Thought-Drive

Last week's work went well, especially considering a mysterious Christmas Eve illness. I didn't realize what was going on, and I suppose it may have just been food poisoning. I'll probably never know now. Regardless, I edited to chapter 18, and am feeling very good about this home stretch. I now have a better understanding of what was missing in an epilogue yet to be written, and having scanned most of it within a short span, I am more familiar with this new retelling, this rewrite. Earlier in the process I was worried I had written the same story. I have banished that fear. I had a good conversation with a writer colleague, and her questions put me in a great position to see what my story might look like to different eyes. She is preparing a piece for submission herself, and I think the process was as beneficial for her as it was for me. We're supposed to be getting together for a more in depth chat this week. If I had my druthers, I would be able to finish everythi...

The break has started, and so has the work I planned to do during. A friend of mine paid me the compliment that he was really impressed with my ability to look at how much time I have, and stick to a script of how to spend it, in regards to completing my creative projects. Naturally, after that conversation on Tuesday, I squandered that afternoon, Wednesday, and even Thursday. To reach the first week's mark, I had to work Saturday morning. But, it did get done. I am learning a great deal, and at least for the first third of the novel, I am happy with the rewrite. Just about everything that I had in mind to fix has been taken care of with the third drafting. The world holds up a lot better, feels a lot more distinctive. I have mental images of it now, how it feels and smells and sounds. Connecting with the festivities of this weekend, in some respects, it's a lot like Endor. But I also know in what ways it is not like Endor at all, and for that I am very satisfied. Somethin...

Last night I sat down and started going through the rewrite. I was equipped with some print outs, highlighters, pens, and some notes I took concerning what I remember leaving out, messing up on, and just holes in general that needed filling. I didn't get very far into the process. Initially, I was happy because there were no serious errors, and as I went along I actually recalled stopping around chapter 10 or so, and going through the beginning just to make sure I wasn't imagining things. I thought to myself, "Oh, well, this might not even be worth it. Surely the beginning is fine." That sentiment quickly changed when I piled on the knowledge I had gained by actually finishing the rewrite. I thought the pen would be enough, circle here, arrow there, some underlining, some striking through. Then, I put the pen down, and took up the highlighter. Entire sections needed to be scrutinized under the bright ink. I was reminded again of a writer friend's appraisal that...

The end is near. Of the novel that is. I can't be sure if what I've drafted is award-winning, best-selling, critically-acclaimed material, but it feels really good to almost be done. It should've been done earlier this year, and as the weather thawed, ignited, and cooled off again, I consistently kicked myself for not being dedicated enough to it, for taking some weeks off. I second guessed, even third guessed. Even still, I know that the editing is going to be taxing and brutal, but I'm still happy. Get it all down before you realize it sucks. Words from my mentor, that I've actually passed on to several other people. When he first said them to me, I could not fathom how useful they would be. It's November, so I've been asked about National Novel Writing Month. I won't be participating. I explain, and I believe, that the occasion originally was for people who kicked themselves year in, year out, about the book they "should" be writing. They...

I recently had a sit down with a new writer colleague. She had written a short story, and I had given over a piece of mine. The reason I had submitted something to her was she held a group activity discussing "show vs. tell" which is a trend in writing that trips up a lot of authors. It generally comes down to saying something explicitly (telling) rather than describing the thing and letting the reader infer (showing), usually through active voice. Her own effort was something she had been working on and was looking to improve on. I had read the first few chapters of a novel she was working on, in exchange for her giving me thoughts on my published one. That went a bit poorly (she cried), so this time I was focused on doing a better job. And I think I did. There were no tears, and there was much productivity all around, with her saying after the meeting that she felt like we had a lot to give one another, and she felt we even had similar styles. I'm still mulling that ...

A new story is officially in the works. It even has a working title. A while back, months, I had an idea for a re-imagining of my original fantasy idea, the first book I ever finished and submitted. That work itself was a rework of a rewrite of a mulligan, and over the years, as I've grown, and studied, I realized that while I liked the story, and many aspects of it, some of the bones weren't durable enough to hold up such an ambitious project. Since writing that book, I wrote several others, as part of a series, and learned a lot about staying power within that sort of situation. The re-imagining, as I put more and more weight on it eventually proved just as flawed. The difference was this time I could see it. This time I didn't commit a lot of time and energy toward it thinking it was one thing, when it was actually something else. I didn't have to go back to the drawing board either. As I was analyzing the weaknesses of the project, the lack of investment on my pa...

The book is out . It was released from pre-order status yesterday, and on the occasion I took some time to reflect on the scant few years I've been at this. I had the opportunity to talk to a new colleague about my writing and books, and I always talked about where things started, and how, and when, but comparing the dates of publication to the timeline of effort, it's only really been four years. It feels like longer to me, of course. I'm reminded of that interview where the reporter asks the entertainer about their "overnight success" and the entertainer gives the reporter that look, the look, insight into all the time when no one knew who they were. I'd like to have an interview like that someday. I'm up to chapter 18, and the novel has turned out about as well as I could expect. I can foresee only a small number of wrinkles upcoming, and then I can call it a finished draft. It's exciting to feel like things have worked out well, but also dishear...

Sometimes I take to scribbling down thoughts into this space, and I find myself snatching at thoughts but coming away with smoke between my fingers: a sign that I should probably be doing this more often. I am a member of a writing group, the third such since I started treating all of this seriously some five or so years ago. I don't attend meetings very often, but my lack of productivity has little to do with my truancy. The other day though, I found myself spending time with the group's founder, but for personal reasons. He seemed to need friendly company, and I decided a long time ago that if a person wants to be a certain kind of individual, they must do the kinds of things that individual would do. I like to think that I'd be there for people, and it wasn't even too awkward that I, he of the low group attendance, would be there for him for non-writerly company. I went without knowing how long I'd be out, and some 8 hours later, I found myself at a different ...

I've been deeply ill recently, which was an experience. It only happens once a year or so, long enough between bouts that it's always new again what that feels like. I always have the strangest thoughts duriing. Michael Jordan played an NBA Finals game feeling like this? Why don't heroes in comic books ever get the flu, this is much worse than being clipped by a bullet in the arm. Then, days later, my brain kicks back on. Ideas float behind my eyes, and I feel well enough to snatch at them, to even pay attention to them. Then I realize how sick I really was. All previous brain activity was focused keenly on how bad I felt right then, and comparing it to how bad I felt in the previous instant. But I still should've written. It would be easy for me to blame my sickness, but the truth is, I grew very afraid that this re-write project was a waste of time. I became fearful that I had spent all that time and effort just to create the exact same story. Without meaning to, t...

I have written to the end of my outline. Which is an interesting phenomenon, depending on whether it happens at the end of a book, or in the middle. I am speaking of the latter case, of carefully following the bread crumbs of my story then stooping to pick up the next and finding the space vacant. I was somewhat busy this week and weekend, but I slated the time well in advance. I did everything except check the outline. When I got to it, it had one sentence, a short one, which was a stab that I took over two months ago about where I would probably be now. I wasn't wrong, but there also wasn't much to the sentence, just a flimsy and vague idea. I could've written, but there would've been no understanding of where I was writing to. So, I backed up, and am going back to work on the outline. On the plus side, the re-write continues to feel like a sounder idea. The story feels more full. I also didn't see my colleague to talk about how his dissertation is developing, ...

I've been staying productive, I think. Yesterday I finally, finally finished the editing process on the fifth book, and earlier that week received a release date of September 1. There've been some policy changes so the cover is getting done last. I think all in all, I made some progress professionally. There was a snafu with my editor of choice, so the editor in chief ended up working with my on my manuscript. I might have mentioned it, that becoming a positive interaction. She even went so far as to say that she would "be happy working with me on my future projects," which I took to be a positive sign. Even if it was a little thing like I was easier to work with, that means something I think. Someone suggested that I start a fictionpress profile, as a way to garner readers. I didn't really get it, but this person had more readers than me, so I could hardly write the advice off. So, I did. I'm still working on getting everything sorted out. I put up the pre...

Two things recently coincided. I stumbled, and failed to keep up a consecutive week of writing, and the second round of edits for the novel began. I received the file middle of last week, the very same evening when I reminded myself to email my editor the following day, because it had been some weeks since I last heard from her. The email the file was attached to was warmer than the first, even complimentary. She said the novel was close, had very few problem areas left, and that she enjoyed working with me on it. When I finally opened it and started working on Saturday, I saw what she meant. It was almost as if the hands that had touched that edited version were gentler, and more accepting. It felt like she was beginning to understand, and that felt great. Then on yesterday I stumbled. There were lots of moving pieces to a social weekend, but I know, looking back, that I had enough time to sit down and commit. I just didn't. In that regard, despite to what extent I enjoyed myse...

Chapter 13 was drafted, and with a bit of flourish. In my more quiet moments, I've wondered where the drafts of the first iteration stop and the benefits of the re-writing begins, and have come up with nothing. The net benefit is that this story is better, and more full, but there are times when I am making something I did in the go round better, and there are times I'm off the beaten path completely. I also don't know to what extent I should be aware of things I did previously, much less how to forget about those things. I think, "well, this happens next," and sometimes, sometimes, I catch myself in a reminder of, "no, anything could happen. Don't force it." Currently, I'm in a grouping of sections that all take place more or less concurrent with one another during a world event that came about in the development of the setting in preparation for the rewrite. Maybe because of the nature of the event, or maybe for some other reason, I'm fi...

I am almost at the conclusion of the break between semesters that constitutes my Spring vacation. Not a vacation from writing, but from the job description I send to the government every year. At the beginning of the break I had high expectations about how to use this free time. Twice the number of chapters was my first thought. I doubled down on that and imagined even that I could write every day. In fourteen days, I could finish the novel. With four days left of my vacation, I have two chapters written, and not even two complete chapters. I went in and worked on two which were short and unrealized and poorly executed. It took me time to figure out where I was in the story, and even then I don't find myself very well grounded. I rushed it. I panicked, thinking that if I didn't start, I would never start. And if I never started, how could I ever finish? The rest of the time was spent seeing friends, and I didn't even get to see them all. Maybe in general I am the type ...

The first round of edits is done, and I am less sad that it took this long to get into the mix for the fifth book. I used my freshest eyes yet to look at something that was going to be published, and I could better hear the voices of all the confused people that were frustrated by my writing style (a friend recently told me, after years, that sometimes I write "around" ideas). As I've gotten older, I've fallen out of love with being clever and become married to making sense. Doesn't mean I'm any closer to being intelligible, though. When I put the story down, I had a few conclusions. The first was, again, at how badly I committed to the initial book, not just because it was the most juvenile, but because the first book is the most important. I didn't read Harry Potter, or Twlight, the Hunger Games, or any of the others, but those series, that success, all started from those first books. A delicate amount of responsibility was assigned to them, and evide...

This time I am not going to harp on about how much planning I did, and how little doing. I am less productive, by the year, than what I am realizing was a golden period of flourishing proliferation. It may just be unrealistic to capture all of that again. Or maybe I should be searching for the rocket fuel that propelled me through all of those words and pages those years back. I have not written a single page on the sci-fi manuscript since last Fall. I went into grad school applications after completing the ten chapters, reached a stopping point, and thought I had laid all the ground work to get right back on that horse after I received all my feedback (read: rejections). And now here I am, a good few months after I finished submitting the last of the paperwork, and not one page. Instead, I went looking down a dry well, and found some poetry in myself. Going back to that form was sudden, unexpected, and fulfilling. I discussed the phenomenon with a friend who just as occasionally ...

So as per usual, I got done posting a bunch of stories, and then I just checked out. Need to stop doing that. I can say though that I much prefer posting writing on the blog more than I do actually blogging. Need to untwist that knot, as well. Was speaking with a new writing acquaintance and it turns out she writes almost exclusively in 2nd person. I had limited interaction with that point of view, stemming directly from my mentor in college telling me, "don't write in 2nd person." He didn't explain why, nor did I ask for an explanation. Looking back now, I realize that 2nd person has a lot of inherent problems that 1st and 3rd person free the writer of, and the author has a lot of responsibility to begin with, but 2nd person adds on a few more hats. Most importantly, for me, is that the reader has to instantly buy-in, which is far beyond being interested, or curious. In 1st and 3rd, the reader is reading about someone else. Someone that can have all the eccent...

When he caught up to Jarvis again, he was back at the bus stop, waiting. David wondered how long the other man had been coming to grips with the things that David was suddenly wrestling with. And even then, how had he. “I spoke of us, but,” Jarvis said, staring straight ahead. “I understand your kind to form groups. Packs.  What I learned from dying is the trouble with moving one finger one inch when not motivated to do so. However speaking is the most difficult part, as if telling secrets long after were the most impossible thing in all of this.” David watched, as Jarvis spoke. His chest was inert. His words did not disturb the air at all. It was almost as if he were moving his lips, and thinking his thoughts loud enough for David to hear. “When one has spent so much energy and focus in existing, to take lives to extend one’s own, everything else going into that becomes less complicated. I have never heard of one such as you, alive, and alone. I suppose your decisions will ...

David thought about the man in the garbage and his fighter of a dog, as the scenery outside transitioned from abandoned businesses and liquor stores to luxury boutiques and grocery stores. The bus took them even further past that, and eventually, when things got too nice, they were back to walking. David was dressed comfortably, but even if he was jogging his attire would not have been confused for workout clothes. Jarvis looked out of place from head to toe. “On your left,” the large man said, but didn’t stop walking. David turned his head to look across the street. He saw the gates of a closed community, thick and iron, but beyond it there were the flashing lights of police cars. “Walter Lancaster,” Jarvis said. “Was a man of great means. He had nothing left to consider in his life but how long it would take for him to die, despite his excess.” David watched the people passing by in their cars watch the two of them. He thought about the friends of his family, and their mea...

When David closed his apartment door behind him, he sighed. He locked it, too, as if maybe turning it would turn back everything that had happened. He was famished, so he ate. He checked his messages while eating as he cooked. He cleaned his teeth and steadied his voice before making the return calls. The story he told was that something had hit him after he left work. Not feeling well, he went right to bed, and woke up the next day, only an hour previous. He was feeling much better now. Truth was the best vehicle for lies. That night, he did not run. The oddest thought occurred to him when he realized that Jarvis knew his address because he had returned his wallet. He thought about the huge man swooping in through one of his windows. And doing what? He had his chance to kill David, and he didn’t. Not like all those men on that roof. Or the two strangers with their green car. David thought about what his father had told him. It probably wasn’t all lies. He probably told his son what...

David didn’t know what to say. He looked down at his body. He knew how to take whatever nick or cut or bruise, and extrapolate what actually happened. He was blue and purple in places, injuries he couldn’t place. He had been cut, and he had been bruised, to the point of bleeding. A wallet flopped in between his legs. “There were nothing else among what remained of your clothes,” the giant said. David’s ears twitched at hearing the voice. It was a deep and hollow sound, like wind blowing through a rotten tree. There was no life to it. He picked up the wallet, and opened it to see his ID card. He still hadn’t gotten around to taking the driving exam. David closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. It felt strange, and it felt wrong, but he could not have fathomed what would’ve happened had the police found his wallet so near the murder scene. Murder. His eyes opened again. “Who are you?” he asked. When the man did not answer, he turned and looked. Those same pitiless eyes were boring...

His hearing came back first. There was a booming, a thump, distant vibration, then noise ricocheting in his direction. It was more rhythmic than chaotic though, almost like music. Breathing in, David caught the stench that triggered memory. The rot. He jerked away from the contemplations, feeling sore muscles beneath naked flesh. Wood pricked his skin, and glass, and cold. He creaked his eyes open to see a blurry room with skeletal walls and unevenly spaced floorboards. A gaping hole in the structure cast blinding brightness on his prone form. David tried to move again, and recoiled from the pain. He remembered what would usually follow the disorientation and mystery. People with their hands on him, grabbing and pulling, faceless assailants that always ushered him back to the cage. The pain was much greater this time, and the soreness, to the point that this time, even though he knew they were on their way, he would not try and hide. He had killed all those men, after all. The st...

What he saw was a giant. Since leaving the island, people’s description of David had changed, all reflecting how much smaller he was than the average American male. Several inches shorter, and less broad, the words used decreased him even more. The men in suits were taller than him, with bulging chests and legs beneath their formal wear. The individual they were after was to them as they were to David. He was wearing clothes not too dissimilar from the thugs in the alley, tough looking boots and military pants, a worn leather jacket thrown over a zip up hoodie. All black. Things began to fall apart in David’s mind. Nothing made sense. From his floor level vantage point, the man did not look cornered at all. His posture, even ringed with a dozen pursuers was unaffected. David strained to hear, but the distance was too great. He couldn’t know what they were talking about. He could not imagine someone defying what was so obviously encasement. A cage. Then the wind changed, and what...

There wasn’t just the one man in the suit, looking around like he wasn’t looking around. There were several. They never met up with one another, but they were all encroaching on David’s hiding place. They moved as if directed by a careful and controlling hand. This was it. They thought he would fall on his face, fail because he had been set up for failure, undereducated and underequipped. The miracle of his work at the clinic had forced their hand, and now they were coming to take him back. To put him back in the cage. David thought about his savings account at the bank with the nice people in their offices. It always smelled like jasmine. David thought about a different savings account in a different city with different people in different offices. Every time, for the rest of his life. But he also didn’t want to kill again. “Target location confirmed,” he heard someone say. David’s heckles rose as he sunk down even lower, examined the area around him, an open garage space wi...

All told, the terrier survived the surgery, but his life was irrevocably altered. He didn’t see Summer. The homeless man, presumably his owner, never resurfaced. David went looking but the man had vanished in a mysterious sort of way, a Bay City sort of way. But he had secured a job. Steady, decent work doing something he could convince himself to be invested in on most days. Except for the occasional animal with a particularly bad owner, once he had acclimated to the facility, things went smoothly. The others accepted him for what he was, and behaved when he asked. The murders did not abate. David learned that Bay City had the nation’s highest death rate for homicide killings as well as unsolved missing persons cases. The people weren’t soft, unlike the people on the island, who only sometimes had harder layers deep within themselves. The people of Bay City were guarded, some even predatory, like the hooker in the hotel bar, or the robbers in the alley. The ability to identify onese...

Watching it all happen was like a crazy sort of disaster. David found himself looking ahead, and projecting backwards, trying to piece out what had happened and why. How he could have avoided things. Then there was screeching tires and crumpled metal. David ran into the scene, perceiving the smell of blood and fear, hearing screams and whimpers. A near miss. That’s what they would end up calling it. David found the Jack Russell’s crumpled form shaking from pain. He could see that one of its back legs was broken, and maybe some ribs. “I’m sorry,” David said, on his knees, reaching a hand down to pet the animal’s head. This time he did hear the footsteps approach. A woman in scrubs was sprinting over with a medical bag. David looked up and around, at the wrecked cars. Air bags had deployed. A round man was speaking to a thin woman as she clutched her head. “He’s still alive,” the woman said, crouching near David. “Good, good. Okay. Can you back away please?” David mov...

“I said give me your wallet,” and he held the knife up. David began to reach for his wallet slowly, and froze. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” The one with the knife blinked, and glanced at his accomplice. “Look. Shorty. Where do you see this going? We don’t want to hurt you, man.” “It’s all the money I have,” David said. He couldn’t ask for more. Calling home and asking… he couldn’t call home at all. David thought about the last kiss and hug he would ever receive from his mother. “I don’t give a, man get this fool,” the one with the knife said, and stepped forward. David turned and ran. He was facing the wrong end of the alley, but he had to hope there was an outlet. Outrunning the thugs wouldn’t be difficult, but a dead end was still a dead end. Sprinting along, David felt better, like breaking down the fuel in his legs was breaking down the worry in his bones. He needed a job, that was plain, but it didn’t have to be in civil planning. Just so long as he didn’t have to go h...

The next morning he spent on the phone, calling local engineering firms in the city, explaining that he had a dual degree in civil planning and engineering, and was looking for work. Two of the places sounded interested until he explained where his degree was from, and how reputable it was, despite the fact that they had never heard of it. He changed his story to looking for a paid internship. Hunger forced him downstairs, to the hotel bar. A dozen different people were discussing all sorts of things. David ate fish, and eavesdropped. He heard the woman coming, and smelled her before that. “Is this seat taken?” she asked. David turned to see a woman about his age, slim and pretty. How she looked did not match how she smelled at all. Her perfume was pleasant enough, but beneath it, she smelled like one of the dockside hotels. “No,” he said, because it wasn’t. She sat, and they began to talk. The topic of the weather folded into commentary on the city beneath it, which segu...

David avoided Miami, all Floridian ports, actually. He told himself it was because he didn’t want the hassle. Because his skin was always on the lighter side, more yellow than brown, more Caucasian than Hispanic. “What’s next?” he asked the captain. “Savannah,” the man said. He seemed agreeable, but he was providing a favor, and his men did not understand. Likely, they were losing money by the day because of their bizarre route, and over time, everyone had come to understand who was at fault, but not why. David knew only small bits about the shipping industry, and sailing business, such were his family’s interests, and his involvement in them. He knew even less about Georgia. “And after that?” The captain looked down at his notebook, and turned a page. “Well, Bay City.” David knew absolutely nothing about the US eastern seaboard except there was New York, Boston, and then a bunch of other places with less important names to the south. “It’s near the capital,” the cap...