as it seemed, there was a sparkle in her eye, a literal sparkle. Life seemed to flow from her wrinkled skin, her knobby knuckles, her graying, curly hair.
By the way, as you'll see in the excerpt, I've left my name in this time. The book is somewhat autobiographical, and I don't see the point in hiding that from you anymore, dear cheerleaders. Thank you for understanding my earlier hesitations and shyness. Now, have at it!
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (Tomorrow's, actually!) Word Count: 2821
Surplus (I don't do deficits, anymore): 321
J.W.B.: 4301
“You’ve probably heard someone my age say this before, but just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m stupid!” Jim blushed involuntarily, and the old woman pressed her point, “See, I know what I’m talking about! That look on your face wasn’t you being mad at your girlfriend, I can tell.”
“How do you know that?” Jim asked defensively, “I could very well be…” Why was he arguing with this woman?
“No you weren’t, you were debating something else in your head. It’s okay, I understand. Sometimes the things in our head need to get out somewhere. If you don’t let it out, it can drive you crazy. That’s why I keep a journal,” she finished.
Shocked, Jim stared at the woman, mouth hanging wide open. “How did you… You can’t possibly…”
“Can’t possibly know what?” she smiled.
“Nothing,” Jim said. “It’s nothing. My name is Jim, by the way.”
“Gloria Fortuna,” the old woman said, shaking Jim’s outstretched hand. “Oh, nice grip, young Jim, I hate men who won’t give me a strong handshake! Just ‘cause I’m old doesn’t mean I’m weak!”
Jim smiled in spite of himself. He did not know who this woman was, but he liked her. Crazy as it seemed, there was a sparkle in her eye, a literal sparkle. Life seemed to flow from her wrinkled skin, her knobby knuckles, her graying, curly hair.
Day Twenty-Seven: I'm in the Zone, Folks
I can feel it! I'm about to eat some ice cream, and then going to knock out another writing session after that! EXCLAMATION POINTS BABY! Furthermore, the guide gives you thirty one cards, depending on whether you write your novel on a thirty or thirty-one day month. I was only going to write for 30 days, but LOOK OUT! I'm feeling kind of saucy today! I may get crazy and go overboard...
(I, what is this feeling... It feels like... the beginnings of... overachieving? I know I haven't enter that magical, geeky realm, but I've never even been this close to look in from the outside... Ya'll got some nice houses in there, overachievers! Ha!)
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 2689
Surplus/Deficit: 189
J.W.B.: 2980
An excerpt, you say? Let's see what we got...
"When my number was called, I tried to remain calm. I walked to the woman who was waving her arm at me. Putting on my most gentile customer service face, I walked up and said, “Goood afternoon, how are ya, today?”
“What do you need today?” she asked, cutting through my bullshit.
Not to be discouraged, I handed her my ticket, and said, “Well, I was hoping to change my ticket, today,” smiling. “I’ve been gone from home for a long time, and I saw online that there are flights leaving tomorrow, Wednesday, and Saturday-“
She cut me off again, “Oh no, no, no, you will not get on the flight tomorrow,” she said immediately, no typing, no phone calls, nothing. This was accompanied by the ubiquitous Indian head bobble, which is sort of like a cross between a shaking your head, only on a you take your chin, and point it first at your right shoulder, then move it smoothly over to the left shoulder. It can be a very amusing gesture. When it’s directed at you, and is part of a package deal denying your hopes and dreams at the time, it is infuriating.
Taken aback, I pressed. “Do you think you could try? Can’t you look up the flights?”
“Yes, Mr. Hunt, I can look up the flights, but I do not think there will be any seat available,” she sighed, with a slight roll of the eyes. Another very slight head bob. Would I be able to escape the office if I murdered her, I thought. Where is the nearest emergency exit…
With blazing speed, she typed away at the keyboard. Her lips pursed several times, and she picked up the phone and began talking without dialing a number. Hanging up, she tilted her head to the left, like a head bob on pause, and said, “I am sorry, Mr. Hunt, the soonest I can move your flight up would be September 12th.”
“That’s only two days before I’m scheduled to leave now!” I exclaimed. The walls, they weren’t closing in, they were already on top of me. When did I start sweating?"
(I, what is this feeling... It feels like... the beginnings of... overachieving? I know I haven't enter that magical, geeky realm, but I've never even been this close to look in from the outside... Ya'll got some nice houses in there, overachievers! Ha!)
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 2689
Surplus/Deficit: 189
J.W.B.: 2980
An excerpt, you say? Let's see what we got...
"When my number was called, I tried to remain calm. I walked to the woman who was waving her arm at me. Putting on my most gentile customer service face, I walked up and said, “Goood afternoon, how are ya, today?”
“What do you need today?” she asked, cutting through my bullshit.
Not to be discouraged, I handed her my ticket, and said, “Well, I was hoping to change my ticket, today,” smiling. “I’ve been gone from home for a long time, and I saw online that there are flights leaving tomorrow, Wednesday, and Saturday-“
She cut me off again, “Oh no, no, no, you will not get on the flight tomorrow,” she said immediately, no typing, no phone calls, nothing. This was accompanied by the ubiquitous Indian head bobble, which is sort of like a cross between a shaking your head, only on a you take your chin, and point it first at your right shoulder, then move it smoothly over to the left shoulder. It can be a very amusing gesture. When it’s directed at you, and is part of a package deal denying your hopes and dreams at the time, it is infuriating.
Taken aback, I pressed. “Do you think you could try? Can’t you look up the flights?”
“Yes, Mr. Hunt, I can look up the flights, but I do not think there will be any seat available,” she sighed, with a slight roll of the eyes. Another very slight head bob. Would I be able to escape the office if I murdered her, I thought. Where is the nearest emergency exit…
With blazing speed, she typed away at the keyboard. Her lips pursed several times, and she picked up the phone and began talking without dialing a number. Hanging up, she tilted her head to the left, like a head bob on pause, and said, “I am sorry, Mr. Hunt, the soonest I can move your flight up would be September 12th.”
“That’s only two days before I’m scheduled to leave now!” I exclaimed. The walls, they weren’t closing in, they were already on top of me. When did I start sweating?"
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Day Twenty-Six: Are Things Coming Together?
At times, it feels like it. This book could end up having a half readable plot... Before I start editing, even! Oh, that's probably false confidence, but it could come together. Right now. Over me.
Someday this week I'm going to have to have another double day. According to my schedule, I'm due to finish writing on Saturday. However, in case you have been on sight in Pluto making sure it really is a planet, the seventh Harry Potter book comes out on Friday night at 12:00 A.M. I will do nothing but read that book from the moment it touches my hand. The apocalypse may come, and the Four Horsemen may be knocking at the door, and the heavens and the hells opening up and spilling all the souls they may contain! I, however, will be in my room, reading, occasionally screaming, "Will ya'll keep it down out there! I understand this is the war to end all wars, but this is the Deathly Hallows, here! Good grief..."
Thus. This book, for better or worse, will be done by Friday. WHOA. What an interesting sentence. I like it.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 2538 (by the skin of my teeth)
Surplus/Deficit: 38
J.W.B.: 3791
"False peak. A phrase said with venom by hikers and mountaineers across the globe. It sounded so innocuous when he first heard it. Rowing crew his freshman year, the team practiced on Stone Mountain lake, a little under 30 minutes from Emory’s campus. Josh, their third year law student coach, brought them to the foot of the mountain days after they did not row well enough to his liking.
“Hey, if you guys don’t feel like rowing, we don’t have to row!” he said one day in the van on the way up to the lake. The mutinous attitude in the vehicle began to lift. Scents of freedom and rest wafted through the van.
“Really?” one of his boat mates said, the anxiousness in his voice almost palpable. “That’d be awesome, I have so much homework due this week, I…”
Everyone began to buzz about what they were going to do with their free afternoon. Sleep, catch up on work, run by that cute girl’s dorm room and see if she was around (and see what she was wearing. That girl wore some crazy shit around the dorms!). The cheerfulness sank out of the long van as Coach Josh drove past the exit they thought he was going to turn around on.
“Josh, I thought you were-“ Doug started, but Josh cut him off.
“Oh we’re not going back,” Josh said, grinning from ear to ear. “No, all I said was we aren’t rowing today. I’ve got something in mind for ya’ll.”
That something was running up Stone Mountain. Hiking the peak is not incredibly easy, though it was not too hard for young guys in shape as they were. But running? As they started off, trudging up the mountain, their coach called out for them, “I’ll buy dinner for whoever tells me how many false peaks there are!”
Someday this week I'm going to have to have another double day. According to my schedule, I'm due to finish writing on Saturday. However, in case you have been on sight in Pluto making sure it really is a planet, the seventh Harry Potter book comes out on Friday night at 12:00 A.M. I will do nothing but read that book from the moment it touches my hand. The apocalypse may come, and the Four Horsemen may be knocking at the door, and the heavens and the hells opening up and spilling all the souls they may contain! I, however, will be in my room, reading, occasionally screaming, "Will ya'll keep it down out there! I understand this is the war to end all wars, but this is the Deathly Hallows, here! Good grief..."
Thus. This book, for better or worse, will be done by Friday. WHOA. What an interesting sentence. I like it.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 2538 (by the skin of my teeth)
Surplus/Deficit: 38
J.W.B.: 3791
"False peak. A phrase said with venom by hikers and mountaineers across the globe. It sounded so innocuous when he first heard it. Rowing crew his freshman year, the team practiced on Stone Mountain lake, a little under 30 minutes from Emory’s campus. Josh, their third year law student coach, brought them to the foot of the mountain days after they did not row well enough to his liking.
“Hey, if you guys don’t feel like rowing, we don’t have to row!” he said one day in the van on the way up to the lake. The mutinous attitude in the vehicle began to lift. Scents of freedom and rest wafted through the van.
“Really?” one of his boat mates said, the anxiousness in his voice almost palpable. “That’d be awesome, I have so much homework due this week, I…”
Everyone began to buzz about what they were going to do with their free afternoon. Sleep, catch up on work, run by that cute girl’s dorm room and see if she was around (and see what she was wearing. That girl wore some crazy shit around the dorms!). The cheerfulness sank out of the long van as Coach Josh drove past the exit they thought he was going to turn around on.
“Josh, I thought you were-“ Doug started, but Josh cut him off.
“Oh we’re not going back,” Josh said, grinning from ear to ear. “No, all I said was we aren’t rowing today. I’ve got something in mind for ya’ll.”
That something was running up Stone Mountain. Hiking the peak is not incredibly easy, though it was not too hard for young guys in shape as they were. But running? As they started off, trudging up the mountain, their coach called out for them, “I’ll buy dinner for whoever tells me how many false peaks there are!”
Monday, July 16, 2007
Day Twenty-Five: Thank You, Family. I Love Ya'll.
I can't think of anything more inspirational than choral hymns. I recommend Carmina Burana: O Fortuna if you are planning on starting anything particularly arduous or challenging. What religious tradition did I grow up in? Ha! The past, she catches up, she holds on, her roots, they be deep. Time for some sleep.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 2608
Surplus/Deficit: 108
J.W.B.: 3753
“Keep up, cause it gets a little complicated,” she started, nearly whispering. He leaned in to hear her better. “I know the person who found your journal, yes. Three days ago, I received an email from your acquaintance Al. I met him at the show in Atlanta, and he told that he may know who the journal belonged to. I told him that I would love to bring things full circle and return the journal to the person who wrote it, but I was not the person to talk to.”
“What do you mean, you weren’t the person to talk to-“ he started, but was stifled as Woody held up a hand, taking down another half of new beer."
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's Word Count: 2608
Surplus/Deficit: 108
J.W.B.: 3753
“Keep up, cause it gets a little complicated,” she started, nearly whispering. He leaned in to hear her better. “I know the person who found your journal, yes. Three days ago, I received an email from your acquaintance Al. I met him at the show in Atlanta, and he told that he may know who the journal belonged to. I told him that I would love to bring things full circle and return the journal to the person who wrote it, but I was not the person to talk to.”
“What do you mean, you weren’t the person to talk to-“ he started, but was stifled as Woody held up a hand, taking down another half of new beer."
Day Twenty-Four: I am a Liar
Maybe I'm not so much a liar, as I am bad at math. I thought I could make it to 50,000 words during this writing session, but I was mistaken. Faulty math, somewhere in there. I'm trying to be a writer people, not an engineer. "I'm a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech and a hellava... author... eer..." Dammit all to hell. If I do today's writing, well, today, then I should knock 50,000 out of the water. Don't hold your breath.
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (Sunday's) Word Count: 2543
Surplus/Deficit: 43
J.W.B.: 3645
Today's Excerpt:
"Paper fell like leaves as he began to sift through the laden table. His journal was here, it had to be. At least ten feet in length, he patted down the entire table, flipped portions of it over and over, growing desperate, almost panicky with each section that turned up empty. Anger at himself and his own self destruction, his own weakness, slowly boiled over as he systematically swept sections of the paper onto the floor, creating a strange, voyeuristic winter wonderland. Other patrons stepped back and watched him, some worried, others with blank attempts at interest. Finally, someone who worked there came in.
“Hey, hey, what the hell are you doing?” she said loudly, eyes bulging at the mess he had made. Taking her in, he saw that this woman wore urban camoflauge pants, grays and blacks and different shades of blue splotched around. The pants clashed horribly with the bright green tank top that hung from her body like a limp flag, hoping for any breeze at all. Her limbs seemed too long for her short torso, and her face was long as a boat. Light brown eyes shot out from her face, and spiky, styled hair emanated from her head like liquid electricity. The anger billowing from her bumped against the steady cloud that had been building up in him for years, and she looked at his eyes with curiosity.
“What are you doing?” she asked again, in a calm voice this time, squatting so that she was on his level.
“I’m looking for my journal,” he said after holding her gaze for several seconds. “It’s a brown, leather bound journal, with a long cord that you can wrap around it twice, and it’s more important to me than you can know and I need it back.”
Whether it was the urgency in his voice or the small pool of tears in his right eye, she sat down and pulled her legs in, Indian style. The anger left her face as she said softly, “So you must be Al’s friend, right?”
“Yes, sort of,” he replied, both shocked that she knew Al and relatively unimpressed. Nothing about this journey surprised him anymore.
“I don’t have your journal,” Woody Kidwell said. “But I can tell you who does.”
Daily Goal: 2500
Today's (Sunday's) Word Count: 2543
Surplus/Deficit: 43
J.W.B.: 3645
Today's Excerpt:
"Paper fell like leaves as he began to sift through the laden table. His journal was here, it had to be. At least ten feet in length, he patted down the entire table, flipped portions of it over and over, growing desperate, almost panicky with each section that turned up empty. Anger at himself and his own self destruction, his own weakness, slowly boiled over as he systematically swept sections of the paper onto the floor, creating a strange, voyeuristic winter wonderland. Other patrons stepped back and watched him, some worried, others with blank attempts at interest. Finally, someone who worked there came in.
“Hey, hey, what the hell are you doing?” she said loudly, eyes bulging at the mess he had made. Taking her in, he saw that this woman wore urban camoflauge pants, grays and blacks and different shades of blue splotched around. The pants clashed horribly with the bright green tank top that hung from her body like a limp flag, hoping for any breeze at all. Her limbs seemed too long for her short torso, and her face was long as a boat. Light brown eyes shot out from her face, and spiky, styled hair emanated from her head like liquid electricity. The anger billowing from her bumped against the steady cloud that had been building up in him for years, and she looked at his eyes with curiosity.
“What are you doing?” she asked again, in a calm voice this time, squatting so that she was on his level.
“I’m looking for my journal,” he said after holding her gaze for several seconds. “It’s a brown, leather bound journal, with a long cord that you can wrap around it twice, and it’s more important to me than you can know and I need it back.”
Whether it was the urgency in his voice or the small pool of tears in his right eye, she sat down and pulled her legs in, Indian style. The anger left her face as she said softly, “So you must be Al’s friend, right?”
“Yes, sort of,” he replied, both shocked that she knew Al and relatively unimpressed. Nothing about this journey surprised him anymore.
“I don’t have your journal,” Woody Kidwell said. “But I can tell you who does.”
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Day Twenty-Three: Ok, One Promise
I promise that I will make 50,000 words. As of my last writing session, I am at 48,098 words. It is entirely possible that things started going downhill roughly 15,ooo words ago- plot not starting to make sense, just throwing in old stories I enjoy telling, trying to make up my own 'National Treasure' like code embedded in the text that some dork (probably Steve Zahn) can follow to the jar of quarters buried in my backyard, one day. Nonetheless, I will make 50,000 words.
So this leads to a little more channeling of my old wrestling coach. We often finished off our practices with a little something Coach Rivers liked to call 'shark bait'. Shark bait requires explaining: Four wrestlers in a group. Each wrestler picks a number, 1 through 4. To start, number one wrestles two, then number three, then number four. The cycle begins again as number two wrestles number three, then number four, then number one. Finally, number three wrestles each person starting with number four. In the end, you think you're going to die. So you're gasping for breath, fairly certain you can hear death whispering in your ear, when Coach Rivers would say, "Oh man, that was great. You know, that was so good, I think we need to do another one of those. Yep, everyone group back up, pick a different number, and let's do it again." Seriously, I want to be this man.
I write all this because I don't think I'm punishing myself enough. I'm bumping the word count up again. We're going with 2500 to start, and I may up it from there, we'll see.
Daily Word Goal: 2000
Saturday's Word Count: 2234
Surplus/Deficit: 234
J.W.B.: Crazy-good.
[Note: names are changed because I can. You know who you are if I'm writing about you.]
"When Jed's turn came, the young barber smiled big, wolf big, and gestured to the seat in front of him. Jed sat down, was spun around. From Archie to Achal, Jed's general hair desire was conveyed. Blonde hair began to flow down amongst that day’s pond of local black clippings. That’s when the man began to talk to Jed in a tone that he could recognize as hostile, even if he could not understand the words. With each snip of the shears, the man seemed to be making a point through Jed. The crowd gathered around laughed often, and sometimes grew serious, a couple people almost looking worried. Archie looked worried. Jed smiled when everyone else laughed, and shrugged when the man asked him questions he could not answer. Why he asked for a shave, Jed could not remember, as the questions seemed to grow more and more pointed the closer this man got to vital veins. At one point, the man stopped shaving, asked Jed a question, and waited for an answer. His face was smothered with contempt and anger. The razor was held in his hand, no where near Jed's neck, but his imagination ran wild. The Indian man expected an answer."
Check in tomorrow, when I include another shout out to Coach Rivers. Via request, I will post a picture capturing Coach Rivers' immortal "Oh, did he getcha in the nuts?" quote. (Thank you, Trey. I will do my best).
So this leads to a little more channeling of my old wrestling coach. We often finished off our practices with a little something Coach Rivers liked to call 'shark bait'. Shark bait requires explaining: Four wrestlers in a group. Each wrestler picks a number, 1 through 4. To start, number one wrestles two, then number three, then number four. The cycle begins again as number two wrestles number three, then number four, then number one. Finally, number three wrestles each person starting with number four. In the end, you think you're going to die. So you're gasping for breath, fairly certain you can hear death whispering in your ear, when Coach Rivers would say, "Oh man, that was great. You know, that was so good, I think we need to do another one of those. Yep, everyone group back up, pick a different number, and let's do it again." Seriously, I want to be this man.
I write all this because I don't think I'm punishing myself enough. I'm bumping the word count up again. We're going with 2500 to start, and I may up it from there, we'll see.
Daily Word Goal: 2000
Saturday's Word Count: 2234
Surplus/Deficit: 234
J.W.B.: Crazy-good.
[Note: names are changed because I can. You know who you are if I'm writing about you.]
"When Jed's turn came, the young barber smiled big, wolf big, and gestured to the seat in front of him. Jed sat down, was spun around. From Archie to Achal, Jed's general hair desire was conveyed. Blonde hair began to flow down amongst that day’s pond of local black clippings. That’s when the man began to talk to Jed in a tone that he could recognize as hostile, even if he could not understand the words. With each snip of the shears, the man seemed to be making a point through Jed. The crowd gathered around laughed often, and sometimes grew serious, a couple people almost looking worried. Archie looked worried. Jed smiled when everyone else laughed, and shrugged when the man asked him questions he could not answer. Why he asked for a shave, Jed could not remember, as the questions seemed to grow more and more pointed the closer this man got to vital veins. At one point, the man stopped shaving, asked Jed a question, and waited for an answer. His face was smothered with contempt and anger. The razor was held in his hand, no where near Jed's neck, but his imagination ran wild. The Indian man expected an answer."
Check in tomorrow, when I include another shout out to Coach Rivers. Via request, I will post a picture capturing Coach Rivers' immortal "Oh, did he getcha in the nuts?" quote. (Thank you, Trey. I will do my best).
Day Twenty-Two: No Promises
Sorry, sorry, my bad. I did not get two posts done on Friday, like I swore I would. Just a bald faced lie. Yesterday, Nicole and I hung out with our friends' newborn child and tried to let her pure, radiant goodness pour over us and make us better people. Or at least, I did. Nicole just got a refresher course in how to be an angel, where as little Stella had to put forth all the cute, baby powers she possessed to force back the dark bitterness and cynicism in me.
Let me tell you, she did a damn good job! I was this close, this close!, to believing that people can make a positive difference in the world. Not anymore. You have to be a powerful infant full of light to change the world, and they can't speak, which doesn't help. Though all that baby squeaking goes a long way.
Daily Goal: 2000
Friday's Word Count: 2063
Surplus/Deficit: 63
Jimeral Word Bank Account Holdings: 3368
My goal for today is to have two more writing sessions, though we'll see how that goes. Unless I promise like a gozibbillion words, I don't seem to take goals serious anymore. Oh, and this first writing session back was crap. No excerpt this time.
Let me tell you, she did a damn good job! I was this close, this close!, to believing that people can make a positive difference in the world. Not anymore. You have to be a powerful infant full of light to change the world, and they can't speak, which doesn't help. Though all that baby squeaking goes a long way.
Daily Goal: 2000
Friday's Word Count: 2063
Surplus/Deficit: 63
Jimeral Word Bank Account Holdings: 3368
My goal for today is to have two more writing sessions, though we'll see how that goes. Unless I promise like a gozibbillion words, I don't seem to take goals serious anymore. Oh, and this first writing session back was crap. No excerpt this time.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Day Twenty One: The First of Two Today
I'm not even going to acknowledge the fact that I am behind at all. In fact, I'm not. I'm ahead. Way ahead, by like a skajillion days. Don't judge me.
Can I say, real quick, that no sequel-type movie this summer titillated me in any way. That may be a little harsh, but let's run down the list.
1) Spiderman 3- so phenomenally retarded I came out of the movie and couldn't figure out how to get into my car. It made me that stupid. Really, Peter Parker goes 'emo'? My favorite part of talking about that movie was telling my friend Dani about Spiderman's 'emo' strut through the streets of New York. She said, "I know, wasn't that ridiculous! ... What does emo mean?" Love her, she lives in London, it's a hard life to live.
2) Shrek 3- not horrible, but not great. The story seemed interesting, but the recycled jokes were already a bit stale when told during the second movie. This time, they simply seemed sad. Disappointing.
3) Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End- alright, I'm sorry for the G-rated readers out there, but how do you fuck this up? Wonderful story, fabulous actors, dedicated fans waiting with baited breath in the wings? And for what? Crabs. Johnny Depp is saved by desert rock crabs. I read a review in which the critic said this movie continued with the feeling of the second, in that everything was being made up as the filming went along. While I did enjoy the movie to a certain degree, I think they tried to pack too much in. Which is saying a lot, considering the movie was a week long.
4) Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix- Listen, my hopes had already been so dashed by this point that I wasn't expecting much more than a Dachshund turd on my shoe. And I was not disappointed. Am I a bad judge of acting, or are the folk who play Harry, Ron, and Hermoine in the films (Daneil Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson, respectively) not improving as thespians? At all? Again, I'm not sure what I expected, I don't want to be too harsh, but if you're going to take a chainsaw to the book's storyline (No problem there, the book was over 900 pages long), then at least make sure the acting is top notch. Don't get me started on Dumbledore. This new Dumbledore, I mean good Lord! He might as well be the headmaster in the Pink Floyd's the Wall. More than anything, that's some piss poor directing. Dumbledore as a literary character deserves nothing more than to rock, be awesome, and make you love him at all times. You don't love this Dumbledore, not like you do in the books. Shameful.
Sorry about that. Seeing HP5 threw me for a bit of a loop, had to release some cinema steam. To business.
Daily Goal: 2000
Today's/Yesterday's Word Count: 2212
Surplus/Deficit: 212
J.W.B.: 3305
"What he really needed was a hotel that would let him rent a room for half a day. That would give him enough time to shower and clean up, and get dressed into flight gear. Flight gear meant jeans and a button up, collared, white linen shirt, an ensemble that he felt gave him a better shot at looking respectable when checking in, passing through security, and not drawing too much attention at customs. Erroneous or no, it was custom now, one which he must keep.
Finding such an establishment turned out to a bit more of a challenge than he hoped, as he was turned down at the first four hostels that he inquired. The fifth one, a shabby looking hotel off the main road in the district most popular with backpackers, seemed more than willing to accommodate him. A stout woman took him into his room and showed him around, handing him the key as she walked out. She kept her hand in his as she gave him the key, however, and looked at him with a dawning doubt.
“This room only for you, ok?” she said, eyes narrowed, tone misgiving.
“What?” he asked, exhausted and ready for a nap.
“No guests, ok?” she said, growing forceful with her words, her stature swelling. “No ladies up here, ok?”
It still took him a moment to comprehend what she was insinuating, her hand still holding on to his, and the key. The look of final warning stormed onto the woman’s face.
“If you pay by the hour, it can only be you, no ladies come and stay with you. Ok?”
Prostitutes. Prostitution. When was he going to finish Full Metal Jacket?
“Oh God no! No no no, no! Yes, it’s just going to be me, I promise!”
His slowness on the uptake did not seem to have convinced her, and he had to yank the key out of her hand. Smiling as innocently as he could, her frown morphed into a deep grimace which she kept on him until the door closed on her face."
Can I say, real quick, that no sequel-type movie this summer titillated me in any way. That may be a little harsh, but let's run down the list.
1) Spiderman 3- so phenomenally retarded I came out of the movie and couldn't figure out how to get into my car. It made me that stupid. Really, Peter Parker goes 'emo'? My favorite part of talking about that movie was telling my friend Dani about Spiderman's 'emo' strut through the streets of New York. She said, "I know, wasn't that ridiculous! ... What does emo mean?" Love her, she lives in London, it's a hard life to live.
2) Shrek 3- not horrible, but not great. The story seemed interesting, but the recycled jokes were already a bit stale when told during the second movie. This time, they simply seemed sad. Disappointing.
3) Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End- alright, I'm sorry for the G-rated readers out there, but how do you fuck this up? Wonderful story, fabulous actors, dedicated fans waiting with baited breath in the wings? And for what? Crabs. Johnny Depp is saved by desert rock crabs. I read a review in which the critic said this movie continued with the feeling of the second, in that everything was being made up as the filming went along. While I did enjoy the movie to a certain degree, I think they tried to pack too much in. Which is saying a lot, considering the movie was a week long.
4) Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix- Listen, my hopes had already been so dashed by this point that I wasn't expecting much more than a Dachshund turd on my shoe. And I was not disappointed. Am I a bad judge of acting, or are the folk who play Harry, Ron, and Hermoine in the films (Daneil Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson, respectively) not improving as thespians? At all? Again, I'm not sure what I expected, I don't want to be too harsh, but if you're going to take a chainsaw to the book's storyline (No problem there, the book was over 900 pages long), then at least make sure the acting is top notch. Don't get me started on Dumbledore. This new Dumbledore, I mean good Lord! He might as well be the headmaster in the Pink Floyd's the Wall. More than anything, that's some piss poor directing. Dumbledore as a literary character deserves nothing more than to rock, be awesome, and make you love him at all times. You don't love this Dumbledore, not like you do in the books. Shameful.
Sorry about that. Seeing HP5 threw me for a bit of a loop, had to release some cinema steam. To business.
Daily Goal: 2000
Today's/Yesterday's Word Count: 2212
Surplus/Deficit: 212
J.W.B.: 3305
"What he really needed was a hotel that would let him rent a room for half a day. That would give him enough time to shower and clean up, and get dressed into flight gear. Flight gear meant jeans and a button up, collared, white linen shirt, an ensemble that he felt gave him a better shot at looking respectable when checking in, passing through security, and not drawing too much attention at customs. Erroneous or no, it was custom now, one which he must keep.
Finding such an establishment turned out to a bit more of a challenge than he hoped, as he was turned down at the first four hostels that he inquired. The fifth one, a shabby looking hotel off the main road in the district most popular with backpackers, seemed more than willing to accommodate him. A stout woman took him into his room and showed him around, handing him the key as she walked out. She kept her hand in his as she gave him the key, however, and looked at him with a dawning doubt.
“This room only for you, ok?” she said, eyes narrowed, tone misgiving.
“What?” he asked, exhausted and ready for a nap.
“No guests, ok?” she said, growing forceful with her words, her stature swelling. “No ladies up here, ok?”
It still took him a moment to comprehend what she was insinuating, her hand still holding on to his, and the key. The look of final warning stormed onto the woman’s face.
“If you pay by the hour, it can only be you, no ladies come and stay with you. Ok?”
Prostitutes. Prostitution. When was he going to finish Full Metal Jacket?
“Oh God no! No no no, no! Yes, it’s just going to be me, I promise!”
His slowness on the uptake did not seem to have convinced her, and he had to yank the key out of her hand. Smiling as innocently as he could, her frown morphed into a deep grimace which she kept on him until the door closed on her face."
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Day Twenty: Beware Too Much Celebration
You've got to be careful how you go about celebrating the writing of many words. For example, several beers and a meal with your friends: perfect. However, several beers + n = a lost day of work. In this case n is equal to 'sheer stupidity X convergence of the Triumvirate for the last such drink fest for a year^eating too many black beans at lunch the following day'. Lesson learned. I can't drink quite as many beers at 25 as I did when I was 22, and that is a good thing for my liver, and overall quality of life in general. Not to mention less of a strain on my damn wallet.
Onward.
Daily Goal: 2000
Yesterday/Wednesday's Word Count: 2304
Surplus/Deficit: 304
J.W.B.: 3103
Before I post an excerpt, congratulations to my spectacular friends Xavier and Diedra, and the arrival of their brand new baby girl, Stella Margarita. She is truly a sight to behold, a gem of a child, a beautiful new life, indeed. Honored to take even the smallest part, and looking forward to being Tio Jaime, once more.
"Thus, the only entry into town he made that day was to pick up his new suit and pants. Luckily for the tailor who sewed his garments, he was still so drunk from the night before that he did not inspect the fit of his new digs, and exclaimed that they were perfect. They were not. Far from it. He would be too embarrassed to go back later and ask for them to be refitted.
After that, he ate a late lunch, his only meal of the day, in the town’s only Indian restaurant. The slowly recovering part of his wounded brain advised that it seemed a little to silly to be eating Indian food in Vietnam, especially since he was going to be in India within ten days. Logic was lost on him at that point, though. Indian food it was, and the bowel issues that came with it.
The afternoon was slept away. Awaking later that night, around 9:30 P.M., he sat up and contemplated going out that night, doing the whole thing over again. Unfortunately for his brain, its strength was not returned enough to make an argument to stay in and recover. Standing, hurting, he wandered out of his room and into the sticky Vietnamese night, making a note that he needed to buy a pack of cigarettes the first chance he got."
Onward.
Daily Goal: 2000
Yesterday/Wednesday's Word Count: 2304
Surplus/Deficit: 304
J.W.B.: 3103
Before I post an excerpt, congratulations to my spectacular friends Xavier and Diedra, and the arrival of their brand new baby girl, Stella Margarita. She is truly a sight to behold, a gem of a child, a beautiful new life, indeed. Honored to take even the smallest part, and looking forward to being Tio Jaime, once more.
"Thus, the only entry into town he made that day was to pick up his new suit and pants. Luckily for the tailor who sewed his garments, he was still so drunk from the night before that he did not inspect the fit of his new digs, and exclaimed that they were perfect. They were not. Far from it. He would be too embarrassed to go back later and ask for them to be refitted.
After that, he ate a late lunch, his only meal of the day, in the town’s only Indian restaurant. The slowly recovering part of his wounded brain advised that it seemed a little to silly to be eating Indian food in Vietnam, especially since he was going to be in India within ten days. Logic was lost on him at that point, though. Indian food it was, and the bowel issues that came with it.
The afternoon was slept away. Awaking later that night, around 9:30 P.M., he sat up and contemplated going out that night, doing the whole thing over again. Unfortunately for his brain, its strength was not returned enough to make an argument to stay in and recover. Standing, hurting, he wandered out of his room and into the sticky Vietnamese night, making a note that he needed to buy a pack of cigarettes the first chance he got."
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Day Nineteen: That's Right!
Welcome back to the land of being caught up! For all of you who wrote papers on time, won your elementary school's award for perfect attendance, and/or never lived on the edge of failure? You don't know what you're missing. That said, I will not fall behind again. My brain feels like bananas flambe that was not put out in time to be edible.The picture is my shout-out to my old wrestling coach, Coach Rivers. This is called the 'solid' fist. If you do something really cool, you pump your fist once, hold, and say 'solid' in the deepest voice you can. Thus: "I caught back up! Solid."
Daily Goal: 2000
TODAY WORD COUNT: 2473
Surplus/Deficit: 473
J.W.B.: 2799
“You hungry?” Tam said, eyes beaming again. “My friend have restaurant, good food, I can take you!”
All the suspicions that had faded in him while he and Tam talked flamed back up, and he thought it best to ask a few questions, then politely decline.
“Is it close by?” he asked.
“No no, it over in new city.” Sensing his hesitancy, he urged, “Come, it very good food, you like it, I promise.”
He stood there, looking at this diminutive man who told him minutes earlier about his wife and child, his desire to learn English and leave Vietnam. This is retarded, he thought, as he heard the words, “Sure, let’s go,” escape his mouth. Five minutes later, he was on the back of a motorbike, awkwardly grabbing Tam around his waist, flying through the chaotic streets of Hanoi. He had quickly lost his sense of direction as they pulled away from the lake, and he hoped that if he was robbed by Tam and friends of his, they would at least let him keep the film from his new SLR camera, and maybe tell him where the embassy was so he could replace his passport."
Day Eighteen: Almost Caught Up
I'm not sure what I'm going to do once I do get caught back up. The title's of my post won't have anything to with lateness, or procrastination. I mean, this is virtually all I know! We'll see what happens.
Daily Goal: 2000
Yesterday/Monday's Word Count: 2316
Surplus/Deficit: 316
J.W.B.: 2326
"As he contemplated living off Taiwanese airport cuisine for the rest of his life, he rounded a corner and nearly crapped his pants in delight as he saw his departing flight’s number glowing sweetly from a gate in front of him. That settled, and with a couple hours to spare before his flight took off, he went in search of the bathroom. Finding one, he entered, opened the first stall he came to... then shook his head vigorously, hoping to return the scene to normal. What looked like a perfectly usable urinal, if a little shallow, seemed to resting in the ground, with a little roll of toilet paper next to it. The new sight caught his attention for long enough that a man behind him muttered what he supposed was an ‘excuse me’, squeezed by, and began to pull his pants down while squatting.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, jumping out of the stall he had briefly shared with the man and closing the door behind him quickly. He supposed that this was a squat toilet, a bathroom fixture that requires no explanation outside its given name. ‘I don’t need an explanation, I just got a demonstration!’ he thought to himself, entering a regular, sit -down to shit style toilet with a sigh."
Daily Goal: 2000
Yesterday/Monday's Word Count: 2316
Surplus/Deficit: 316
J.W.B.: 2326
"As he contemplated living off Taiwanese airport cuisine for the rest of his life, he rounded a corner and nearly crapped his pants in delight as he saw his departing flight’s number glowing sweetly from a gate in front of him. That settled, and with a couple hours to spare before his flight took off, he went in search of the bathroom. Finding one, he entered, opened the first stall he came to... then shook his head vigorously, hoping to return the scene to normal. What looked like a perfectly usable urinal, if a little shallow, seemed to resting in the ground, with a little roll of toilet paper next to it. The new sight caught his attention for long enough that a man behind him muttered what he supposed was an ‘excuse me’, squeezed by, and began to pull his pants down while squatting.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, jumping out of the stall he had briefly shared with the man and closing the door behind him quickly. He supposed that this was a squat toilet, a bathroom fixture that requires no explanation outside its given name. ‘I don’t need an explanation, I just got a demonstration!’ he thought to himself, entering a regular, sit -down to shit style toilet with a sigh."
Monday, July 9, 2007
Day Seventeen: One Day Late
On the east coast, this would technically be two days late. However, blogger seems to have their posting times set up through the Pacific time zone, which is fine by me, because it means I wrote 10000 words in one day.
Boo. Ya. Put 'em together. What's that spell? Greatness, people. Greatness. I owe Mr. Pell 50 scrint. You don't know what that means unless you're from the Sparkle Sparkle. I'm writing this from my bed. It's time for sleep.
Daily Goal: 2000
Sunday's Word Count: 2012
Surplus/Deficit: YOU DO THE MATH
J.W.B.: 2010
Here goes (hwarf):
"He admired the majesty of the mountains rising in front and all around him, but he did not envy the residents of such parts nearly as much as he once had, when he desperately thought he must have mountains in his life. Scanning through the radio stations, he did not come across a single preacher, yelling to him about the damnation of his soul. More head shaking came as he thought, ‘God, I miss the South even when people are talking about the future burning of my inner ethers, even when I have some of the most gorgeous landscapes screaming for admiration all around me. Lord have mercy.’
Boo. Ya. Put 'em together. What's that spell? Greatness, people. Greatness. I owe Mr. Pell 50 scrint. You don't know what that means unless you're from the Sparkle Sparkle. I'm writing this from my bed. It's time for sleep.
Daily Goal: 2000
Sunday's Word Count: 2012
Surplus/Deficit: YOU DO THE MATH
J.W.B.: 2010
Here goes (hwarf):
"He admired the majesty of the mountains rising in front and all around him, but he did not envy the residents of such parts nearly as much as he once had, when he desperately thought he must have mountains in his life. Scanning through the radio stations, he did not come across a single preacher, yelling to him about the damnation of his soul. More head shaking came as he thought, ‘God, I miss the South even when people are talking about the future burning of my inner ethers, even when I have some of the most gorgeous landscapes screaming for admiration all around me. Lord have mercy.’
Day Sixteen: Two Days Late
Man, let me quote William Faulkner and say "When my horse is running good, I don't stop to give him sugar." Have I already used this quote, once? Maybe... Donde estan los numeros... I feel like.. Oof.
Daily Goal: 2000
Saturday's Word Count: 2172
Surplus/Deficit: 172
J.W.B.: 1998
Okay, it took 8,000 in a day, but I wrote something that I think I like. Remember, anything you think is tacky pap or just plain stupid, please tell me. I won't take it the wrong way. (As this is something I somewhat like, it's a bit on the longer side. I know it needs a lot of work and clarification, so I'll remind ya'll [and myself] that this is merely a rough, shitty, first draft). Onwards.
The closer he got to the journal in his mind, though, and the more he thought about it, the more his thoughts and worries and nightmares swirled and coursed and dashed about his brain, as if he had built up a dam for three years to keep those memories out, and it was threatening to come tumbling down. Journals had captured his most terrible and horrible thoughts for years, and not held them prisoner, but rehabilitated them, taken care of them, until Jim could flip back through those pages at what he thought were his worse moments in life and say, “There now, you aren’t so scary, are you? All you needed was some time, some caring patience, and now I’m not scared of you so more.” So maybe that was part of the reason he needed to get this journal back so badly. All the memories, thoughts, worried, nightmares, of that time in his life, had backed up, retreated, hidden in the darkest recesses of his mind, incapable of being treated and shown the light like all the other hard times in his life. He might have coped with them, let them out through therapy or meds or watched them seep out on their own over the years, in good ways, and in many bad actions and ways. Whether it was true or not, he could not help but feel the last three years of self-destruction were tied to that journal. Those painful, torturesome memories wanted out, they wanted clarification, they wanted to know their history. The journal was their history. It was so close. They were doing their best to help Jim find the journal, yet that was turning him into someone he thought he had left behind, moved on from. He had only hidden that person away. He could not keep the dark thoughts in darkness, anymore. If he did not find the journal, he would have to find a way to release them. If he found the journal, they could crawl and skitter back onto the pages where Jim drew them years before, and where he hoped they remained. A journal of pain and suffering in someone else’s hands is no longer therapy. It is a prison.
He lay on his stomach, writing in his new journal. He wrote:
I have to get that journal back. Soon.
Day Fifteen: Three Day Late
I think my vision is going. A herd of pink elephants just asked me if I'd join them for a Delirium later this evening at the Brick Store. I said no, not until I catch up with this book. They frowned, shrugged their massive shoulders, and say, Ok, have it your way. Damn elephants.
Daily Goal: 2000
Friday's Word Count: 2255
Surplus/Deficit: 255
J.W.B.: 1826 (Movin' on up)
Here's the excerpt, and here's hoping I don't get sued by Adam Duritz's.
"As Counting Crow’s “Round Here” slowly filtered into the cab, the lyrics bound themselves up with the day, with what had happened, and he knew that he would always think of this day and all it entailed every time he heard this song.
In between the moon and you the angels get a better view,
Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
‘Oh God, is this wrong,’ he thought, ‘is what I just did wrong?’ The religious nature of his youth sprang to life, and he heard the strident voices of revivalists echoing behind the soft melodies from the speakers. From their point of view, he was indeed eternally wrong.
She walks along the edge of where the ocean meets the sand
Just like she’s walking on a wire in the circus.
He felt like he and his truck and his charge, this woman who he was taking home, they were no longer on a wire, or at least not the same one they had been on since she told him she was pregnant. They had made a plunge in one sea, fallen off that wire, and he hoped there was a net under the wire, hoped he learned to swim. What if the net was in the ocean? What is he tried to swim in the air while plummeting?"
Day Fourteen: Four Days Late
My friend Trey called me a little while ago, and said, "Dude, you know that 10,000 words is the length of a graduate paper that takes like three weeks to write, right?"
Oh, I know it know, dear friend, and 10,000 words I shall vanquish this day! To the left is a my pretty truck, taken from a pretty aggressive angle. I figured she deserved a picture, as she has played a somewhat lengthy role in the rough draft, thus far. Give her love. Where them words at?
Daily Goal: 2000
Thursday's Word Count: 2074
Surplus/Deficit: 74
J.W.B.: 1571
"Nights long gone, habits not so far away. Bad habits die so damn hard, if they do at all. He could keep them at bay, for a time, but they knew the loops holes, they knew where to get out. Replace them with better, healthier, more productive habits, and the more ancient habits mocked their tender, fragile nature, often mocked them to dust. He had help, needed all he could get. It had been three years, and the thoughts of what happened still floored him, hammered him flat as the Kansas skyline he was looked out over. There was more life here in these fields than he could see, of that he was sure, but he knew he could not find it without assistance. There was more life in those months than he remembered, it was not all hopeless drear, but he kept feeling like he needed help. He needed his journal, needed a guide, something to remind him of the goodness that was there, too. "
Oh, I know it know, dear friend, and 10,000 words I shall vanquish this day! To the left is a my pretty truck, taken from a pretty aggressive angle. I figured she deserved a picture, as she has played a somewhat lengthy role in the rough draft, thus far. Give her love. Where them words at?Daily Goal: 2000
Thursday's Word Count: 2074
Surplus/Deficit: 74
J.W.B.: 1571
"Nights long gone, habits not so far away. Bad habits die so damn hard, if they do at all. He could keep them at bay, for a time, but they knew the loops holes, they knew where to get out. Replace them with better, healthier, more productive habits, and the more ancient habits mocked their tender, fragile nature, often mocked them to dust. He had help, needed all he could get. It had been three years, and the thoughts of what happened still floored him, hammered him flat as the Kansas skyline he was looked out over. There was more life here in these fields than he could see, of that he was sure, but he knew he could not find it without assistance. There was more life in those months than he remembered, it was not all hopeless drear, but he kept feeling like he needed help. He needed his journal, needed a guide, something to remind him of the goodness that was there, too. "
Day Thirteen: Five Days Late
Here's today's first installment of 10,000 words in one day. The next installment will be coming along shortly.
Daily Word Goal: 2000
Wednesday's Word Count: 2004
Surplus/Deficit: You tell me.
J.W.B.: 1497
"His first, dramatic instinct had been to wear a shirt he disliked or did not wear often, something he could throw away immediately upon return from the clinic that day. He would heave it in the trash, tear it off as soon as she was out of his sight, pour lighter fluid on it, toss a match, and watch the thick but tiny, putrid flames climb into the sky. Initially, he thought he needed something he could be done with for good.
Nonetheless. He knew that he could not burn today away. He would not be able to throw it in the garbage or rip the coming memories from his skin or his brains once they were there. He would have them for as long as he lived, perhaps longer than that if his southern Baptist teachings were correct, and it was not something that he wanted to forget, not when he was as honest with himself as his deadened soul could be. He wanted to remember this day for the rest of his life, to make sure nothing like this ever happened again, so the image of her pain would always outweigh his. He would not throw away this shirt. It was his favorite shirt."
Daily Word Goal: 2000
Wednesday's Word Count: 2004
Surplus/Deficit: You tell me.
J.W.B.: 1497
"His first, dramatic instinct had been to wear a shirt he disliked or did not wear often, something he could throw away immediately upon return from the clinic that day. He would heave it in the trash, tear it off as soon as she was out of his sight, pour lighter fluid on it, toss a match, and watch the thick but tiny, putrid flames climb into the sky. Initially, he thought he needed something he could be done with for good.
Nonetheless. He knew that he could not burn today away. He would not be able to throw it in the garbage or rip the coming memories from his skin or his brains once they were there. He would have them for as long as he lived, perhaps longer than that if his southern Baptist teachings were correct, and it was not something that he wanted to forget, not when he was as honest with himself as his deadened soul could be. He wanted to remember this day for the rest of his life, to make sure nothing like this ever happened again, so the image of her pain would always outweigh his. He would not throw away this shirt. It was his favorite shirt."
An Apology, A Pledge
Oh Louisiana, you saucy sweet lady you. Your simple siren song of daily rain, intoxicating showers and storms, and good food hypnotized me for five days, and I lost my way. That, or I got lazy and couldn't say no to my family, which is often the case for anyone when they visit home, isn't it?
My deepest apologies, dear cheerleaders. Only a gesture of the grandest magnitude could prove to you that such a foolish venture into the horse latitudes of writing will not be repeated again during this mad journey. What will that gesture be? I shall write 10,000 words today.
10000 WORDS, PEOPLE.
I have no idea how many pages that is, I've given myself over to word counts now, not page numbers.
I did manage to get a pathetic amount of writing done last Tuesday, let's observe those numbers.
Tuesday's Daily Goal: 2000
Tuesday's Word Count: 573 (oohhhohoh, the inflaming embarrassment)
Surplus/Deficit: -1427
Jim-eral Word Bank Account Holdings: 1493
During my senior year of high school, my AP art history teacher introduced our class to the word hubris, this term that means overweening pride. The Greeks, renowned for the prodigious contributions to the history of art (contra posto stance, anyone?), firmly believed that hubris was to be eyed, guarded, that too much hubris could lead to your downfall. I have learned my lesson. Stay tuned throughout the day, as I shall be posting much.
My deepest apologies, dear cheerleaders. Only a gesture of the grandest magnitude could prove to you that such a foolish venture into the horse latitudes of writing will not be repeated again during this mad journey. What will that gesture be? I shall write 10,000 words today.
10000 WORDS, PEOPLE.
I have no idea how many pages that is, I've given myself over to word counts now, not page numbers.
I did manage to get a pathetic amount of writing done last Tuesday, let's observe those numbers.
Tuesday's Daily Goal: 2000
Tuesday's Word Count: 573 (oohhhohoh, the inflaming embarrassment)
Surplus/Deficit: -1427
Jim-eral Word Bank Account Holdings: 1493
During my senior year of high school, my AP art history teacher introduced our class to the word hubris, this term that means overweening pride. The Greeks, renowned for the prodigious contributions to the history of art (contra posto stance, anyone?), firmly believed that hubris was to be eyed, guarded, that too much hubris could lead to your downfall. I have learned my lesson. Stay tuned throughout the day, as I shall be posting much.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Day Eleven: Fantastic Accent!
How? How did human tongues come to form the conundrum that is the Southern accent? More specifically, the redneck accent? Is it easier to spit out words when said in this accent? Personally, I think that the redneck accent negates noticeable differences between drunk English and sober English, allowing one to become absolutely plastered yet appear completely fine as long as all you are doing is talking. I wonder how many rednecks get DUI's? How many should?
I'm overhearing a redneck lawyer consultation right now, I'm sure of it, and- No! The incredibly obese woman has managed to wiggle her way out of her booth and is making her way to the exit! Cold cruel fate, robbing me of a chance to record a truly preposterous exchange between redneck legal representation and plain old redneck. I cry.
Daily Goal: 2000
Today's Word Count: 1424
Surplus/Deficit: -576
Jim-eral Word Bank: 2920
The second bought of writing obviously produced less output than the first, but I'm not too bummed for two reasons. One, I'm approaching a particularly juicy plot point, but it's also going to be tough to write. I want to be fully focused, which leads me to two, I am heading to my uncle's lake house, formerly my grandmother's lakehouse, a place of much fun and public embarrassment in my childhood. There is a 4 in 7 chance that my bathing suit will be unloosed in a tubing mishap/wrestling match. Sometimes you love your family so much it just hurts.
Stay tuned for tomorrow, when I include pictures of the mythical truck that is mentioned fairly often in excerpts and the book, and one of my grandmother's house! Excitements abounds!
P.S. Gabriel, welcome back. Sorry I didn't make it to the Brickstore, but seeing as there will be 1938581927491 welcome back Gabriel parties in my lifetime, I figured I could miss one. Feel your anger, then let it go. Glad you're back, friend.
I'm overhearing a redneck lawyer consultation right now, I'm sure of it, and- No! The incredibly obese woman has managed to wiggle her way out of her booth and is making her way to the exit! Cold cruel fate, robbing me of a chance to record a truly preposterous exchange between redneck legal representation and plain old redneck. I cry.
Daily Goal: 2000
Today's Word Count: 1424
Surplus/Deficit: -576
Jim-eral Word Bank: 2920
The second bought of writing obviously produced less output than the first, but I'm not too bummed for two reasons. One, I'm approaching a particularly juicy plot point, but it's also going to be tough to write. I want to be fully focused, which leads me to two, I am heading to my uncle's lake house, formerly my grandmother's lakehouse, a place of much fun and public embarrassment in my childhood. There is a 4 in 7 chance that my bathing suit will be unloosed in a tubing mishap/wrestling match. Sometimes you love your family so much it just hurts.
Stay tuned for tomorrow, when I include pictures of the mythical truck that is mentioned fairly often in excerpts and the book, and one of my grandmother's house! Excitements abounds!
P.S. Gabriel, welcome back. Sorry I didn't make it to the Brickstore, but seeing as there will be 1938581927491 welcome back Gabriel parties in my lifetime, I figured I could miss one. Feel your anger, then let it go. Glad you're back, friend.
Day Ten: From My Stompin' Grounds
This post comes to you from Ruston, Louisiana, my original stompin' grounds, the land of my birth and youngest youth, the reason that I have a horrendous Southern accent after a few drinks. It's my first home, a magical place because of this (and in spite of it) and it's always nice to come back for a little while.
This is yesterday's post, one day late, as I felt more like seeing a movie with my older and new in line sister when I got here last night than I did writing. Let's just to it!
Daily Word Goal: 2000
Daily Word Count: 2468
Surplus/Deficit: + 468
J.W.B.: 3496
As I'm posting again in just a second, I'll put an excerpt up on that one. By the way, there is a redneck conversation the likes of which I only when I'm back here in good ole Ruston. Just magic.
This is yesterday's post, one day late, as I felt more like seeing a movie with my older and new in line sister when I got here last night than I did writing. Let's just to it!
Daily Word Goal: 2000
Daily Word Count: 2468
Surplus/Deficit: + 468
J.W.B.: 3496
As I'm posting again in just a second, I'll put an excerpt up on that one. By the way, there is a redneck conversation the likes of which I only when I'm back here in good ole Ruston. Just magic.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Day Nine: Don't Be Greedy
So a day after I post my largest word count and decide I'm badass enough to bump up my writing quota to 2000 words a day, I don't write at all. Today, making up for yesterday, I only wrote 1787 words, which would have been fine a couple days ago, but not so now. Don't be greedy boys and girls.
I would write more today, but I have to get on the road for Louisiana, where I'm going to be spending the 4th o' July. I'll try and make up today's writing tonight or tomorrow, as well as keep up with the posting there. I imagine someone in Louisiana has internet access. Nevertheless, I may not be able to post every day, and for that, I apologize in advance. To the words:
Daily Goal: 2000
Daily Word Count: 1787
Surplus/Deficit: -213
J.W.B account holdings: 3028
"Jump forward one year, and he found himself alone, standing in front of a gallery, a space much smaller than the Tate in London, but it was also filled with what was quietly growing in his brain as his kryptonite, his mental Achilles heal. It was filled with modern art. Taking a deep breath, he reached out, turned the handle, pulled open the door, and walked in.
Huh, he thought, looking around the place, his eyes meeting with huge photographs of black and white male nudes mirrored by crazy shapes and sculptures standing nearby. In the way that only a boy raised in the deep South, but reformed and turned liberal while in college can, he found himself admiring the juxtaposition of the well sculpted, beautiful men’s bodes next to strange shapes and sculptures, a mimicry of one on the other, he supposed only the viewer would decide. Then he found his eyebrows raising, the corners of his mouth folding down, and thinking, “Ew, that dude is totally licking that other guy’s belly button.”
I would write more today, but I have to get on the road for Louisiana, where I'm going to be spending the 4th o' July. I'll try and make up today's writing tonight or tomorrow, as well as keep up with the posting there. I imagine someone in Louisiana has internet access. Nevertheless, I may not be able to post every day, and for that, I apologize in advance. To the words:
Daily Goal: 2000
Daily Word Count: 1787
Surplus/Deficit: -213
J.W.B account holdings: 3028
"Jump forward one year, and he found himself alone, standing in front of a gallery, a space much smaller than the Tate in London, but it was also filled with what was quietly growing in his brain as his kryptonite, his mental Achilles heal. It was filled with modern art. Taking a deep breath, he reached out, turned the handle, pulled open the door, and walked in.
Huh, he thought, looking around the place, his eyes meeting with huge photographs of black and white male nudes mirrored by crazy shapes and sculptures standing nearby. In the way that only a boy raised in the deep South, but reformed and turned liberal while in college can, he found himself admiring the juxtaposition of the well sculpted, beautiful men’s bodes next to strange shapes and sculptures, a mimicry of one on the other, he supposed only the viewer would decide. Then he found his eyebrows raising, the corners of his mouth folding down, and thinking, “Ew, that dude is totally licking that other guy’s belly button.”
Friday, June 29, 2007
Day Eight: Let's Mix Things Up
One week of writing down, three more to go. In today's picture (on the right), I am holding up one of the writing prompt cards that come with the kit. There is one card per day, some with very practical tips to help you with your writing, while others have inspirational ideas to get you in the writing mood. One of favorite cards thus far, whose advise I am trying to take to heart each day, says the following:"Writing a novel is like working with clay. You first create a rough shape, then massage that shape into something beautiful, such as an ashtray or a fearsome army of worms. Unlike potters, though, who can simply buy clay at the art supply store, novelists have to pull off the supernatural feat of creating their clay with their minds. It's an amazing accomplishment, really, and it's also why postponing judgment of your work until the end of the first draft is so important."
What this means to me is I need to make a lot of literary clay. Therefore, I am making the executive decision to push my daily word goal up to 2000 words a day. I get the feeling that these four weeks of writing are like blasting my way into a mountain side, fashioning serviceable tunnels, and mining as many words out of my head as I possibly can. After that, when the editing process comes along, I'll be doing some old fashioned river panning, sifting through the dirt, looking for the gems to build around. Ha! Something like that. Today's word counts are:
New Daily Goal: 2000
Daily Word Count: 3062
Surplus/Deficit: +1062
J.W.B.: 3241
Today's excerpt:
"He really needed to try him some of that therapy he kept hearing all about. But this was his therapy, and had been for years, and this big old truck everyone told him he needed to ditch was his very own therapist. They would ride and talk for hours, she’d listen to him sing songs he had no business singing, she’d wait patiently when he did not say anything at all for hours, and to her it was not strange when he would find a conservative preacher on the radio station, hack and scoff at much of what was said, but still leave it on for long periods of time. She did not find it strange that there in that truck was where he most believed in God, where he tried and did talk to God most often. He would not abandon that truck until she abandoned him, and when that happened, though no one would understand, and he would not ask them to, he would miss her. She took him to the good times and to the bad times, and took him through them all."
And a special treat since it's Friday.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Day Seven: The Strangeness of Kinders
So my ladyfriend was in a car wreck this morning, and the first thing I thought was "Good Lord, do I have enough money in my checking account to bail her out of jail?" She might ask me to retract this from the blog sooner than later, but let's just say she's had her fair share of accidents.
I get to the accident sight, and she is very upset. Being in a car wreck, even a fender bender, brings to mind (and body) how big even the tiniest car is, and how huge the biggest ones are. Nevertheless, Nicole nor the other woman were hurt, in fact the other lady seemed quite gregarious. This odd joviality seemed particularly interesting as she leaped into an explanation that the accident was all my girlfriend's fault, then turned to me as if expecting me to scold Nicole and put her in the back seat of the car while I took care of the whole matter.
My 'hmm' did nothing to stem her tide, as she blabbered on about how this never would have happened if they'd planned the expansion of Dekalb county a little more carefully 30 years ago, when all this was farmland, as she told me. 'Quite an argument you've got going there,' I thought as I looked at her bumper, and the stickers there proclaimed her political affiliation: "Coexist", "More Trees, Less Bush," etc. What a quandary, to be chatting it up with someone you would like to have a nice little political conversation with, with whom you could rail against those who say there is no such thing as global warming as you're cooking in the mid-morning sun. Yet you're on your guard from the get go because she wants to convince you that your girlfriend needs to pay for the damage on her car. (In other news, the Supreme Court used the classic case of Brown v. the Board of Education to say that desegregation is a bad thing. Yes, I know it's a little more complicated than that, I'm not looking to turn this into a political blog, but it also frightens me, and makes me want to look into the education system in South Africa.)
Back to the story at hand. I told the woman I'd ride with her to a body shop and get the estimate and pay her that day (unless my bank account disagreed, in which case this went from simple fender bender to possible charges of kidnapping in a Nissan), but she said she'd been had before and her trust wasn't what it used to be. So we waited for the cops to arrive, and once they did, we waited some more while one chatted on his cell phone, and the other looked in our direction, laughed, and crammed his face with 18 Boston cremes. They may not, in fact, have been donuts, but I know of no other substance that cops devour so readily and quickly while on the job. This stereotype, if no other, I will not let die.
Thirty minutes later, after the tension has died between Nicole and I and old free spirit and we're chatting like magpies, and the officer comes back and hands the lady a ticket, saying that since she was turning left out of a private drive, while Nicole was turned left out of a public street, the severity of responsibility was greater for the old lady (Booya, hag!). The best part was after the cop walked away, she pats me on the back, and says, "Sorry guys, I guess it was my fault after all!", for all the world like a kid who cheated at 7-up in grade school and fesses up with a goofy grin and fake apology. The city is full of assholes. On to the words count.
Daily Goal: 1667
Daily Word Count: 2170
Surplus/Deficit: +503
J.W.B.: 2179
I might write again tonight seeing as I didn't even address the prompt on today's card of inspiration. Perhaps I will include a picture of one of these said cards later, as well.
Excerpt:
“No,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, causing her to grimace. “Sorry,” he grinned as he grabbed a tissue. “No, I don’t want it back so I can pour over those pages and relive everything that happened all over again. I might look through it some, but I don’t want to dwell on all of it. Maybe it sounds stupid or crazy, but I simply want my words back. They belong to me, and if the person who found my journal couldn’t get it back to me, then he or she should not be letting other people see those words. It’s not right.”
Looking up at him, she smiled, in the way that always made him smile back, and said, “Then you need to go get it.”
“What?”
“Go look for it,” she repeated, looking directly in his eyes. “But you need to know one thing before you go.”
“What?” he said softly.
“If you find it, and you start to read through it all the time, and you start turning back into the person you were less than a year ago, then I’m either throwing it out, or… or I don’t think we can be together.”
Now her eyes were filling with tears, but she did not blink, nor did she look away from his. “Okay?” she said, voice strained. “You promise?” Tears were now running down her face, flying away in fear of the beauty of those eyes.
“I promise,” he said, pulling her to him, cheek to cheek, and their tears kissed and ran down their faces together, holding hands, smiling with assurance."
I get to the accident sight, and she is very upset. Being in a car wreck, even a fender bender, brings to mind (and body) how big even the tiniest car is, and how huge the biggest ones are. Nevertheless, Nicole nor the other woman were hurt, in fact the other lady seemed quite gregarious. This odd joviality seemed particularly interesting as she leaped into an explanation that the accident was all my girlfriend's fault, then turned to me as if expecting me to scold Nicole and put her in the back seat of the car while I took care of the whole matter.
My 'hmm' did nothing to stem her tide, as she blabbered on about how this never would have happened if they'd planned the expansion of Dekalb county a little more carefully 30 years ago, when all this was farmland, as she told me. 'Quite an argument you've got going there,' I thought as I looked at her bumper, and the stickers there proclaimed her political affiliation: "Coexist", "More Trees, Less Bush," etc. What a quandary, to be chatting it up with someone you would like to have a nice little political conversation with, with whom you could rail against those who say there is no such thing as global warming as you're cooking in the mid-morning sun. Yet you're on your guard from the get go because she wants to convince you that your girlfriend needs to pay for the damage on her car. (In other news, the Supreme Court used the classic case of Brown v. the Board of Education to say that desegregation is a bad thing. Yes, I know it's a little more complicated than that, I'm not looking to turn this into a political blog, but it also frightens me, and makes me want to look into the education system in South Africa.)
Back to the story at hand. I told the woman I'd ride with her to a body shop and get the estimate and pay her that day (unless my bank account disagreed, in which case this went from simple fender bender to possible charges of kidnapping in a Nissan), but she said she'd been had before and her trust wasn't what it used to be. So we waited for the cops to arrive, and once they did, we waited some more while one chatted on his cell phone, and the other looked in our direction, laughed, and crammed his face with 18 Boston cremes. They may not, in fact, have been donuts, but I know of no other substance that cops devour so readily and quickly while on the job. This stereotype, if no other, I will not let die.
Thirty minutes later, after the tension has died between Nicole and I and old free spirit and we're chatting like magpies, and the officer comes back and hands the lady a ticket, saying that since she was turning left out of a private drive, while Nicole was turned left out of a public street, the severity of responsibility was greater for the old lady (Booya, hag!). The best part was after the cop walked away, she pats me on the back, and says, "Sorry guys, I guess it was my fault after all!", for all the world like a kid who cheated at 7-up in grade school and fesses up with a goofy grin and fake apology. The city is full of assholes. On to the words count.
Daily Goal: 1667
Daily Word Count: 2170
Surplus/Deficit: +503
J.W.B.: 2179
I might write again tonight seeing as I didn't even address the prompt on today's card of inspiration. Perhaps I will include a picture of one of these said cards later, as well.
Excerpt:
“No,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, causing her to grimace. “Sorry,” he grinned as he grabbed a tissue. “No, I don’t want it back so I can pour over those pages and relive everything that happened all over again. I might look through it some, but I don’t want to dwell on all of it. Maybe it sounds stupid or crazy, but I simply want my words back. They belong to me, and if the person who found my journal couldn’t get it back to me, then he or she should not be letting other people see those words. It’s not right.”
Looking up at him, she smiled, in the way that always made him smile back, and said, “Then you need to go get it.”
“What?”
“Go look for it,” she repeated, looking directly in his eyes. “But you need to know one thing before you go.”
“What?” he said softly.
“If you find it, and you start to read through it all the time, and you start turning back into the person you were less than a year ago, then I’m either throwing it out, or… or I don’t think we can be together.”
Now her eyes were filling with tears, but she did not blink, nor did she look away from his. “Okay?” she said, voice strained. “You promise?” Tears were now running down her face, flying away in fear of the beauty of those eyes.
“I promise,” he said, pulling her to him, cheek to cheek, and their tears kissed and ran down their faces together, holding hands, smiling with assurance."
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Day Six: Day of Dread
I went to the dentist today. For many people, this is indeed a day of dread, but it has never been so for me. Fillings suck, and nothing is quiet as nauseating as smelling your own enamel dust floating into your nose as the dentist drills (drills!) away at your teeth. Nevertheless, for most of my life, I was the one in my family who got the most cavities- I like Skittles- so I was somewhat used to the whole experience.
When I was 20, I went to the dentist, and he said, "Son, you're working on about seven cavities real good. If you don't start flossin' and rinsin' and brushin' better your gonna end up with a mouth full of fillings." I was mortified. Seven cavities at one time? Good God, how far had I fallen? Where was my loin cloth and wooden club?
What did I do to rectify this situation? I'd love to say I started flossing like mad and became an oral hygiene fascist, but in fact, the opposite is true. Thus, the day o' dread. Five years later, and I found myself in the dentist's office this morning for the first time since I got griped out while strewn out on one of those Evil Lazy Boys. To cut to the chase, what happens to seven cavities that never get treated over a span of five years and a couple weeks? Leave your guesses in the comments section, and I'll let you know before all this madness is said and done. On to today's numbers.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's Word Count: 2279
Surplus/Deficit: +612
J.W.B. account: 1676
The 10,000 word barrier has been breached! An excerpt is certainly in order! (In case you were wondering, I haven't really thought to make the excerpt inserts, well, sequential or anything, so if you have had trouble following along, that's because you weren't really supposed to. But I will consider following such a course of action).
"He stayed and chatted with Jill for a minute after the seminar was over, and thus was rushed to try to make it to Eyedrum before it closed. Once in the area of the gallery, it took him several drive-bys and questioning of kind passer-bys before he found it. Naturally, there was a sliding chain link fence between him and the gravel parking lot. He sat in the short, inclined driveway for a moment, wondering whether he should park the truck across the street and scale the fence (there was no barbwire at the top), or if he should just try and ram the damn thing (he could finally justify never having traded in his gas guzzling V-8).
Nonetheless, he did not have a chance to do either, as a beat up Toyota Corolla, practically painted in bumper stickers, was pulling up to the gate from the other side to exit. Cursing, he put the truck in reverse and backed up into the street, rolling down his window as the gate slowly rumbled open to let this guy out. He stuck his head out the window and shouted “Excuse me!” but before he could get out another word, the man, who looked to be somewhere in his twenties (as most hipsters do) nonchalantly swung his left thumb over his shoulder, as if to say, ‘Sigh, you can go after me, but, like, you better hurry before it closes ‘cause, you know, that could really fuck up your car, man.’ He floored it, skidding on the gravel parking lot as he quickly pulled in, narrowly missing the closing gate."
When I was 20, I went to the dentist, and he said, "Son, you're working on about seven cavities real good. If you don't start flossin' and rinsin' and brushin' better your gonna end up with a mouth full of fillings." I was mortified. Seven cavities at one time? Good God, how far had I fallen? Where was my loin cloth and wooden club?
What did I do to rectify this situation? I'd love to say I started flossing like mad and became an oral hygiene fascist, but in fact, the opposite is true. Thus, the day o' dread. Five years later, and I found myself in the dentist's office this morning for the first time since I got griped out while strewn out on one of those Evil Lazy Boys. To cut to the chase, what happens to seven cavities that never get treated over a span of five years and a couple weeks? Leave your guesses in the comments section, and I'll let you know before all this madness is said and done. On to today's numbers.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's Word Count: 2279
Surplus/Deficit: +612
J.W.B. account: 1676
The 10,000 word barrier has been breached! An excerpt is certainly in order! (In case you were wondering, I haven't really thought to make the excerpt inserts, well, sequential or anything, so if you have had trouble following along, that's because you weren't really supposed to. But I will consider following such a course of action).
"He stayed and chatted with Jill for a minute after the seminar was over, and thus was rushed to try to make it to Eyedrum before it closed. Once in the area of the gallery, it took him several drive-bys and questioning of kind passer-bys before he found it. Naturally, there was a sliding chain link fence between him and the gravel parking lot. He sat in the short, inclined driveway for a moment, wondering whether he should park the truck across the street and scale the fence (there was no barbwire at the top), or if he should just try and ram the damn thing (he could finally justify never having traded in his gas guzzling V-8).
Nonetheless, he did not have a chance to do either, as a beat up Toyota Corolla, practically painted in bumper stickers, was pulling up to the gate from the other side to exit. Cursing, he put the truck in reverse and backed up into the street, rolling down his window as the gate slowly rumbled open to let this guy out. He stuck his head out the window and shouted “Excuse me!” but before he could get out another word, the man, who looked to be somewhere in his twenties (as most hipsters do) nonchalantly swung his left thumb over his shoulder, as if to say, ‘Sigh, you can go after me, but, like, you better hurry before it closes ‘cause, you know, that could really fuck up your car, man.’ He floored it, skidding on the gravel parking lot as he quickly pulled in, narrowly missing the closing gate."
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Day Five: Actually Day Five!
Back on track! I can't wait to fall behind, again... Short and sweet, for I need to go out and grab a beer with, how to you call them? Ah yes, 'people.'
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (truly today's!) Word Count:1953
Surplus/Deficit: +286
Jim-earl Word Bank Account: 1,064
Let's do another piece, shall we? See you all tomorrow!
“Do you regret it?” she asked, lying next to him on her bed. Her large eyes watching him with concern, worried about how consumed he had been for the past few days with finding this lost journal.
“No,” said with no pause. “It was the right decision. Doesn’t mean that made the decision any easier, not at all, but it was the right thing to do.”
“I think you’re right,” she said, snuggling closer to him. “We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”
“Probably not,” he whispered, running his hands through her hair, staring at the ceiling.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (truly today's!) Word Count:1953
Surplus/Deficit: +286
Jim-earl Word Bank Account: 1,064
Let's do another piece, shall we? See you all tomorrow!
“Do you regret it?” she asked, lying next to him on her bed. Her large eyes watching him with concern, worried about how consumed he had been for the past few days with finding this lost journal.
“No,” said with no pause. “It was the right decision. Doesn’t mean that made the decision any easier, not at all, but it was the right thing to do.”
“I think you’re right,” she said, snuggling closer to him. “We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”
“Probably not,” he whispered, running his hands through her hair, staring at the ceiling.
Day Four: Actually Day Five
Say nothing. I am going to get back on target, today! I have written yesterday's word count this morning, I'm going to write today's this afternoon, and hey, maybe I'll get nuts and write tomorrow's too! How would all of you like that? A little overachieving to help you through your day, eh? Don't hold your breath...
Before I list today's numbers, if you haven't been to the movies, lately, let me recommend Paprika, a crazy little Japanimation flick about blurring the boundaries of science and nature, and reality and dreams. It was fantastic, and virtually guarantees to leave your head wonderfully clouded with imagination bursts like you haven't had since you were five. The soundtrack was pretty crazy good, too (on iTunes). To the numbers.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (i.e. yesterday's) Word Count: 1715
Surplus/Deficit: +48
J.W.B.: 778
A short excerpt, for today:
“Dude it’s fine, don’t worry about it. You know I like to drive. Something about driving calms me, even when my mind is flying a hundred miles an hour like it has been for the past week. Ever since I was in high school, if shit hits the fan, I could hop in my car and drive, and while it didn’t really solve anything, at least I felt like I was doing something, you know? Sometimes I think that’s my favorite part of traveling, whether it’s driving back home or when I was backpacking around sub-Saharan Africa, I like to be on the move, heading somewhere, going new places. Right now, after a couple of days in one place, I feel like I need to get back on the move.”
“Good thing we are leaving for San Francisco in less that a week then, eh?” Joe asked, excitement barely contained. “This road trip is going to be stupid!”
“Yeah, take our time, get out there whenever we want to. It’s going to be nice to get the hell out of this town for a long time, get away from everything.”
“Get away from her, you mean,” Joe growled.
“Yeah, that too,”
Today's post will be up later today. Unless it's not. But it most likely will be.
This is me holding of the various notebooks that I use to try and keep track of everything. The little gray one in my left hand I carry around with me everywhere, in case inspiration strikes while I'm on the
john at the bar or feeding abandoned kittens or something; the one in my right hand I'm filling up with outlines and calenders and character sketches (though right now most of the characters in this book will be based on real people, so there isn't a real big need to flesh them out, yet); the one on the table is my journal, where I claim to put my deepest thoughts and wishes and dreams but I really just talk crap about those of you who aren't doing a good job cheerleading; and the silver one is called a PowerBook, and it's not a book at all, it's a laptop computer. I mostly use if for writing, or to let my lady friend borrow it when she wants to look up 'men you can only dream of being,' whatever that means.
Before I list today's numbers, if you haven't been to the movies, lately, let me recommend Paprika, a crazy little Japanimation flick about blurring the boundaries of science and nature, and reality and dreams. It was fantastic, and virtually guarantees to leave your head wonderfully clouded with imagination bursts like you haven't had since you were five. The soundtrack was pretty crazy good, too (on iTunes). To the numbers.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (i.e. yesterday's) Word Count: 1715
Surplus/Deficit: +48
J.W.B.: 778
A short excerpt, for today:
“Dude it’s fine, don’t worry about it. You know I like to drive. Something about driving calms me, even when my mind is flying a hundred miles an hour like it has been for the past week. Ever since I was in high school, if shit hits the fan, I could hop in my car and drive, and while it didn’t really solve anything, at least I felt like I was doing something, you know? Sometimes I think that’s my favorite part of traveling, whether it’s driving back home or when I was backpacking around sub-Saharan Africa, I like to be on the move, heading somewhere, going new places. Right now, after a couple of days in one place, I feel like I need to get back on the move.”
“Good thing we are leaving for San Francisco in less that a week then, eh?” Joe asked, excitement barely contained. “This road trip is going to be stupid!”
“Yeah, take our time, get out there whenever we want to. It’s going to be nice to get the hell out of this town for a long time, get away from everything.”
“Get away from her, you mean,” Joe growled.
“Yeah, that too,”
Today's post will be up later today. Unless it's not. But it most likely will be.
This is me holding of the various notebooks that I use to try and keep track of everything. The little gray one in my left hand I carry around with me everywhere, in case inspiration strikes while I'm on the
john at the bar or feeding abandoned kittens or something; the one in my right hand I'm filling up with outlines and calenders and character sketches (though right now most of the characters in this book will be based on real people, so there isn't a real big need to flesh them out, yet); the one on the table is my journal, where I claim to put my deepest thoughts and wishes and dreams but I really just talk crap about those of you who aren't doing a good job cheerleading; and the silver one is called a PowerBook, and it's not a book at all, it's a laptop computer. I mostly use if for writing, or to let my lady friend borrow it when she wants to look up 'men you can only dream of being,' whatever that means.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Day Three: Actually Day Four
My favorite teacher in high school, Dr. Bates, was the first teacher I had who ever gave us any practical tips on studying that made sense to me. He taught us how to take notes, how to study those notes, even when and where to study when you got home. Ha! He went so far as to give us handouts that detailed what good study habits were. Ironically, I think that was one of the few handouts, probably the only one he passed out, that I read following his instructions: at my desk, with good lighting, at what was to be my scheduled study time for the rest of the year. Never happened again.
I tell you about all this because I broke one of the cardinal rules of working or studying at home, which is not to work in bed. It doesn't matter how much you read or study in bed, your brain associates that place most readily with sleep (Unless you are a ladies man. In which case, the only thing you should expect is nothing less than 13 or 14.. Oop! Back to the bloggin'). So what did I do, last night? I crawled into bed, wrote about two sentences, and passed the hell out. Well done.
Thus, yesterday's writing, completed today at 5:00 P.M.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (actually June 24th's) Word Count: 1967
Surplus/Deficit: +300
J.W.B Account Holdings: 730
No pictures, today. My killer looks haven't changed that much in a day. However, as for an excerpt, why not? For those of you who are interested, I will be taking early orders very soon, a skajillion bucks a pop. The price is only going up from here on out. Think about it.
“Dude, did you email him yet?” he asked, more than a little heat in his voice.
“Who?” Joe asked, rolling down the window as he climbed into the big black truck, lighting a cigarette.
“Al. The guy who found my journal, remember? I was wondering if you-“
“Oh man, I’m sorry, I completely forgot! I’ve been getting ready to go to Spain, and get things in order to go to California when I get back. I’ll do it today, I promise. What is today, anyway?”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“Sorry, it’s just that your truck smelled like the weekend, like good times, you know?”
“You mean like cigarette smoke?”
“Yeah, that was the basis of the smell back then, I guess.”
“You are smoking a cigarette now,” he observed, “That could have something to do with it.”
“That is true,” Joe answered. “I guess that means we only used to smoke on the weekends, huh?”
“I guess,” he said, lighting up his own smoke, taking a draw, and exhaling the blue gray smoke through the open window. “I can’t believe I lost that journal almost three years ago, and now it’s back in my life, again. It’s insane.”
Day Four's allotment will be up later today.
I tell you about all this because I broke one of the cardinal rules of working or studying at home, which is not to work in bed. It doesn't matter how much you read or study in bed, your brain associates that place most readily with sleep (Unless you are a ladies man. In which case, the only thing you should expect is nothing less than 13 or 14.. Oop! Back to the bloggin'). So what did I do, last night? I crawled into bed, wrote about two sentences, and passed the hell out. Well done.
Thus, yesterday's writing, completed today at 5:00 P.M.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (actually June 24th's) Word Count: 1967
Surplus/Deficit: +300
J.W.B Account Holdings: 730
No pictures, today. My killer looks haven't changed that much in a day. However, as for an excerpt, why not? For those of you who are interested, I will be taking early orders very soon, a skajillion bucks a pop. The price is only going up from here on out. Think about it.
“Dude, did you email him yet?” he asked, more than a little heat in his voice.
“Who?” Joe asked, rolling down the window as he climbed into the big black truck, lighting a cigarette.
“Al. The guy who found my journal, remember? I was wondering if you-“
“Oh man, I’m sorry, I completely forgot! I’ve been getting ready to go to Spain, and get things in order to go to California when I get back. I’ll do it today, I promise. What is today, anyway?”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“Sorry, it’s just that your truck smelled like the weekend, like good times, you know?”
“You mean like cigarette smoke?”
“Yeah, that was the basis of the smell back then, I guess.”
“You are smoking a cigarette now,” he observed, “That could have something to do with it.”
“That is true,” Joe answered. “I guess that means we only used to smoke on the weekends, huh?”
“I guess,” he said, lighting up his own smoke, taking a draw, and exhaling the blue gray smoke through the open window. “I can’t believe I lost that journal almost three years ago, and now it’s back in my life, again. It’s insane.”
Day Four's allotment will be up later today.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Day Two: Actually Day Three
Alright, it is day three, about eighteen minutes away from day four [42 minutes into day four as I post this], which means that my day three post will also be 24 hours late. If you have met me, my name is Jim, and I am operating absolutely on time.
Excuse lightning round, go! Nicole and I (if I haven't mentioned or if you don't know, Nicole is my lady friend, and will henceforth be referred to as lady friend and/or Nicole. Mayhaps 'girlfriend' from time to time, but she's so much more than that, I don't see this term popping up much), drove to Spartanburg, SC, where my parents live, on Friday night, arriving around 11:30 in the P.M. My friend Sarah was getting married the next day, the 23rd, on Edisto Island. My parents were also going to the ceremony, and we thought that we would ride down with them. Our reasoning on this was three fold:
1) Edisto Island is void of hotels, so we would have had to rent a beach house for the night, and that would have been too expensive for one evening. Even if it wasn't, I didn't call to find out because I am lazy, therefore I did not know the price of a dwelling there;
2) We could have stayed at a hotel off the island, but to have stayed for the whole reception would have resulted in off the hizzy drunkenness, and to drive to a hotel in that condition would not only be unwise, but illegal in most states in the union, South Carolina included.
3) Xavier and Deidra were having a baby shower this afternoon at 3:00 P.M., which we had to attend, because if the next baby is anywhere as cute at the first one, paparazzi will be swarming around their house like seagulls in a Hitchcock nightmare. We had to be there, and we figured if we had a five hour drive in combination with a terrible hangover (see item 2), we would never make it on time.
Put simply, we went with my parents so we wouldn't have to pay for accommodation, wouldn't have to drive so far to the wedding, and wouldn't be late to the baby-on-the-way shin-dig . Of course, we spent eight hours in the car yesterday (Saturday), and arrived at the shower at 5:45 P.M. today; hey we got two out three, and that ain't bad, as Jack Nicholson says in Mars Attacks. Curious: does anyone ever get Jack Nicholson the actor mixed up with Jack Nicklaus the golfer? I'm not sure if I've ever said them in the right context. Ever. More frustrating than you might imagine, I promise. On to business.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (actually June 23rd's) Word Count: 1364
Surplus/Deficit: -303
Current J.W.B. account holdings: 430 (I have started an Excel document to help me keep count of my daily word count, surplus/deficit, and J.W.B. account standing. I say with utter assurance that this will be the only spreadsheet that I regularly keep up with for my entire life)
Not great numbers, but I'll make them up. I now go to write day my daily allotment for day three. It's technically day four. I will be posting later tonight.
As you can see to the right, I'm uber excited about pounding out today's (i.e. yesterday's) word count. If you're somewhat lost concerning the days that things are actually being written, i recommend an astrolabe, an abacus, and a compass.
Excuse lightning round, go! Nicole and I (if I haven't mentioned or if you don't know, Nicole is my lady friend, and will henceforth be referred to as lady friend and/or Nicole. Mayhaps 'girlfriend' from time to time, but she's so much more than that, I don't see this term popping up much), drove to Spartanburg, SC, where my parents live, on Friday night, arriving around 11:30 in the P.M. My friend Sarah was getting married the next day, the 23rd, on Edisto Island. My parents were also going to the ceremony, and we thought that we would ride down with them. Our reasoning on this was three fold:
1) Edisto Island is void of hotels, so we would have had to rent a beach house for the night, and that would have been too expensive for one evening. Even if it wasn't, I didn't call to find out because I am lazy, therefore I did not know the price of a dwelling there;
2) We could have stayed at a hotel off the island, but to have stayed for the whole reception would have resulted in off the hizzy drunkenness, and to drive to a hotel in that condition would not only be unwise, but illegal in most states in the union, South Carolina included.
3) Xavier and Deidra were having a baby shower this afternoon at 3:00 P.M., which we had to attend, because if the next baby is anywhere as cute at the first one, paparazzi will be swarming around their house like seagulls in a Hitchcock nightmare. We had to be there, and we figured if we had a five hour drive in combination with a terrible hangover (see item 2), we would never make it on time.
Put simply, we went with my parents so we wouldn't have to pay for accommodation, wouldn't have to drive so far to the wedding, and wouldn't be late to the baby-on-the-way shin-dig . Of course, we spent eight hours in the car yesterday (Saturday), and arrived at the shower at 5:45 P.M. today; hey we got two out three, and that ain't bad, as Jack Nicholson says in Mars Attacks. Curious: does anyone ever get Jack Nicholson the actor mixed up with Jack Nicklaus the golfer? I'm not sure if I've ever said them in the right context. Ever. More frustrating than you might imagine, I promise. On to business.
Daily Goal: 1667
Today's (actually June 23rd's) Word Count: 1364
Surplus/Deficit: -303
Current J.W.B. account holdings: 430 (I have started an Excel document to help me keep count of my daily word count, surplus/deficit, and J.W.B. account standing. I say with utter assurance that this will be the only spreadsheet that I regularly keep up with for my entire life)
Not great numbers, but I'll make them up. I now go to write day my daily allotment for day three. It's technically day four. I will be posting later tonight.
As you can see to the right, I'm uber excited about pounding out today's (i.e. yesterday's) word count. If you're somewhat lost concerning the days that things are actually being written, i recommend an astrolabe, an abacus, and a compass.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Day One: Unbridled Confidence
Well, that's not completely true. My confidence was somewhat bridled before I started typing today. But not after today's word count!
DAILY GOAL: 1667 (If I write this number of words per day for 30 days, I will have a 50,010 word book. Which is about 4,000 pages. Trust me, it's gonna be War and Peace on lots of roids.
TODAY'S WORD COUNT: 2400
Surplus/Deficit: +733 (!)
Money. I am putting that extra 733 words in the Jim-eral Word Bank. If I fall short any day, I am at liberty to draw from the surplus in the J.W.B. account. Thus, my account standing is:
J.W.B. account: 733This would probably be a good time to let everyone know that in writing a novel in such a short length of time, I'm not really aiming for pure Sha-ka-speare to flow forth from my fingertips the entire time. This will be as Anne Lamott says, your quintessential 'shitty first draft.' Therefore, I will probably not be posting excerpts from the book every single day. When I feel good about something though, I'll put a bit of it up there. And please, don't ask me what the book is about, because as this point, I'm not really sure myself. Try as I might to suppress such feelings, I can feel an urge to put monsters or time travel in it somewhere.
[Sorry to interrupt! The picture above and to the left shows my work station. The one below and to the right is a face that I hope I won't be making too much over the next 29 days.]
Seeing as this is the first day, however, I feel like I need to put some of what was written. Here goes:
"These things are not supposed to come back. But it did. Like an old friend lost, like an adopted child finding biological parents because it needs to know where it came from, the journal found him. Tattered, torn, no longer pregnant with pain, but with mystery and smears and the words of a person he did not recognize, words profound, and also embarrassingly stupid and naïve. The most important pages missing, on a madman’s porch, exactly where he said it would be: “I’ll leave the journal wrapped up in a plastic, blue, New York Times home delivery bag. I’ll put the bag on a cabinet by the front door, right next to the rusty bombshell.”
If you need help, consult the orange book. Note the progress chart behind my head. Now it's time for me to put a gold star next to today's date. I may not make another post until Sunday, as I'll be traveling to my friend Sarah's wedding tomorrow, but I'll try. Stay tuned.A Novel in a Month!? Lunacy!
Party peoples in the place to be,
This not only goes out to the very nonexclusive group of people that yesterday I invited to form the tribe known as 'Jim's Novel Cheerleaders.' I suppose it is going out to any individual who has access to Blogger through the World Wide Web. Which I've heard is a large and growing number of folks. So, welcome.
Over the next month, I am asking you to bolster my confidence, to tease me mercilessly when I do not meet a word count, and to seriously question my direction in life. I have started writing my novel today and will be keeping this blog as a sort of progress tool. It will include a daily word count, sections of the book that could pass as readable English, and pictures of the arduous task that is novel writing. Feel free to leave comments (insidiously mean comments will result in dismissal from the realm of Jim Friend Land. Don't make me do that).
This here's the introduction post. I hope you enjoyed it. Today's progress post will follow shortly.
This not only goes out to the very nonexclusive group of people that yesterday I invited to form the tribe known as 'Jim's Novel Cheerleaders.' I suppose it is going out to any individual who has access to Blogger through the World Wide Web. Which I've heard is a large and growing number of folks. So, welcome.
Over the next month, I am asking you to bolster my confidence, to tease me mercilessly when I do not meet a word count, and to seriously question my direction in life. I have started writing my novel today and will be keeping this blog as a sort of progress tool. It will include a daily word count, sections of the book that could pass as readable English, and pictures of the arduous task that is novel writing. Feel free to leave comments (insidiously mean comments will result in dismissal from the realm of Jim Friend Land. Don't make me do that).
This here's the introduction post. I hope you enjoyed it. Today's progress post will follow shortly.
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