18DEC18 I tried

Well, this is me throwing in the towel yet again on the space story. After two months of my most recent attempt to bring it to life it insists on languishing in the no finish zone. I've changed voices and narrators and outlines and you name it. This fucking story! SmH. I hate stopping pieces. It's a bad habit, a slippery slope, but boy, sometimes you just have to pull the trigger.

21Nov18 Blocked? Maybe...

This story, SMH, I've covered the struggle so much even I'm tired f hearing it. Quit? the idea is never far from my thoughts. but, it will never defeat me. I will see it crushed and made humble by the slashing edge of my pen, by the sheer effort of my iron will!

As you've probably guessed, I'm blocked.

I mean kind of blocked.

I started the whole NOWRITMO thing full of fire and drive, wanting to fill those pages with text and damn the editing. I realize now this is not nor has it ever been my writing style. Writing down everything that comes into your head for cutting down later into usable material feels nonproductive to me. I am a write pages correct pages, correct those pages the next day kind of guy. Lesson learned.

Having achieved such miraculous insight i still wasn't happy with anything coming out. I would stare at text then delete it. This story has refused to do what I want for years. I have my outline, know where it's going; I should be hitting the marks and sending this baby home.

The problem was I envisioned deep introspective characters with fascinating back stories, clever subtext that makes the reader come back again and again for new insights missed on the first read. In short i was over thinking; bogged down in the details. I'd forgotten the number one rule which is to entertain.

I am tempted to blame higher education. I was warned my style and tastes would change those chickens may have come home to roost. But that's some weak shit. My education is more a blessing. The problem is my ego. I started seeing it as a story again and not some work of art and the words began to flow forth. I still re-write the previous days pages and once the project is done numerous re-writes of those pages are ahead but i remember why I'm doing it now.

05Nov18 Crow Calls

Today is one of those doubting days. I doubt all my previous words concerning "Found While Dreaming." The voices are all wrong; the plot both too simple and needlessly complex. Who's story is it anyway?

 Moments of doubt like these are normal. Actually I think they're a side effect of other issues I have goin on which are leaking into the writing process. School is done for all Intents and purposes. Im just siting on the results of the board but that wait is a dangling sword. This coupled with suddenly finding my time is now my own. This is a dangerous kind of freedom. All forms of mischief are posdible if I'm not careful.

I am focusing on the work, reminding myself it has always been the goal and my lack of confidence I delusion. I'm returning to the original first person narrative. It works better. Readers need to know his mind, share his feelings. There is a love interest that I'll write in third person. I was told to never mix narrative styles as its too jarring for the reader, time to break the rules, to remember what the Crow means.

Nowritmo 03Nov18

I've never been in a position to participate in this month long writing event as school was almost
always at the forefront.I finally have the time as school, for better or worse, is behind me.

After much back and forth I've decided to participate though in a modified capacity. reaching the goal of 50,000 words is an impractical one for a writer like myself. While big on outlining i find it harder to to do the flight of thought thing, just writing whatever comes into your head to be edited down later. It feels undisciplined to me. I will instead spend the time completing a project started many times but never finished, the dreaded "Found While Dreaming."

It is the story that consistently refuses to co-operate. I reach a point where the story sags and the energy and drive just leaves. I think its a great idea that simply refuses to let me finish it.. I have fifty five pages that i am now editing down before pushing forward.

Just wanted you to know i'm back at it and for good this time. The updates will be more frequent after this with more details, though vague as Priest continues his journey.

09SEP18 Update.

Yeah yeah i know it's been a while. Try looking at it from my perspective! Oh wait, then I'd have to tell you all the personal hell I'd been going through. Nope! Not doing that! Besides, I'm being overly dramatic. Things are fine.

Just finished the re-write of "Summer Sixty Seven." I can do no more damage to it! The original is posted on wattpad but this one i plan to actually submit! wish me luck.

My next project is about a fallen angel. I wrote a short story about him, oh twenty or so years ago. My friend Jason always liked it so i thought I'd check in on him, I'll keep you posted.

Fucking Grad school! One more shot at the Comprehensive! If i don't pass it this time by God, i will be a one class short of a Master's havin motherfucker! Here me. I am done with the system! The clock is ticking and i have no more time to dedicate to a degree that I've already reaped so many benefits from but cannot obtain the one piece of paper that puts a bow on the whole thing.
I have been in close contact with my adviser and see that my plan was shit the previous attempts. She has graciously agreed to work with me to achieve this final goal and i cannot thank her enough. Now i just need to get and remain motivated! Again, wish me luck.

17Jun3018 update

Man, sometimes...you have to wrestle with just getting up and telling yourself to get to work. Real life with all it's complexities can suck all desire to rise right out of you. Still, if you can make yourself sit down to the processor and read a couple paragraphs you find the juice.

The core or bones of the space story is done. I am just adding flesh and soul to the body now. I'm already thinking about the next project. It's a genuine attempt at a literary piece about my childhood in Ohio. I submitted a short version for acceptance into the writing program. After taking another look at it recently I think I can make it better. 

Space first though.

05May18

Well enough into my summer break now and finally finding things to keep me occupied. As mentioned in my last post, I finished "Hang, the Hunter." I've not submitted it yet but have several sites in mind and will update you as i send it out. I'm working on my space story now about a man obligated to do a favor for a friend and things go wrong. It's been subjected to several re-writes but as i attack this version i am changing less and less. This means it's finally taking shape. Thank god!
Want to post a few pages of Hang here just to show i am working and not just talkin shit.

Hang the Hunter.

            The Great Woods south of Middlewind is only the Great Forest to some. A constant, it is more a space in the cosmos that exists in some form on all worlds, at all times. It is a true enigma with porous borders leaking from one world to another if one can find the ways. It is a New Orleans apartment complex in one existence, its denizen’s poor and invisible, both land and people struggling to remain afloat.  In another it is a series of caves beneath a planet spanning ocean, occupied by beings called people only in the sense they have formed a community and are self-aware. Whatever its shape, occupants, or size, its reason for being persists. It is a life sustaining space. Hang, the grief driven Dwarf’s story takes place in the true Great Forest. His is a life that made nary a ripple in this endless entity’s stretch across multiple universes.He is no less important for that. He exsisted, and on some micro cosmic scale that fact adds to the whole. It is now the long hot summer of Brazen...

                                                  

The men continued arriving. Ghostwand, made the count at twenty now, all scowling at him, their shadows dancing in the flickering torch light. There was the occasional sword among the men, but the prevailing weapons were hoes and scythes. The damp of evening dew combined with the smell of burning pine and roasting flesh left a taint in the air. He was out of the forest proper now, in a small clearing. Gone were the magnificent greens of the trees, the explosive colors of the flora. The clearing was draped in nightfall and Ghostwand was on the horns of dilemma.

It had been such a lovely day, crisp and cool, the air filled with bird song. As a Dark Elf it could not be helped that his thoughts turned to love. It is the curse of all Elven folk, Spring. The season of renewal demanded celebration .

“I only danced with her,” Ghostwand said to the crowd of men. He felt no need to mention the infatuation spell. An old one made his way forward. He appeared to be some type of leader. He looked at the charred, smoking bodies at Ghostwand’s feet. Unfortunate that, he thought, they were probably friends and neighbors.

 “And these men, they were a threat to one such as you? No, save your words. No doubt they will be more Elven lies.” He leaned on a spade. “You come into our lands unwanted…”

“Unwanted?” Ghostwand, asked. “I have no need for an invitation. Your King himself  has decreed these forests open to any.”

“Aye, those be the King’s words alright,” the old man said, spitting. But the King doesn’t live here does he? High in his lofty perch he knows little of Elven deceptions down here, of say, infatuation spells. He speaks of peace from a palace we but dream of, whilst out here...” Murmured agreement drifted forward from the farmers in back. “I was at Carver Rock,” the old one continued. “I saw human dead laid out head to foot in circles that stretched miles, Elven peace.”

Ghostwand feigned a sigh. “War, tis ever the feeding ground for horror and atrocities, is it not? It is impossible for the common man, or Elf to win. Still, now is a time of peace for our people.”

The old man’s laugh lacked humor. “The King allows you mistakes of nature access to our lands. That will never include our women, not while I draw breath.”

Well, they are farmers, Ghostwand thought. The complexity of tribal politics is probably lost on them. Soldiers would be better. They tend to be professional, no matter the race. They would understand a dance in the woods with a beautiful girl in celebration of the coming spring. He held up his arms. The sleeves of his blue silk robe fell away.

            Hang, stared unseeing round the small campfire. Its light flickered across his black skin occasionally highlighting the tears. Their presence was as unwelcome as the memory that brought them forth. His beloved Summer, had been gone one hundred years this night. That fact gripped hard his heart. He still saw her, grey skinned, blue black hair shining in the moonlight, still thought, if he tried hard, he could taste her lips. “Come Summer. This silence is no good for me. Why do you not speak?” he asked the night. There was no response. Oh well. He’d been alone, too long he realized. Soon he’d head for Port in a Storm. Some ale was in order, something to ease this melancholy. A growl, not too distant, broke his train of thought. “Some great woodsman,” he muttered, grabbing his rifle. “Must be off my gourd, slipping like that.”

            Boris stood at the edge of the path pawing the ground. His growl continued as he looked north. Its low rumble disturbed the otherwise quiet clearing. Hang squinted in the darkness but knew the gesture useless. The overhead canopy was too dense allowing but a little moonlight through. “I hear it too old friend,” he said after a moment. “Voices and baying hounds, sounds like a hunting party.” He stroked the bear’s head. “They’ve cornered something.”  The bear continued his moaning. “Alright,” Hang said. “Let’s have a look.”

The deflection spell sprang to life. Physical blows, along with the press from the farmers were pushed back. Arcane bolts arced like blue lightening from his fingers. They sliced the old soldier in two, continuing outward, crackling in the dark.  “Poracque mi boem,” he chanted, concentrating. “My mind is the weapon.” Sweat dripped from him as he pushed his inner sources to their limits.

           

Twenty or so humans were down in that clearing, by his estimate, all on top of each other trying to get to the young dark Elf.  He looked young anyway. It can be hard to tell with the almost immortal. The Elf shimmered blue in the moonlight, magic so strong Hang’s skin crawled. Others were arriving. These more organized. They’d begun flanking the mage. Hang gathered up his rifle backing away from the ridge. Boris growled. “It’s none of our business,” he answered, starting back down the hill. “The kid was probably up to no good.” Boris bumped him hard in the back. “No, and that’s final. Don’t know why you care so much about a stray Dark Elf anyway.” He was at the bottom of the hill before realizing Boris was gone.

“Close on him you fools!” said one of the new arrivals, “Clearly he is weakening! A concentrated attack now will...” 

Hang’s bullet punched through his side.  Four more rounds followed, as quickly as he could load, into the massed men. He felt no sorrow as they grabbed at their wounds. He’d never much liked humans. Too many of them, and they were far too of a mind they owned the world. Boris, apparently held a similar opinion as he roamed amongst the others, claws tearing flesh wherever they landed. Hang shifted, concentrating on targets nearer the kid. Rifle boomed and humans dropped broken, and Hang smiled. For the moment he was free. No dark memories of his beloved Summer, just her spirit beside him like the old days, guiding his hand, adjusted his aim. Their thirst for Dark Elven blood soured for now, the humans fell back.

He found the Mage on his knees, slick with sweat. The brilliant glow was a mere flicker now. Hang surmised it was a power shield. The mage readied another spell at his approach.

            “Let it rest kid,” he, grunted, digging around in his bag for some water. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”  Boris roared, his eyes locked on the Dark Elf. “See what I mean? And this was his idea.” The magician made a show of considering the offer for a moment before giving Hang a nod and collapsing. Satisfied, Boris circled the clearing in search of more threats. He ended up at his master’s feet eying the Magician coldly.

            The mage gestured and a small fire appeared on the ground. “Impressive,” Hang said. “I thought you were all out of juice but we’re not staying here. The humans will be back, and in greater numbers.”

The park

Spring always works it's magic on me. No matter what trials and tribulations  beset me spring must have its way.

 I'm in a tiny little green space on what used to be the naval hospital of New Orleans. This morning I realized an absolutely huge plot hole in my story so I have to pretty much start from scratch, there's no news on my degree front but the depression is finally winding its way down.

So here I am outside, trying to be one with nature.

Hmmm, It's nice enough (smile) still, it's hard to just relax and let it embrace you. I mean Look at me, instead of doing just that I'm writing you. I'm hopeless. Still, welcome spring. May your arrival heard to coming of great things!

Oh, finished Hang the Hunter. No more rewrites, it is what it is.

06apr2018 gotta keep movin

Been a while, was focused on prepping for the comprehensive exam.  Found out the results a few days ago. I failed it, again. 

I have run out of options as far as American literature and the university of New Orleans, at least it feels that way. There was some talk about another approach. It was lost in the redness of my rage. A few angry, poorly directed, words later, I am sitting in the sun comtemplating my next moves.

I'd already told myself it was just a move, that I do what I do regardless. But the realness of a thing is a different duck. It's a beautiful day and I'm waiting on my pardna, my smile, to arrive. I loaded up Pandora and the first song up? Collie Buddz's "Movin on."

God telling me something, sure, in his cryptic giveth/takeith away style. For a moment I embrace the anger, sneer at the old positive slant sayings like, "if it doesn't open its not your door," or "he works in mysterious ways." That stuff, that way of thinking is just Shit fuelin the fire. 

So I just listened to the words and heard the message. Buddz is a stupid handle, but the words are on point. Move on. Enough of that.

I have about ten more pages to edit in "Hang, the Hunter," my fantasy story, before I submit it to publishers. Then I finish the editing on "Drifting Priest," my space story. Jason and I are working on a screenplay and my grandson is trying his damndest  to get me back into music. I am blessed.

My pardna, my muse, smile shows up. It would be a lie to say the anger disappeared, but it was made trivial.  

26Feb18 Updates

Haven't worked on the Wright story as I've gone back to the previous story in an attempt to make them consecutive.  Finished the final rough draft on the Priest story which finally sets up the next story which is the Busewalla thing. 

The problem is now I have to kind of stop everything to study for the Comprehensive exam. It's my second shot and if I fail this time I'll have to switch majors from American lit to probably Brit lit.

I'm finding it hard to focus on the studying these days. I am the kind of guy that needs to be tasked by a Professor to produce. Too much time away from the classroom environment has caused me to move on mentally. All I want to do now is work on my stories and submit them.

Just a peak at where my head is for the purposes of keeping his page updated.

the saga continues 09FEB18

I know, i know. I keep saying it. This fucking story! Why have i not quit this bastard yet? i mean there are easier stories. Stories that are deeper that i could tell in my sleep without breaking a sweat. but this one, she tasks me!

Okay. Streamlined the characters in the hopes of telling the tale on a smaller, more personal level. Cornelius and the Captain Clavo, her driven to find the mythical ship, him determined to never go back. its easier than dragging the whole military aspect into it and is less a commentary on said topic.

but i have come to realize Capt, Cornelius Busewalla is only the slightest variation on a character from a previous short story, Arsealious Wright. This could easily be a continuation of his tale. The problem is some shifts in the structure would have to be made but it could work.

So now i'm looking at yet another re-write, smh. This is the writing life folks. I complain but i love the challenge just the same. This story will be written. I'm of a mind it is my legacy, there is nothing else. That attitude alone should get the son of a bitch up and running!

I plan to post a bit of it here soon. I think it would be good to see some of the early stage and how the characters change with the re-write. we shall see.

21JAN18 This Fucking Story!

Still hitting the wall with this piece. Cornelius is adrift. Everybody knows what they're doing but him which is giving the story no direction at all. Si-fi/ fantasy is a genre I grew up with and love. I have dabbled in it  a few times with stories i think are okay, which is why i'm finding it confusing as to why it's so difficult writing this one. I know what i want,. I see it, I even know how it ends. I just cant seem to make my fingers write the damn thing.

I have stared at these fifty pages for a week or so and have come to the conclusion that I'm trying to stretch a short story into a novel. I have an overarching plan for the characters but it has to be told in pieces. Stretching it into a novel feels like filler, with great swaths of dull, boring, passages that nobody, especially me, wants to read. it has to be leaner with more depth, not just prettily painted pictures of ships in space.

Cornelius also needs a real purpose. He is as adrift in his life as he is in space at this point.This drifting along could, but isn't, making for an interesting character. He's got to want something!

Thinking on the re-write i have a new mantra. I am forever talking with  my friend Jason, about the clock, how time is running, always. I approach all projects now like they are legacy pieces. I ask myself is this what you want to leave behind, What you want people to read that represents you.

On to the next re-write, head down, determined.

06JAN18 progess, though slow.

This story is still more of a struggle to write than my others. I have outlined, so have a general idea of where things are going, but an outline is just that. Cornelius, my main character, keeps wanting to leave his New-African roots for some wavy unsubstantial amalgamation of a human. I am letting him do it because he know himself better than i do. But his drifting is causing the problems with the story line. I have come to the conclusion I'm over thinking things, trying to force him into a preconceived structure that is not working. It's a tendency i have in other areas of my life and if not watched, leaks into my writing process. I am worrying over every line and how it works with the overall outline when it is just an outline. I should be just writing. Things generally fall into place with the re-writes.

Another issue is I am more comfortable with the short story form. That familiarity makes me write tighter when a novel needs breathing space. it was originally going to be a series of shorts of Cornelius's adventures and i guess it still is. i am telling myself just need to take my time and quit beating myself up over every line when the thing isn't even half finished. Forty pages in now, but they're forty good pages, ideas the can be shifted with most of the a dialog and story line still workable. Patience, i say shaking my head, patience.