Finish the blasted thing

Normally, I try to be writing one thing, and rewriting another. That way, when my brain freezes on one story, I can just switch over to the other one and pretend the first problem doesn't exist. Then a day or so later, I can say to myself, 'Oh yeah, I need to get this piece finished too. Let's see where I stopped. Oooo, I know what happens next.' I stole the idea from a character in The Midwich Cuckoos.

Walking away really helps. I used to work on each story really intent on finishing it, until I got the next idea. That idea would seem like the coolest thing that ever existed, and I would put the first piece aside, just for a little while, I promised myself. Then I would pound away on the new one, until I got another idea. It was only when I applied some self-control to how I wrote that I started finishing things, and being able to send them out.

These days there are even more distractions. I write, read, play Wow, maintain some semblance of being a social animal, and keep up this blog. Just sitting down at the computer tempts me to go look up all the trillions of things that I want to know, articles that I've heard of, seeing what crazy new list Cracked dot com has put up, and googling my own name. Anytime you feel like wasting time, the opportunity is there.

But the whole reason I write this blog, or look up what new markets are taking submissions, or any damn thing else, is to write. I want to get to that point where I get up in the morning, having slept till I'm done, and climb up the stairs to sit right where I am now and start making worlds, again.

That's the point.

By the way, all you ID thieves out there? When I can, I'm coming after you, with a rusty speculum.

You and me verses everyone else

I like horror. That probably doesn't come as a shock to you, but I need to start this piece with that fact.

I like reading it, watching it, talking about it, and boy do I enjoy writing it. I like good action, Sci Fi, and an occasional mystery, too. But that cold shiver that tickles all the nerve endings at once is my bread and butter, and my meat and potatoes. It's the syrup on my pancakes.

The other day I had an encounter that felt like a recurring dream. I've had it before, and I'll probably have it again. Each time I have it, I expect to get the same part of my brain 'pinged.'

Someone said to me, 'I don't read horror.' I nodded, and life went on. A few people who know me know that sometimes it takes me a little while to fully process the personal stuff.

About ninety-nine percent of the time, it isn't that it's said, it's the way that it's said. Like it's a claim of territory, or the way a recovering alcoholic will mention they don't drink any more. Most of the time, they don't say that they don't like it, or that they prefer something else, or that they've never read/seen anything that was worth their time. They say it, in my humble opinion, like they're better than that.

I've heard that same feeling expressed elsewhere. I think it was at a convention that I overheard someone saying that the reason Rachel Weisz didn't do the third mummy movie was because she felt she 'didn't have to do those kinds of films any more.' Note that this is the same feeling, coming from the other side of the fence. As true believers, (My apologies to Stan Lee) we feel that we have the good stuff, and all those other fools are living in ignorance. Now, I conducted extensive research to find out if Ms. Weisz actually said that, but IMDB and Yahoo Answers both denied it. With no definitive evidence, what do we believe? What we want to believe.

I don't read or watch romance, tear-jerkers, or comedy. I have watched each of these in the past, and ended up wanting my hour and a half back, and usually my money too. This is not the same thing as saying these genres are 'beneath' me, though. I don't get anything out of them, so I don't invest time in them.

I've heard some of the other genres talked about in the same way, too. Science fiction and fantasy often get lumped in with horror, as in 'I don't watch that stuff.' An odd attitude.

This post is a bit of a ramble, but there's nothing wrong with that. This is me thinking at my keyboard the way some people talk to their pets. But unlike Spot, the keyboard, and you, will remind me about this again someday, and we'll continue the discussion.

One last note, I have to think up some really horrible story to tell me wife. She bought a box of mint chocolate pocky the other day, and those damn things are evil. (and gone)

Still writing, obviously.

A Roja by any other name

Okay, you're probably sick of hearing about it by now, and you know what? I'm close to getting sick of writing about it. I want the rewriting to be done, and I want to be able to move on to other things. I'm behind on getting stuff typed in, and I want to start working on my next book. Claudia is off at a convention this weekend, so I've spent most of it spewing threats at my keyboard.

Just a few minutes ago, I sent in a request to Black Belt magazine to try to track down a tidbit from my past. During Desert Storm, ( it still feels funny to call it that. It was named Desert Shield to begin with, and we were told only the air assault portion of it would be named Storm, then when the ground war started, it would be referred to as Desert Saber) the ship I was on docked for a while in Dubai, and we got some liberty there. By a happy coincidence, the world karate championships were going on in the city at that time, so some friends and I attended. While we were sitting in the stands and talking, and sort of sticking out like sore thumbs with pink, sparkly balloons tied to them, this guy comes up to us and asks if we are Marines.

It turned out that he was a photographer, there to cover the tournament for Black Belt Magazine. He not only got us down to the meet the American team, but he took our pictures with all of them. That was one of the coolest moments ever, and not just because the two ladies were damn hot. It was nice to just talk to someone from the U.S. for a few minutes. Most of the citizens of the U.A.E. were polite and friendly, and it was a fantastic place, but you could tell that even the ones who hated what Iraq had done had mixed feelings about us being there.

I forgot about the whole thing soon after getting home. As the years wore on, events like that have taken on a surreal quality, and not just for me, it seems. Folks act funny when you talk about wars. A while back, I started trying to track down what issue those pictures might have appeared in. I know the article might not have even made it into the magazine, and I know that my picture might not have been printed even if it did. But I'd like to know, and if they were printed, get a copy.

Still writing, just like I've been doing all day.

Challenge accepted, and met

Okay, I officially call wow on myself. That bit that I noted a couple of weeks ago about Stephen King being able write a short story in a few hours really stuck in my head. So on Saturday when Claudia and I went out for lunch, I took a notebook and pen with me. As we ate, I started scribbling on an idea that had come to me a while back, about a guy who stays young-looking. I didn't stop to talk or look around or anything else.

I had it halfway done by the time we left, and I picked it back up when we got home. I finished an hour later. At about 2800 words, it's short, which is good. Shorter means it has more markets that I can send it too.

I've hit the point on Roja where I've got to start chopping some of the old stuff, the good, squirmy images and concepts that I came up with long ago. It has to be done to make the whole book cohesive with how I've decided it ends. I think that somewhere earlier I explained that I started writing this beast years ago, only to put it on hold until I got some short stories published in order to get my name out to the public first. The plan was I could take the finished book to a publisher and say, 'This'll make you money. See, people are already reading my stuff.' Hindsight being ever so clear, that might have been a mistake. Of course, when I actually read those older paragraphs and scenes, the writing is crap. So maybe it wasn't.

I don't want to just throw all that original stuff away, so I'm going to save the whole book with a new file name, and then wade into that fucking thing with a machete.

I've already decided what book is going to be next: The Red Man Burning

Can't wait to write it.