It’s funny how my mind goes right to the literal as opposed to metaphorical. I feel like that’s a big reason why I’m not into poetry. I prefer the fantasy over the metaphor. Like, when I see this I think of a Hell for giants, as if they were bested, captured and confined to a literal prison where the lowliest of human pawns – this malnourished cell guard – is now their master, and they beg for the scraps he tosses them when he’s in the mood to torment. Whereas a poet would see something like his inner anxieties pushing through this tiny, bloody slit in his psyche, and he (the little dude to the left representing the poet’s conscious mind) serves them in desperate hopes to hold his insanity.at bay.
The metaphorical is deeper, of course, and probably more relatable, but the literal has so many more possibilities for storytelling and to let the imagination soar. You got the metaphor, which is basically just colorfully describing everyday life – job and family troubles and (gag me) typical relationship drama – and you have the fantasy…which entirely transports you into another world, detached from those three things above that so obtusely pollutes so much of our so-called “entertainment.” But, it boils down to personal opinion. I’m not into the “feels” so much. But those who are, often consider fantasy childish or lame because it’s “sooo fake, dude! Omg…” lol
For my money? Imagination/fantasy is the fuel for all progress in society.
I think I finished off Chapter 49 in the BM saga tonight. Book One ends at Chapter 22.5 (The Bathroom Blues), Book Two picks up at Chapter 23 (which is not yet available), and Book Three, which I’m calling (for now) Blood Magik: A Living Hell in L.A., starts at 38.5. I decided on the running numbers because the story never really stops. It’s not like a series. It really is all one story and, maybe long after its all said and done, will be printed up as some titanic, 2,500 page omnibus that might be better sold as a stepping stool for us short folk to reach the top shelf than as a novel. (In that it’d be thick as fuck, not that that’s all it would be good for. Although, metaphorically speaking…kind of a cool concept considering it’s what might give me that “step up” in my career by the end of it.) Anyway, I’m not sure if anyone has ever done the running numbers before. Let me know if you know of a saga or series of books that has. And, as always…
It’s been a bit since I’ve gotten around to scripting some new scenes into my Blood Magik world. (I’m juggling about 4 different stories right now.) I realized yesterday that I really missed my undead dudes. I’m currently working on Chapter 49 in the BM saga. I decided, since it’s all one story, to have running chapter numbers throughout the books, so Book Two will start with chapter 23, Book Three with chapter 38.5, and so on. (Yeah, I do some weird shit with chapter numbers. Book One starts with Chapter 0/24, a mix between before the story even begins and the future of it in Chapter 24, then pulls you back to Chapter 1). Didn’t write much today because I was was rereading stuff, getting back up to speed, but the above line was a fun one that sets the mood for the scene I’m working on now: the first big showdown in Book Three between my main man, Marty Grimson, and… Well, you’ll have to read it to find out.
Anyway, it’s my birthday today, my dudes. Hit the big 40 and shit… I’m no where near where I want to be but, hey… Wake up, call, right? Gotta get my shit in gear and start doing the grunt work. I suck at doing shit I don’t want to do that needs to get done. It’s sort of a trade-off: I put more work into my craft than 90% of people out there (the creative work, not the research or business side), but when it comes to the grunt work I can hardly get it started, let alone put in the hustle it needs to get handled well… I always knew that about me but hoped I’d find the drive to man-up. So far? Not so much… So here’s to a new year, a new decade-of-age for me, and a reinvigorated sense of priorities. I ain’t got all century… Gotta get this shit done!
And those peeps who haven’t yet gotten your copy of my first ever published work, now’s the time to get that Pure Art edition before I start doing shows on the reg and they’re all gone. Shoot through to BloodMagik.comand get your read on for the new year. And thanks, as always, for your support. \m/ -z/cm
1094 words added into my vampire-comedy-adventure story today, topping off Chapter 3 with a scene that opens up this supernatural world I’m building for nearly limitless possibilities. The main characters have been introduced and a new question asked: Why him?
Can’t say much, unfortunately, without giving something away. I just wrote and erased about four sentences in this update realizing, “nope…can’t give them that…” But what I can say is that I caught myself doing exactly what I know damn well not to.
One of my cardinal rules in writing is tonot write down the first thing that comes to mind. Why? Because it’s the first thing that comes to everyone’s mind. And it’s probably the first thing because, at some point, you’ve read or heard or seen it before. I caught myself falling into the typical drama that befalls most characters in nearly every story when the truth of the world is revealed to them. Usually they’re in denial of it, or want no part of it, and reject it under the guise of “I’m not risking my well-being” only to “miraculously” have their mind changed by realizing something that connects their past to this moment or whatever. It’s done so often and comes so naturally that I almost didn’t realize I was doing it. But being as “anti-drama” as I am, I got to the point, after a paragraph or so, when I realized I that, for some reason, I didn’t like what I was writing. Then it hit me: It’s the same shit every fucking writer scripts into every fucking story, TV series or movie.
Abort! Abort! Abandon all forward progress! Run, for the sake of your originality, for fuck’s sake! Reject the disease of the Norms and strike that bullshit drama from the tale!
Erased that fucking paragraph immediately and, as I so often do, flipped a bitch and started writing in the exact opposite direction.
NEVER. Ever, ever, EVER. Write the first thing that comes to your mind. It’s always something that’s been done to death. -z/cm
1298 words pecked into my first-person Vampire comedy this morning. That’s some pretty solid maneuvering for me; about twice what I typically write at a time. This one is about this young, goofball vampire (early twenties) whose basically chick repellent – before and after death – and suddenly finds himself in the midst of a beautiful, charismatic, human blond around his age and can’t for the life of him figure out why she’s paying him any mind. There’s a catch, of course. And one bigger than he even thought possible, as he just found out today. This world I’ve built for the story is one filled with “prets” (perternatural creatures) who have recently come out of hiding and have been given free reign by the state laws of Washington, basically making the whole state a monster-roaming habitat. Things are starting to get a little out of hand on the streets of Spokane, but what lies ahead makes the debauchery now look like a kegger compared to the festival of gore ahead. Keep your eyes out for more insight into this wacky new story. And feel free to ask questions if you’re interested. Also, checkout Bloodmagik.com for my current published work and new ones soon to come. \m/ -z
This photo, tho… Am I write? Heh. Puns are the best. Seriously, tho. Decrepit walls; a decaying stairwell; shadows so thick their darkness is cold to the touch…and the incessant, frantic pecking of keys telling a story so vile the words yellow and stiffen the pages to brittle, scratchy sheets that smell of ink and age. They lie scattered over the rotting wooden casket of the floor below, blanketing the dead under it with a sick telling of their demise; a story told through the eyes of the sadistic villain who buried them there. -Clack- clackclack-clack -clackclack- clackclack… -z
Only 617 words written this morning but that shit was fucking innntensse!! Haven’t written anything new in week or two; been putting most my free time into editing. It’s good to get back to concocting some vile and hellish circumstances. Dark sensations are so much more captivating to write and read. You can write the most poetic and uplifting verse known to man and it would pale in comparison to well written expressions of pain, as far as “captivating” goes. We’re weird like that, right? Humans? I think it’s an instinctual thing – like survival instincts. I think maybe the concept of pain is more alarming so requires greater focus. Hmmm…
Anyway, I’d been formulating a sort of “floor plan” for this short story-turned-novella I’m cooking up. I got a better feel for how I want it to go down now, but am still working on my scifi comedy, The Adventures of Dick & Rob (which I typically update more on my other blog @c0ry-c0nvoluted), so it’s just a toss up to what I’ll get done first. In the meantime I gotta get my Christmas story on the presses, man! Supposed to get a quote for 200 copies today… I’ll keep you loons posted. Check my webpage for my current work and for what’s coming up –> Bloodmagik.com \m/ -z
…quick words slipped into Blood Magik: Living Hell in LA (Book Three) this morning, getting back to the start of a mid-novel showdown twenty (of my character’s) years in the making. This one has a lot of potential for fantastical, apocalypse-world imagery since it’s taking place in the center of a bit of “terraforming” being orchestrated by the elemental, Raze: one of my demon queen’s twelve elite demons. These extraordinarily powerful entities don’t play too much into the plot, but have a final purpose in the overall story that won’t be revealed until the end of the Blood Magik saga. Until then they’re more like obstacles to have to work around while navigating through the New Hell. And this one is gonna help set the stage for a pretty savage beat-down. Fun times. =D Get in on the growing saga by getting your exclusive, collectible copy of the start of it all on my web page –> BloodMagik.com<– while they’re still discounted. Gonna be doing my first con next weekend in Yuma so it would be safer to get yours now since this edition is extremely limited. Also, follow my personal journey to becoming a better writer. The stuff I put together now is embarrassingly better than what I put together in the first book. Not the story, but the writing. I actually spent over a year updating Book One just so it could come close to what I’m actually capable of now, but compared to Book Three it’s hardly even noticeably the same writer (aside from my cheesy sense of humor). This too can make make Book One even more of a collectible, so don’t wait much longer. The first run will likely be gone soon. \m/
…1253 words were plugged into a new Chap of my (first person) dorky vampire comedy today. A decent start to a day where I wake up with a fucking headache and wooziness (and I here I am, still sober after 12 years, waking up nearly every day feeling hungover… *sigh* Fucking migraines…) I say “inching toward inspiration” because the scene I’m working towards was inspired by a work of art I found (or posted) on Tumblr about a month back. That’s one thing I love about starting my day off with art: the inspiration it lends my imagination. And I realized last night while brainstorming on how to go about putting together that short horror story (turned novella) I’m working on, that I could look to previous writings I did on here that were inspired by art for scenes in the story. Gud chit. \m/ The one that came to mind I’ll repost before this so you can find it below it on your feeds and follow what I mean. Observe–
…The moment of truth. I’ve been hesitating to move forward with the next step of the publishing process because I knew the opening paragraph (and a few others) were just too damned much: too (”cleverly”) wordy. And, admittedly, some of these word clumpings are still overly zealous, but creativity with the craft is (partly) what I’m in the game for. So here’s the opening chapter (prologue). Who (out of those who actually read books) would be turned off by the writing; would put the book down and say, “Nah… Too much, dude”? Observe–
stalactites of frosted what-the-twisted-fuck-is-happening-right-now chillingly maturated from the corners of the
truck-bed’s gate like demonic slushie fingers bent on being noticeably
villainous. One tail light busted, the two thoroughly baked teens in the
truck’s cab were lucky to be navigating Winterset, Iowa’s version of the river
Styx on a dreadfully snowy night that harbored the dreary and barren air of the
planetoid Pluto in a K hole. Not a creature was stirring…other than these two hungover hamburglers, carting
around several near-frozen carcasses five hours before midnight.
flakes of a white Christmas swirled in their pickup’s wake. They’d coursed this
path before. Maneuvering the bumpy backroad with close to pitch-black looming
at their periphery was becoming old hat. Hardly a word was exchanged between
them on the drive.
crunched against the frozen, wet annoyance at their feet before two heavy doors
slammed shut, both sets of galoshes aiming their clumsy paths toward the
truck’s gate. One screeching of angry old hinges later – like the howling of a
sickly, injured beast – and two hands reached to heave while one mouth hooted—
Marvin, the taller
of the two youths, angling for the bit of the tarp that burritoed a sizeable
head, paused, discernibly numb to the
moment. He was the darker of the two teens. Where Shawn could compare the shade of
his melanin to that of Ice Cube’s, Marvin would more closely blend in to a
scene with Chris Tucker. Either, consequently, could match bowls in a
bong-off with Smokey and Craig despite being just short of legal age. In their
senior year at Benjamin Bakem High, at this point in the semester they both wondered
if they’d ever get the chance to throw up the “deuces” at their graduation and
doobie the fuck on out; blunts tucked under beanies, boastfully rebellious stroll
carrying them off the podium…
“What?” Slightly sticky with stupor from the hold up, Marvin’s
bloodshot eyes told the tale of a young man who’d been heavily over-medicated.
“You get the legs, man. I got the legs the last time.” Shawn,
just as spent in the tanked-bank as his best dude, hung slothfully in the
moment, waiting for their mutual agreement. Facial hair like lint on his chin,
if the town were to put it to a vote it’s likely they’d motion for him to just shave
it all off and stop pretending his scruff was dignified.
“The fuck difference does it make?” The afore-described “sticky with
stupor” escalated to a gooey, mystified squint.
“The legs is heavier. Dude’s got big ass feet – fucking boots on an’
“You seen this fucker’s belly? All the weight’s in the middle,
bruh.” Marvin found the strength to fail at a gesture toward the
cadaver-burrito’s bottom half. “Dude’s short, anyways – legs are like…I dunno…
Fuckin’ corndogs or some shit.”
“Fuck, man… Just get the legs, a’ight? Damn… We in this shit together.”
A sigh moved Marvin’s light green, alien-beanied forehead to meet the
tarped torso before he discovered more of that strength he waisted gesturing
and used it to lift his chin and nod. “A’ight, man, chill… Here, get on this
Boots depressed snow, positions exchanged, and Shawn grabbed just
enough head to lose his half the minute the weight slid over other two
tarped bodies and off the pickup.
A thump preceded Marvin’s drowsy concern.
Shawn attempted to recover his fumble but found his ass in the snow
sooner than he found redemption.
Marvin’s shoulders slumped; beanied, alien antennae appropriately
lackluster over his skullie. It was one of those uber hip, pop-culture snow
caps that looked like no male over the age of four should own but somehow found
their way into men’s sizes. Reflective, elliptical alien eyes adorning his
forehead with two moveable antennae, green-balled tips, braided green rope
dangling shoulder-length from the earflaps…
“Hurry, man, shit…”
Battling gravity and his weather-weary gear, Shawn made his way to his
feet and found a stable grip under the twine that kept the tarp closed. He
lifted at the neck – six inches shorter than Marvin in eight inches of snow –
just barely getting the cadaver’s caboose up high enough to lug it toward its
unlikely place of final respite, several miles into the woods and an hour north
of the mall where the trio had first been acquainted. The path they tromped was
another familiar one, blood and what was likely a small intestine dripping from
the center of the tarp. By the time they made it to their destination – a
quarry they figured would soon fill with snow – seventeen feet of some sad
sap’s colon lazily laid behind.
Shawn nodded, and the sendoff proceeded as planned. Three counts and a
release sent a two hundred and thirty-five-pound body over a steep ravine with
serpent-like sinew whipping behind. Shawn’s fingers had loosened the twine around
the tarp so that it unraveled in its fall, unveiling the
barely-hanging-together carcass under it in jolly red velvet with white trim.
The bloody and matted flag of a once proud, long white beard waved in the
gully’s wind…until the elastic keeping it attached slipped from his head along
with his Christmas hat and fluttered the rest of the way down. The body splattered
into several pieces when it landed and joined the unthinkable carnival of gore
that presided there before it.
Seven other jolly dead sons of the Happiest Time of Year already decorated
the snowy floor, spread in fragments over a hundred feet; bits of red and green
fabric and pink flesh scattered about like yuletide sprinkles over vanilla
Marvin led the way back for the next two flavors to add to their very
troubled snowy desert while Shawn dragged behind. Santa’s little helpers were
easily half the big man’s size, so they grabbed a tarped-elf apiece and
proceeded to top off their evening’s burdens after both stumbling to their
rumps three or four times, trails left behind as glairing as neon signs
reading, “Murder Depository in 100ft”. The two elves’ tarps came apart like
Santa’s before them, and if there was ever a greater waste of a sexier pair of
candy cane thighs under holiday green skirts, it was not only a crime against
Christmas, but against all of mankind.
Afterward, Shawn –
brow and ears hidden under his red, black and white Star-Wars-themed Christmas
beanie – shuffled back over their path, kicking up snow to hide the trail of
death they left behind. But Marvin stayed fixed, manifesting a moment of
clarity (or a resemblance of something thereabouts). His eyes cut through the
icy winter breeze into the vicinity of an unspoken decree, and there, for the
first time in his near-adult life he discovered something most weed-heads
thought to be a myth:
His plod back to
the passenger side of the truck and into the cab was an assiduous one.
“Wha?” Shawn was
exhausted when he got in the truck: a lump of snot stuck on the seat. Not in
any kind of condition for purposive conversation.
next. That’s where we gotta go.”
“Fuck you mean,
man? We can’t—”
“This shit ain’t
over, man.” He looked to his one and only true friend, eyes never more
unfaltering than now. “Not until it’s over.”
“What… You mean
like right now?”
Shawn knew what he
meant. An answer wasn’t required. Truth be told, as exhausted as he was, he was
just as ready as Marvin was for this to be over… He’d just prefer to handle it
after a few bong loads and a month-long nap.
The key in the
engine turned, the emergency break went the way of the killer whales, wet boot
met pedal, warm grill sucked cold snow…
The “day of” was
nearly here…and only one man was left in town who was down on his luck enough
this season to have agreed to take the velvet reins – and all for a beggarly
wage of ten-eighty-five an hour…
But for the sorry
son of a bitch known as Grandad Santa, it may be too much to hope for a happy
Raise your hand if you made it this far in the post. lol How was the read? Too heavy to struggle through a whole novel of more of the same? Thanks for your thoughts. -z/cm