1228 words this morning, written into my goofy vampire comedy/adventure. That’s some pretty solid work for me, my dudes. A lot of writers can do three, four times that per sesh, easy, but not I, my friends. I take too much damn time on the words themselves. It’s part of what I like about writing: the art of the craft. Usually I don’t get much over 800 in at a time before I gotta take a step back and organize the next scene in my head. But it’s a very “soft” organization; no heavy outlines or specifics, just vague ideas and directions. I’m more of a “by the seat of my pants” kind of author which I always thought was a disadvantage, but recently have realized it’s a strength. When you go into writing with everything planned out, yeah, you get more done, but your writing is more predictable because you’re artificially pushing your characters and plot in an already decided direction. Whereas with me, even I don’t know what these dudes are gonna do next. It makes for some very spontaneous twists and turns, and for a lot of fun writing, as well as reading.
But, anyway, I cooked up this image above in photoshop for fun. It sorta depicts the dream my main dude has that opens the story and sets the stage for the underlying mystery of the plot. I uploaded the prologue and the first chap to my newly christened Wattpad account (that I really need to put more work into to get anyone to notice it…) so if you’re a user, or are just curious about the story, look up corwynmatthewon it (download the app first if you don’t have it already, or just click the ^ link ^ and go to the website) and let me know what you think. Indulge in the awkwardness of a chubby, pacifist vamp who really has no idea what his life choices will soon be getting him into. \m/ -z/cm
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
This is the beginning of my gory but goofy, dark fantasy zombie adventure. The complete book (one) is currently available on my webpage, BloodMagik.com, but I will add a chapter a week here for those who prefer to read on this site. This is my first ever published work and is a wacky mashup of horror, fantasy, comedy, action-adventure, and hockey. (Wait, wut?) Heh. Yeah… If I had to pick one word to describe this story, it’d be “fun”. Read on, my sneakily curious Wattpaders. And enjoy. -cm
Just opened an account on Wattpad if there are any regular users out there (don’t be ashamed. We all have our guilty pleasures.). Follow and favorite and get your read on. Thanks for the support! \m/ -cc
And I’ve been adding images to each part to bring a little visual stimuli to the chapters. Nothing special, so far, but it’s a cool little Extra to go along with it. 3 parts up so far. Maybe four by the end of the day. \m/ -z
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
Progress is slow going when you gotta stop in the middle of what you’re writing to do some research, but, damn… This story (a shortish one I’m calling Leeches for now) is fucking nuts, dude. It’s like the possibilities are endless inside this tiny little confined space my character is trapped in – anything is possible now that I’ve entirely distorted reality around him. I’m still feeling like this one is only gonna be around 60 pages, but I’m toying with the idea of getting some illustrations done for it to make it into something that can be sold in print.I met this artist at a signing a month ago who said he prefers to work with locals and indie artists, and his work is nice and gritty – heavy on the inks. So if I could get him to scratch up five or six gnarly illustrations depicting some of the lunacy of this story… Mmm! This could be a keeper. Stay tuned. -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
…This always happens to me. And I’m sure it does with most writers who aren’t shackled by word counts. But I mentioned on my other blog ( @c0ry-c0nvoluted ) that I started screwing with a short horror story (and also my “writing window,” trying to write in the morning as well as night) about a guy who goes batshit after receiving too many telemarketing calls from one company. I was planning on just making it about 15 pages but, of course, inspiration has struck and now I’m working more towards 50-60 ( small, 6×9 pages). I’m only on page 9 now, but just started my nutjob-character on path for a maniacally insane adventure. This one is gonna be a lot of fun, and more “true horror” than most of my work that’s typically horror-comedy. Not “slasher horror”, but intense and just straight up fucking nuts. Stay tuned. \m/ -z/cm
…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
…for my Christmas horror/comedy, A Christmas Carcassing… So let’s see a show of hands. How many people have trouble reading this:
Sullen and morose,
unnerved by what wretched reality had made them its own, the two hapless screw-overs
gawked in a daze at what would push most into a spiraling, cataclysmic meltdown
wrought with projectile juices from any number of effusing orifices.
snowman of frosty repugnance – six human arms atop six legs, like two spiders
humping – sat waiting for the two teens to turn up in Marvin’s backyard… And
Marvin, numb from the icy morbidity that’d become his life, couldn’t help but
think the snowy death shrine awaiting them was somehow fashioned playfully;
scampish in its revulsiveness…
Ehh? Smooth reading or wordy and confusing? Add your two-cents in the comments. Thanks. \m/ -z
This image fits perfectly into my mind as one that could be from the book I’m reading right now, The Six-Gun Tarot by R.S. Belcher. It’s a dark-fantasy western and this Belcher dude…holy fuck, can he write some words… This is the first novel I’ve read of his and he’s very quickly catapulted himself into my top two, as far as artistic writing goes. The images he paints in my mind with very well-crafted, almost poetic descriptions are not only vivid as fuck, but monumentally inspiring. -z