3:24 PM - 16,035. hi*ball number five: orange. Realizing now how much I failed on my goals for the weekend. Thought I’d be to this point two days ago...
4:08 PM - 16,391. Jurassic Park reference: check. Slow going. Would much rather nap than write, but now is not the time for naps!
4:33 PM - 16,702. Passed today’s quota with the word ‘tarnation.’ As in, “what in tarnation is that corpse doing walking about?” Yes, zombies. They were unavoidable.
4:47 PM - 16,955. Rambo reference: check.
5:34 PM - 17,645. Done with chapter ten, which, at seven-and-a-half pages, is the longest yet. The last four hundred or so words, an action scene, just flew onto the page. Writing action is easy. Writing comprehensible action, now that’s something else. Gotta remember that guns need reloading and all. And phasers, they probably need fresh batteries or something like that.
6:29 PM - 18,011. The last three hundred and fifty-seven words did not fly onto the page. Break time, for exercise purposes. And to rest my ears, which have been punished by maximal volume for just over three hours now.
11.10.2009
Day Nine
11:16 AM - 13,661. Gotta do some work on this piece today, to stay ahead. Wish I had coffee.
11:58 AM - 14,157. Seems like every time I get up to speed, I’m derailed by the internet. This time, Wikipedia articles on New York City.
4:16 PM - 14,157. Back at Yellowhouse. hi*ball number four: lemon-lime. Added bonus: Hershey’s w/almonds. Victory is in sight.
5:12 PM - 14,406. Much distraction with planning and research (Bill Paxton characters), but now the Melvins are blasting forth with great vigor and volume and all is well in the novel-writing world. Wrote maybe the most ridiculous line yet: --Correct, my boy,-- Heim interrupted, telepathically...
5:56 PM - 15,035. Enter Paxtonia. Achieved today’s quota and still going strong. Wish there were more of those Sun Chips I was eating earlier. Garden Salsa, of course. Accept no substitutes.
6:38 PM - 15,691. Aliens reference: check.
7:00 PM - 16,035. Done for the evening. Need to do something exercise-like or risk total protonic reversal.
11:58 AM - 14,157. Seems like every time I get up to speed, I’m derailed by the internet. This time, Wikipedia articles on New York City.
4:16 PM - 14,157. Back at Yellowhouse. hi*ball number four: lemon-lime. Added bonus: Hershey’s w/almonds. Victory is in sight.
5:12 PM - 14,406. Much distraction with planning and research (Bill Paxton characters), but now the Melvins are blasting forth with great vigor and volume and all is well in the novel-writing world. Wrote maybe the most ridiculous line yet: --Correct, my boy,-- Heim interrupted, telepathically...
5:56 PM - 15,035. Enter Paxtonia. Achieved today’s quota and still going strong. Wish there were more of those Sun Chips I was eating earlier. Garden Salsa, of course. Accept no substitutes.
6:38 PM - 15,691. Aliens reference: check.
7:00 PM - 16,035. Done for the evening. Need to do something exercise-like or risk total protonic reversal.
11.09.2009
Day Eight
12:08 AM - 12,515. So Day Seven never really happened. Bummer. Thought I could really get ahead of things here. Guess I’ll just burn more of that midnight oil I found in the closet. hi*ball number two: orange.
12:21 AM - 12,618. Chose a bad time to deal with the logistics of the Transdimensional Transportation Apparatus. Too tired really to make much sense of how it works.
12:39 AM - 12,748. Seinfeld reference: check.
12:57 AM - 12,896. How is it that a you can be unfazed by a phaser? The f/z swap confuses me, concerns me. One is clearly a cooler spelling than the other. But which is it? You be the judge, and I will then judge you based on your verdict.
1:43 AM - 13,341. Ugh. hi*ball completely ineffective. Also, made the mistake of taking the laptop to bed. Literally falling asleep every twenty-five words. Made today’s quota though, at least I have that.
1:06 PM - 13,341. Really hate spelling ‘specter.’ Should be spectre, but the spellcheck’ll drive me crazy for with all the red underlines.
1:12 PM - 13,383. hi*ball number three: orange.
1:18 PM - 13,489. Ghostbusters reference: check.
1:26 PM - 13,661. Done for the afternoon, unfortunately.
12:21 AM - 12,618. Chose a bad time to deal with the logistics of the Transdimensional Transportation Apparatus. Too tired really to make much sense of how it works.
12:39 AM - 12,748. Seinfeld reference: check.
12:57 AM - 12,896. How is it that a you can be unfazed by a phaser? The f/z swap confuses me, concerns me. One is clearly a cooler spelling than the other. But which is it? You be the judge, and I will then judge you based on your verdict.
1:43 AM - 13,341. Ugh. hi*ball completely ineffective. Also, made the mistake of taking the laptop to bed. Literally falling asleep every twenty-five words. Made today’s quota though, at least I have that.
1:06 PM - 13,341. Really hate spelling ‘specter.’ Should be spectre, but the spellcheck’ll drive me crazy for with all the red underlines.
1:12 PM - 13,383. hi*ball number three: orange.
1:18 PM - 13,489. Ghostbusters reference: check.
1:26 PM - 13,661. Done for the afternoon, unfortunately.
11.08.2009
Day Six
12:19 AM - 9,146. Had to trim off a word from the last sentence. For aesthetic purposes, because if Kirk means nothing to you then Captain Kirk is a waste of two words instead of one. Trying to hit 9,500 before bed...
12:41 Am - 9,525. No disintegrations. Except, maybe, when the Time Displacement Generator is involved.
12:54 AM - 9,708. Can’t even read the words on the screen. Eyes just watering and not working at all. Think I’m averaging ten words per minute, or something terrible like that. Latenight math was never my thing.
9:04 AM - 9,708. On the bus. Started carrying a Fisher space pen in my pocket at all times now. I like the idea that I can be prepared any sort of ink-based adventure, but I’m also all too aware the the ink cartridge is pressurized and just waiting to explode in my favorite pair of pants. Living dangerously, eh?
9:35 AM - 10,006. Four words past today’s quota, and I plan on devoting much of the night to finishing this first segment of the book. If I could get to 15,000 I’d be very pleased.
11:36 AM - 10,084. Had to slip a new paragraph in before shifting focus to some essay for school. At twenty pages now. Twenty pages of 11.5 Times New Roman with 1.5 line spacing. Easily the longest single piece of fiction I have ever written, and I’m only getting started. So far I haven’t run into any troubles, and have not felt any sense of dread or creeping doom. Instead, I’ve just been very motivated. But how long can I maintain?
1:00 PM - 10,213. Trying to throw down some key dialogue before/during class. Got all my schoolwork out of the way for the weekend, so I’m extending my probably ridiculously over-optimistic goal to 18,000 by Monday morning.
1:11 PM - 10,348. Class dismissed early. Time to sprint to the bus stop, ride home, make a pbj and head over to Yellowhouse, to really open the fictive floodgates. Maybe there’s a stop at the grocery store, for Nutella, thrown in there too.
1:38 PM - 10,348. On the bus, the computer’s battery dying quickly, and I can’t shake the feeling that one of the characters is speaking like David Bowie. His accent, I mean. Or inflection, whichever.
1:45 PM - 10,502. Star Wars reference: check. “You may fire when ready.”
2:00 PM - 10,662. Done with part one, it would seem. Thought maybe I could stretch it out to 15,000, but it was having none of that. Probably start in on part three next, as I’m not entirely sure what to do with part two yet.
3:45 PM - 10,666. Had to add those four words just now. Currently engaged in a battle to hash out the details of part two. At Yellowhouse, but unable to enjoy solitude or painful volumes due to the others here, working on the kitchen. First hi*ball consumed, this one lemon-lime. Got three more in the fridge, should I need them tonight.
4:23 PM - 10,727. Been working away on the outline for part two and the current chapter and as a result, not getting many words down. This second part, it switches from first-person to third-person, which is throwing off my rhythm pretty hard. It feels like I’m starting over. This depresses me.
5:11 PM - 11,161. Just wrote the word ‘beautiful’ a second before it was used as a lyric in the song that’s playing. Weird. Also, this tense-shift is driving me crazy. It feels so wrong, third-person past, after so much first-person present.
5:55 PM - 11,622. Spinal Tap reference: check.
6:12 PM - 12,007. Well past tomorrow’s quota and I’m finally getting the hang of this new tense. Gorillaz at full volume (more importantly, full bass) in the empty, wooden-floored house is amazing. Such resonance.
6:23 PM - 12,135. Down the hallway, again!
6:24 PM - 12,140. Loboratory? Perhaps where lobotomies are performed? Or would that be a lobototorium? So many o’s...
6:38 PM - 12,386. Calvin and Hobbes reference: check.
6:40 PM - 12,429. Elvis reference: check.
6:45 PM - 12,515. Done for the evening, at the end of chapter eight.
12:41 Am - 9,525. No disintegrations. Except, maybe, when the Time Displacement Generator is involved.
12:54 AM - 9,708. Can’t even read the words on the screen. Eyes just watering and not working at all. Think I’m averaging ten words per minute, or something terrible like that. Latenight math was never my thing.
9:04 AM - 9,708. On the bus. Started carrying a Fisher space pen in my pocket at all times now. I like the idea that I can be prepared any sort of ink-based adventure, but I’m also all too aware the the ink cartridge is pressurized and just waiting to explode in my favorite pair of pants. Living dangerously, eh?
9:35 AM - 10,006. Four words past today’s quota, and I plan on devoting much of the night to finishing this first segment of the book. If I could get to 15,000 I’d be very pleased.
11:36 AM - 10,084. Had to slip a new paragraph in before shifting focus to some essay for school. At twenty pages now. Twenty pages of 11.5 Times New Roman with 1.5 line spacing. Easily the longest single piece of fiction I have ever written, and I’m only getting started. So far I haven’t run into any troubles, and have not felt any sense of dread or creeping doom. Instead, I’ve just been very motivated. But how long can I maintain?
1:00 PM - 10,213. Trying to throw down some key dialogue before/during class. Got all my schoolwork out of the way for the weekend, so I’m extending my probably ridiculously over-optimistic goal to 18,000 by Monday morning.
1:11 PM - 10,348. Class dismissed early. Time to sprint to the bus stop, ride home, make a pbj and head over to Yellowhouse, to really open the fictive floodgates. Maybe there’s a stop at the grocery store, for Nutella, thrown in there too.
1:38 PM - 10,348. On the bus, the computer’s battery dying quickly, and I can’t shake the feeling that one of the characters is speaking like David Bowie. His accent, I mean. Or inflection, whichever.
1:45 PM - 10,502. Star Wars reference: check. “You may fire when ready.”
2:00 PM - 10,662. Done with part one, it would seem. Thought maybe I could stretch it out to 15,000, but it was having none of that. Probably start in on part three next, as I’m not entirely sure what to do with part two yet.
3:45 PM - 10,666. Had to add those four words just now. Currently engaged in a battle to hash out the details of part two. At Yellowhouse, but unable to enjoy solitude or painful volumes due to the others here, working on the kitchen. First hi*ball consumed, this one lemon-lime. Got three more in the fridge, should I need them tonight.
4:23 PM - 10,727. Been working away on the outline for part two and the current chapter and as a result, not getting many words down. This second part, it switches from first-person to third-person, which is throwing off my rhythm pretty hard. It feels like I’m starting over. This depresses me.
5:11 PM - 11,161. Just wrote the word ‘beautiful’ a second before it was used as a lyric in the song that’s playing. Weird. Also, this tense-shift is driving me crazy. It feels so wrong, third-person past, after so much first-person present.
5:55 PM - 11,622. Spinal Tap reference: check.
6:12 PM - 12,007. Well past tomorrow’s quota and I’m finally getting the hang of this new tense. Gorillaz at full volume (more importantly, full bass) in the empty, wooden-floored house is amazing. Such resonance.
6:23 PM - 12,135. Down the hallway, again!
6:24 PM - 12,140. Loboratory? Perhaps where lobotomies are performed? Or would that be a lobototorium? So many o’s...
6:38 PM - 12,386. Calvin and Hobbes reference: check.
6:40 PM - 12,429. Elvis reference: check.
6:45 PM - 12,515. Done for the evening, at the end of chapter eight.
11.06.2009
Day Five
3:27 PM - 7,177. Ouch. Yesterday was something of a disaster, word wise. Gotta get back on track.
3:57 PM - 7,469. On it, again. Took a while to get the engine running, but now it’s full steam ahead. Shooting for 10,000 by the end of the day. I’ve broken the novel down into three parts and am hoping to get the first and third segments clocked in at 10,000-15,000 each, with the second segments eating up the rest. It’ll be interesting to see if that works out like I’m planning.
4:13 PM - 7,745. Feeling like the prose is too wordy, too drawn-out, which I’m guessing is a subconscious reaction to the 50,000 word requirement. Instead of aiming for brevity, like I would prefer, I’m just watering the whole thing down with unnecessary verbiage. Also, the music’s up as loud as it’ll go (Baroness, again.) and the warning twitches of the oncoming caffeine madness are twitching throughout my extremities.
4:54 PM - 8,290. Chapter six’s done. Didn’t end where I thought it would, but that’s okay; it’s still the longest chapter yet. Flaming Lips now, as the sun sets on the other side of the living room window here at Yellowhouse.
5:17 PM - 8,341. Took a break there, from the actual writing, to plan out chapter seven. At the quota for tomorrow. Must keep going. If I could somehow get two full days ahead of schedule; that’d be something. Noticed an unusual increase in semicolon usage. This bodes ill.
6:06 PM - 8,999. Star Trek reference: check.
6:28 PM - 9,147. Disbeliefe? What? Brief moment of horror a minute ago when Nic’s sister unexpectedly (and quite stealthily) stops by to pick up the kitchen sink. Nothing like hearing the echo, from down the empty hall, of a jiggling door handle.
3:57 PM - 7,469. On it, again. Took a while to get the engine running, but now it’s full steam ahead. Shooting for 10,000 by the end of the day. I’ve broken the novel down into three parts and am hoping to get the first and third segments clocked in at 10,000-15,000 each, with the second segments eating up the rest. It’ll be interesting to see if that works out like I’m planning.
4:13 PM - 7,745. Feeling like the prose is too wordy, too drawn-out, which I’m guessing is a subconscious reaction to the 50,000 word requirement. Instead of aiming for brevity, like I would prefer, I’m just watering the whole thing down with unnecessary verbiage. Also, the music’s up as loud as it’ll go (Baroness, again.) and the warning twitches of the oncoming caffeine madness are twitching throughout my extremities.
4:54 PM - 8,290. Chapter six’s done. Didn’t end where I thought it would, but that’s okay; it’s still the longest chapter yet. Flaming Lips now, as the sun sets on the other side of the living room window here at Yellowhouse.
5:17 PM - 8,341. Took a break there, from the actual writing, to plan out chapter seven. At the quota for tomorrow. Must keep going. If I could somehow get two full days ahead of schedule; that’d be something. Noticed an unusual increase in semicolon usage. This bodes ill.
6:06 PM - 8,999. Star Trek reference: check.
6:28 PM - 9,147. Disbeliefe? What? Brief moment of horror a minute ago when Nic’s sister unexpectedly (and quite stealthily) stops by to pick up the kitchen sink. Nothing like hearing the echo, from down the empty hall, of a jiggling door handle.
Day Four
12:01 AM - 7,000. Really want to go to sleep, and though I’m past the quota for tomorrow, I still haven’t written the necessary daily 1,667. Bad habit to get into. Onward, I press onward, trying for 7,400.
12:12 AM - 7,107. FAIL! Must sleep. This scene is going nowhere, and I can’t pull away from its gravity. Just writing circles around what needs to happen and the last page of dialogue pretty much says the same thing in several nonsensical ways. I have no idea what I’m even typing right now...
9:30 AM - 7,177. Tidying up last night’s disaster. Decided just to end the current scene, pull the ejection seat activation handle and escape the verbal quagmire.
12:12 AM - 7,107. FAIL! Must sleep. This scene is going nowhere, and I can’t pull away from its gravity. Just writing circles around what needs to happen and the last page of dialogue pretty much says the same thing in several nonsensical ways. I have no idea what I’m even typing right now...
9:30 AM - 7,177. Tidying up last night’s disaster. Decided just to end the current scene, pull the ejection seat activation handle and escape the verbal quagmire.
11.04.2009
Day Three
12:00 AM - 5,773. Sidetracked by the necessary planning that I’ve now adopted as a pre-chapter ritual. Get a rough outline down then just go for it. Seems to be working.
12:26 AM - 5,776. Slow going. More internet distraction. Much time spent pondering new word: hadn’tve. Had not have, being the intended contraction, though I’m not even sure had not have makes any sense as a phrase whatsoever. Decide instead to go with “wasn’t”, which cleans up the whole issue nicely. Was getting lost on some deserted, past tense backroad there. Not sure where it was leading...
12:31 AM - 5,807. Have probably used the phrase “down the hall” at a hundred times already. Wonder what percentage of the total word count those three are responsible for.
12:40 AM - 5,929. Learned the difference between eloquent and elegant, then spelled black without a ‘c’. Is this irony? I know not.
12:47 AM - 6,043. Decided to stitch the last half=page onto the end of chapter five instead of using it to start chapter six. Ideally, to increase the tension. Or something to that effect. Copped a line from Fear and Loathing, too, to end the chapter: there is no way to describe the terror I felt. Always liked that line.
6:46 PM - 6,086. Really can’t figure out, due to the whole present-tense thing, if I should be using ‘run’ or ‘ran.’ This one has always stumped me, and, of course, I never bother to look it up. I think it’s run, am pretty damn sure it’s run, but for whatever reason ran just sounds right.
6:47 PM - 6,094. Just used ‘down the hall’ again. Shit. Need to find a better way to say this.
7:11 PM - 6,301. Break time.
11:04 PM - 6,328. Almost done with tomorrow’s quota. Would like to be at 10,000 by the end of day five.
11:22 PM - 6,586. Invented new word: somehome. Was trying for ‘somehow,’ but just went all wrong.
11:24 PM - 6,593. T2 reference: check.
11:35 PM - 6,676. Starting to lose it a bit. The writing, I mean. The words aren’t coming out as effortlessly as they sometimes do. Feel like I’m working harder to find the right thing to say.
12:26 AM - 5,776. Slow going. More internet distraction. Much time spent pondering new word: hadn’tve. Had not have, being the intended contraction, though I’m not even sure had not have makes any sense as a phrase whatsoever. Decide instead to go with “wasn’t”, which cleans up the whole issue nicely. Was getting lost on some deserted, past tense backroad there. Not sure where it was leading...
12:31 AM - 5,807. Have probably used the phrase “down the hall” at a hundred times already. Wonder what percentage of the total word count those three are responsible for.
12:40 AM - 5,929. Learned the difference between eloquent and elegant, then spelled black without a ‘c’. Is this irony? I know not.
12:47 AM - 6,043. Decided to stitch the last half=page onto the end of chapter five instead of using it to start chapter six. Ideally, to increase the tension. Or something to that effect. Copped a line from Fear and Loathing, too, to end the chapter: there is no way to describe the terror I felt. Always liked that line.
6:46 PM - 6,086. Really can’t figure out, due to the whole present-tense thing, if I should be using ‘run’ or ‘ran.’ This one has always stumped me, and, of course, I never bother to look it up. I think it’s run, am pretty damn sure it’s run, but for whatever reason ran just sounds right.
6:47 PM - 6,094. Just used ‘down the hall’ again. Shit. Need to find a better way to say this.
7:11 PM - 6,301. Break time.
11:04 PM - 6,328. Almost done with tomorrow’s quota. Would like to be at 10,000 by the end of day five.
11:22 PM - 6,586. Invented new word: somehome. Was trying for ‘somehow,’ but just went all wrong.
11:24 PM - 6,593. T2 reference: check.
11:35 PM - 6,676. Starting to lose it a bit. The writing, I mean. The words aren’t coming out as effortlessly as they sometimes do. Feel like I’m working harder to find the right thing to say.
11.03.2009
Day Two
9:28 AM - Set to work, this time on the bus. Carsickness in t-minutes five minutes and counting.
9:43 AM - 1,819. Writing on the bus sucks. Very bumpy.
10:54 AM - Got the whole story-arc thing mapped out in math class. I’m very confused, but I think I know what I’m doing now. Or, at the very least, I know where to go with it. Hardest decision so far: yes, time travel is absolutely necessary. Also, got the characters pretty figured out. Their roles in the plot, at least.
11:43 AM - 1,933. Really getting the ball rolling now, plot-wise, but for some reason one of the characters has started to speak like Gandalf. An interesting development...
12:25 PM - 2,445. Getting close to fulfilling today’s quota, but alas, I must detour down the road of scholarly responsibility. Just when it was getting good, too. Somehow this chapter’s turned towards the mystery/suspense vein. Oh well.
1:23 PM - 2,469. In class, trying to sneak words out between the professor’s powerpoint slides. Making the chapters way too short, substituting them for the *** I’m so accustomed to using with short stories. Need to learn how they work together; when the break in action is big enough to constitute a whole new chapter or just a small pause. Or maybe *** just indicates a scene change within the same time period? Kinda like all the “meanwhile, at stately Wayne Manor”s in the old Batman. Four chapters in five pages is a bit ridiculous, I think.
1:30 PM - 2,469, still. Realizing now that I’ve completely trapped myself in first-person narration. Need to have action away from protagonist, but can’t make it work within the narrative confines I’ve established. Balls!
1:47 PM - Yes, still at 2,460. But now I’ve solved the whole first-person prison thing. And I figured out how to do the critical POV shift from protagonist to protagonist’s clone. Much rejoicing.
3:44 PM - 2,467. Back at the empty Yellowhouse. Alone, mostly terrified to be alone in the house after seeing Paranormal Activity yesterday. Drown out the terror with volume and brownies.
4:13 PM - 2,784. Just wrote my favorite line, so far: “Doug had an eye for good hedge-work...”
4:30 PM - 3,076. Narrowing in on today’s quota, though I plan on overshooting, working my way far into tomorrow’s count.
4:36 PM - 3,196. Couldn’t resist Ferris Bueller reference: “This place is like a museum: very cold and you can’t touch anything.”
4:46 PM - 3,379 and rolling. Boosh! Reduced to air-drumming along to Baroness in celebration. Psych is high. Also, just described a bowling alley with a black floor instead of the usual hardwood. Now I want one.
5:02 PM - 3,614. Requisite Bill Murray reference: check.
5:46 PM - 3,886. Took an extended break to write out a brief overview of the next chapter. Have been writing with black Fisher space pen. I usually favor roller ball pens, but I’m growing rather fond of this, a ball point. Learning its intricacies, its secrets.
6:33 PM - 4,664. Again, very confused with the tense of the narration. Really I have no clue how to manipulate these things; I just go for whatever sounds right.
6:50 PM - 5,058. Got tomorrow covered, but if I keep going maybe I can finish this thing early. Or at least keep my mind off of every shifting creak of the floorboards or hiss of the radiators, which aren’t creaking floorboards or hissing radiators, they’re the footsteps of some unseen demon, the hiss of its breath hot on my neck...
7:26 PM - 5,727. Chapter five in the bank, ready to get out of this cold house and grab some dinner. Made significant progress today; nearly at my quota for day four already. Think I’m finally getting the hang of writing long fiction, finding the right length to extend scenes without having them drag on for pages and pages. Ridiculously loud music helps. Would like to keep going but I’m struggling to spell words now, having to stop mid-word and think for a second. Fingers are moving slow, too.
11:47 PM - 5,729. These grapes I’m eating, they must have some kind of invisible mold on them, for they are disgusting. Tomorrow I will search out the best snackfood available, and make a cache. A snack cache.
9:43 AM - 1,819. Writing on the bus sucks. Very bumpy.
10:54 AM - Got the whole story-arc thing mapped out in math class. I’m very confused, but I think I know what I’m doing now. Or, at the very least, I know where to go with it. Hardest decision so far: yes, time travel is absolutely necessary. Also, got the characters pretty figured out. Their roles in the plot, at least.
11:43 AM - 1,933. Really getting the ball rolling now, plot-wise, but for some reason one of the characters has started to speak like Gandalf. An interesting development...
12:25 PM - 2,445. Getting close to fulfilling today’s quota, but alas, I must detour down the road of scholarly responsibility. Just when it was getting good, too. Somehow this chapter’s turned towards the mystery/suspense vein. Oh well.
1:23 PM - 2,469. In class, trying to sneak words out between the professor’s powerpoint slides. Making the chapters way too short, substituting them for the *** I’m so accustomed to using with short stories. Need to learn how they work together; when the break in action is big enough to constitute a whole new chapter or just a small pause. Or maybe *** just indicates a scene change within the same time period? Kinda like all the “meanwhile, at stately Wayne Manor”s in the old Batman. Four chapters in five pages is a bit ridiculous, I think.
1:30 PM - 2,469, still. Realizing now that I’ve completely trapped myself in first-person narration. Need to have action away from protagonist, but can’t make it work within the narrative confines I’ve established. Balls!
1:47 PM - Yes, still at 2,460. But now I’ve solved the whole first-person prison thing. And I figured out how to do the critical POV shift from protagonist to protagonist’s clone. Much rejoicing.
3:44 PM - 2,467. Back at the empty Yellowhouse. Alone, mostly terrified to be alone in the house after seeing Paranormal Activity yesterday. Drown out the terror with volume and brownies.
4:13 PM - 2,784. Just wrote my favorite line, so far: “Doug had an eye for good hedge-work...”
4:30 PM - 3,076. Narrowing in on today’s quota, though I plan on overshooting, working my way far into tomorrow’s count.
4:36 PM - 3,196. Couldn’t resist Ferris Bueller reference: “This place is like a museum: very cold and you can’t touch anything.”
4:46 PM - 3,379 and rolling. Boosh! Reduced to air-drumming along to Baroness in celebration. Psych is high. Also, just described a bowling alley with a black floor instead of the usual hardwood. Now I want one.
5:02 PM - 3,614. Requisite Bill Murray reference: check.
5:46 PM - 3,886. Took an extended break to write out a brief overview of the next chapter. Have been writing with black Fisher space pen. I usually favor roller ball pens, but I’m growing rather fond of this, a ball point. Learning its intricacies, its secrets.
6:33 PM - 4,664. Again, very confused with the tense of the narration. Really I have no clue how to manipulate these things; I just go for whatever sounds right.
6:50 PM - 5,058. Got tomorrow covered, but if I keep going maybe I can finish this thing early. Or at least keep my mind off of every shifting creak of the floorboards or hiss of the radiators, which aren’t creaking floorboards or hissing radiators, they’re the footsteps of some unseen demon, the hiss of its breath hot on my neck...
7:26 PM - 5,727. Chapter five in the bank, ready to get out of this cold house and grab some dinner. Made significant progress today; nearly at my quota for day four already. Think I’m finally getting the hang of writing long fiction, finding the right length to extend scenes without having them drag on for pages and pages. Ridiculously loud music helps. Would like to keep going but I’m struggling to spell words now, having to stop mid-word and think for a second. Fingers are moving slow, too.
11:47 PM - 5,729. These grapes I’m eating, they must have some kind of invisible mold on them, for they are disgusting. Tomorrow I will search out the best snackfood available, and make a cache. A snack cache.
11.02.2009
Day One
12:24 AM - First word written
12:34 AM - 87 words in. Not sure what pace that puts me at, but it probably isn’t good.
12:44 AM - 188 words in. ‘Wolf Like Me’ comes on the shuffle and i crank the speakers, since I’m the only one here in this house. Not sure what tense I’m writing in, which is troublesome, but I’m sure that’ll get hammered out, forgotten, and rediscovered over the course of the month. Volume up a few more notches, then hit repeat.
12:54 AM- 297 words. Getting bogged down in thought, distracted by random things, though I have no internet to waste time with. The desire to make everything sound perfect right away is keeping my pace slow. Must learn to get past that and just go go go. The sooner I get to 1,667 the sooner I can go to sleep.
1:04 AM- Still 297. Had to run back to the apartment to shit. A weakness of mine, not being able to shit in foreign toilets. Debating whether or not to get into the bottle of wine in the cupboard over the stove. Pro: being mildly drunk is fun. Con: will probably get drunk enough not to focus on noveling and instead run around apartment until passing out.
1:30 AM- 357. A very fine caliber, but a very poor wordcount. The internet is my enemy. At least the wine has stayed corked...
1:56 AM- 606. Finally escaped the first scene. Focus is in short supply, and I think I might have passed out for a minute or two. Feel like I should have more of an outline; like I’m running ahead at full speed with my eyes closed, only not in a good, exploratory way, but in a bad, going to set up lots of problems later way. Nevertheless, I’m on chapter two, which is good, I think.
1:05AM - 687. Moment of total confusion before I realized there is a time change tonight. Thought I had somehow gone back in time, yet was able to keep the progress I’ve made since the last time it was 1:05. Like I was given a second chance to make better use of the 1-2 o’clock hour. But, yeah, I’ll probably just waste this new hour like I did the last.
1:27 AM- 1,008 words. Maybe, just maybe, I have a shot at finishing this whole thing. Calling it a night to the rhythms of Neil Young and Crazy Horse, this time at a reasonable volume.
10:14 AM - At it again. Been up for a while now, but couldn’t even get the documents opened until now. Rooibos helps.
11:27 AM - 1,699 words in. At the quota for today, and calling it quits for a while. Finally got some momentum built up; gears are turning, wheels are spinning, and such.
12:34 AM - 87 words in. Not sure what pace that puts me at, but it probably isn’t good.
12:44 AM - 188 words in. ‘Wolf Like Me’ comes on the shuffle and i crank the speakers, since I’m the only one here in this house. Not sure what tense I’m writing in, which is troublesome, but I’m sure that’ll get hammered out, forgotten, and rediscovered over the course of the month. Volume up a few more notches, then hit repeat.
12:54 AM- 297 words. Getting bogged down in thought, distracted by random things, though I have no internet to waste time with. The desire to make everything sound perfect right away is keeping my pace slow. Must learn to get past that and just go go go. The sooner I get to 1,667 the sooner I can go to sleep.
1:04 AM- Still 297. Had to run back to the apartment to shit. A weakness of mine, not being able to shit in foreign toilets. Debating whether or not to get into the bottle of wine in the cupboard over the stove. Pro: being mildly drunk is fun. Con: will probably get drunk enough not to focus on noveling and instead run around apartment until passing out.
1:30 AM- 357. A very fine caliber, but a very poor wordcount. The internet is my enemy. At least the wine has stayed corked...
1:56 AM- 606. Finally escaped the first scene. Focus is in short supply, and I think I might have passed out for a minute or two. Feel like I should have more of an outline; like I’m running ahead at full speed with my eyes closed, only not in a good, exploratory way, but in a bad, going to set up lots of problems later way. Nevertheless, I’m on chapter two, which is good, I think.
1:05AM - 687. Moment of total confusion before I realized there is a time change tonight. Thought I had somehow gone back in time, yet was able to keep the progress I’ve made since the last time it was 1:05. Like I was given a second chance to make better use of the 1-2 o’clock hour. But, yeah, I’ll probably just waste this new hour like I did the last.
1:27 AM- 1,008 words. Maybe, just maybe, I have a shot at finishing this whole thing. Calling it a night to the rhythms of Neil Young and Crazy Horse, this time at a reasonable volume.
10:14 AM - At it again. Been up for a while now, but couldn’t even get the documents opened until now. Rooibos helps.
11:27 AM - 1,699 words in. At the quota for today, and calling it quits for a while. Finally got some momentum built up; gears are turning, wheels are spinning, and such.
9.30.2009
Preview: II
With his own television tuned in to the same station, he would watch through an expensive pair of Bushnells for the duration of the half hour program. Her strokes were ungainly and she never mixed colors in the proper proportions, leaving her canvas covered in a thick insipid mess. Inevitably, at about 2:25, she would become supremely frustrated with her failed attempt to duplicate the work of the great master of coniferous companionship. For the next five minutes she would mouth curses and pace around her apartment, often times knocking over her easel or tossing the lackluster canvas in the trash. However, as soon as 2:30 came along and the program ended, she would calmly turn off the television and close the blinds.
This went on for several weeks, her painting, him watching and laughing. Then the skull appeared. Slender and anemic, in place of the easel, propped up by some sort of tripod. Definitely not human and too big to be deer. Probably a horse, he thought. Through the Bushnells he scanned the room but never saw her. Just empty eye sockets and a mouth full of incisors and molars grinning a lipless smile. The curtains stayed open for their usual half hour before being drawn shut by the unseen tenant.
This went on for several weeks, her painting, him watching and laughing. Then the skull appeared. Slender and anemic, in place of the easel, propped up by some sort of tripod. Definitely not human and too big to be deer. Probably a horse, he thought. Through the Bushnells he scanned the room but never saw her. Just empty eye sockets and a mouth full of incisors and molars grinning a lipless smile. The curtains stayed open for their usual half hour before being drawn shut by the unseen tenant.
9.11.2009
Mathed
Exponent,
associated with ten and to the right moved
positive, notation not quite scientific. Then,
negative decimals, leftward multiplication and
the first non-zero number, raised to some power.
Perspective estimation--
a broad range of values,
one quantity compared to
another. Thinking methods,
magnitude orders and the weight
of a year's newspaper.
associated with ten and to the right moved
positive, notation not quite scientific. Then,
negative decimals, leftward multiplication and
the first non-zero number, raised to some power.
Perspective estimation--
a broad range of values,
one quantity compared to
another. Thinking methods,
magnitude orders and the weight
of a year's newspaper.
8.28.2009
Imaginary Apostles
The 2:01 bus, as usual. Seventh row from the back, right side, window seat, as usual. Three stops, four. The bus fills but no one sits next to me. Fifth stop, people are standing in the aisle, still no one sits next to me. Maybe I smell or maybe nobody can see the empty seat or maybe I just have a look, unknown at least to me, that screams ‘don’t sit next to this guy.’ Sixth stop though, somebody approaches. Small and roundish, dark skin covered by a faded teal sweatshirt, curls of wire-y grey hair stuffed under a tattered canvas bucket hat. Various bags of various sizes clutched in one gnarled hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Steam whispers upward from the thick papered walls of the cup.
“Mind if I sit down here?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks.” He slides into the seat, carefully marshaling his bags and coffee. His eyes are old and watery. Pale corneas that have somehow lost most of their opacity, pupils that long to be vivid with youth. Nestled into his seat, he thanks me again. I convey my response with a shrug of my shoulders and return attention to the book in my hands.
A minute passes. Another. Again he strikes up conversation.
“I tell ya, there’s nothing like a plain cup of joe. None of this decaf business. Sugar-free. No, straight joe is my beverage of choice.”
I nod, mumble mock interest.
“Some guys, they go to a bar after work. Not me. I’m a busy man, but I’d rather go to a coffee shop and sit down with a good newspaper. Yep. But it’s all about moderation. That’s my motto. I had a coffee in the morning, this one in the afternoon, and I’ll probably have another this evening. No more though.”
“Yeah,” I say, my head half-cocked towards him. I notice he is looking directly at me and not off into the distance as he chatters on.
“I can understand why women would avoid the caffeine, but us guys, no problem. I mean, a young guy like you, and I can tell you’re young and active, can drink a Coke or Pepsi every now and then, cause you’re going to work it off. It just gets dangerous when you’re having as ix-pack a day. Same goes for beer.”
Slightly troubled and mostly annoyed I look at him, say “yeah, you really gotta be careful about that stuff,” turn back to my book.
“Now, do you go to school up here?”
“Yes,” and I’m being as curt as possible in hopes of squelching his curiosity. Instead he doubles his efforts, engaging me in an intense series of questions that ends with a detailed explanation of the decline of a mall in the suburb where I live. Then it’s back to my status as a student.
“What do you study?”
I surprise myself by telling the truth. English, creative writing, and not architecture, the usual response to bus-borne queries.
“Oh, yeah? I’m a minister now, but I minored in English Lit back in college.”
“Weird coincidence, huh?” There isn’t a shred of sincerity in my response. He continues on about his days in college and how they led him to a successful career in scriptwriting and I’m just waiting for the religious sales pitch but he never gets to it. More talk of college and how he majored in English Theatre and how he moved to L.A. to write for film and television before he was called away to be a minister.
“Well, I majored in English Lit and English Theatre and went to L.A. about a year after college, to work on film and television scripts. I bet you’d be surprised to know that writing for television and writing for the screen, which is film, are very different.”
I’m about to say that I’m not surprised and that I actually have quite a bit of experience writing ‘for the screen’ before I’m distracted by what he just said. Earlier he had mentioned a minor in English Lit and now, not forty-five seconds later, it’s reversed. Probably just misspoke. Then it gets worse.
“Yeah, I had a major in English Lit, European History, and Philosophy, and a minor in English Theatre. Yeah, I had a double major and a double minor.”
I let him run with it, egg him on. “Wow, that sounds like a lot of work.”
“Oh, it sure was. And I had grades too. 3.7 for my minors. 3.5 for my majors. No, 3.6 for my majors. But you know, I also worked. I put myself through college. I had two part time jobs and one full time job. While my friends were on summer vacation I was working.” He finishes his coffee and I notice the tattered pages of an atlas in his other hand, the kind you’d find in a high school geography textbook.
“That’s cool though, that you did all that yourself.”
“Sure is. Oh, and I had another minor. You’re not going to believe it. Can you guess?”
“Uhhh, architecture?”
“I also minored in Pre- Law.”
“Wow, you sure were busy,” I say, though it’s almost “you’re right, I don’t believe it,” except at the last second I decide not to call him out but to encourage him. I want to know how far this will go.
He rambles for a few minutes, recalls his decision to move to Los Angeles some more, tells me all about his successful, rich industry friends, and again mentions how he was called away from film to be a minster. Except, he doesn’t say minister. He says apostle. A record scratches, the needle bumped out of the groove in my head. Static hiss, confusion. Before I can recover, put the needle back in the groove, he’s moved on, deep into an explanation of why so-and-so is the most accomplished cross-over novelist slash screenwriter and why his name will be the one we’ll be talking about in the universities years from now. Too startled by the apostle comment, I fail to catch the author’s name, though I can’t imagine it belongs to any actual human being, alive or dead.
“But you see, the Lord called me away from all that. He made me an apostle and what I do as an apostle, see, is I have authority over nations and countries and people.”
“Really?” trying to sound as authentic as possible.
“Yep. I work with prime ministers and congress and presidents. And I go to these countries and nations and I work with their leaders and provide protection, if they acknowledge my authority.”
“Protection? From what?”
“Pestilence, plague, famine, drought. Those things. But only if the leaders choose to accept my authority over their nation.”
“I see. How do you communicate with these leaders?” Now I’m trying to stump him, probing him to see how though out his delusions are. His response is pure verbal lightening, fast and precise.
“Correspondence. And telephone. I work directly with the prime ministers, so I use the telephone with them.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, sir. You can read my license here.” He hands my the atlas. Across the bottom of the pages, scrawled in an impenetrable cursive, are words and sentences that I could never hope to understand. The map itself is a world political map and I notice many of the countries are highlighted. Maybe he notices my eyebrow twitch and anticipates my question or maybe he reads my mind, but either way he offers an answer before I can ask.
“These are the countries I have authority over.”
“I see.” The United States, Canada, Greenland, Australia, New Zealand, North Korea, many others too small to see. One stands out. “Antarctica?”
“Yep. And up here, too,” he indicates the top of the map, where the entire Arctic Ocean is a mess of blue map ink and yellow highlighter. “That’s the Arctic. I’m recognized there.”
“By the polar bears?” I try to sound genuine but I know some sarcasm must have bled through. He’s unfazed.
“You know it,” he says, and I want to ask if he communicates with them via correspondence too, but decide to ask him if any countries have denied his authority. Again, I hope to catch him or throw him off guard, but his reply asserts the kind of confidence one can only have if they believe they are telling the truth.
“Well, the U.S., of course,” he laughs. “And New Zealand. Australia too, at first, but then they saw what I did for all these other countries and changed their minds. And the U.S., that’s just a racial thing, because I’m Afro-American. That’s all Congress there. And that George Bush Jr.”
When I ask him how he provides protection from pestilence and the like, the bus comes to a stop The driver announces the stop and my mystery apostle tucks his atlas away, stands up.
“Well, good talking to you. Good luck with school. Remember, you just have to put yourself out there.” And he’s gone, down the aisle and out the door and into the anonymous sea of people boarding and de-boarding. I spin around to the two kids sitting behind me, my eyes wide.
“Did you guys hear any of that? What that guy was saying?” They just star back, their faces blank mirrors reflecting the same look I must have had when the apostle initially spoke to me. “Okay, I guess not.” I turn to a girl across the aisle, but she’s engaged in a cellular conversation and isn’t paying attention. Nobody is in front of me. “Anybody hear that guy? He was crazy!” I say as loud as I dare. Almost a yell, but not quite. No one even looks at me.
Two stops later I get off the bus and walk to my car. I open the door. I get in. I drive home.
“Mind if I sit down here?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks.” He slides into the seat, carefully marshaling his bags and coffee. His eyes are old and watery. Pale corneas that have somehow lost most of their opacity, pupils that long to be vivid with youth. Nestled into his seat, he thanks me again. I convey my response with a shrug of my shoulders and return attention to the book in my hands.
A minute passes. Another. Again he strikes up conversation.
“I tell ya, there’s nothing like a plain cup of joe. None of this decaf business. Sugar-free. No, straight joe is my beverage of choice.”
I nod, mumble mock interest.
“Some guys, they go to a bar after work. Not me. I’m a busy man, but I’d rather go to a coffee shop and sit down with a good newspaper. Yep. But it’s all about moderation. That’s my motto. I had a coffee in the morning, this one in the afternoon, and I’ll probably have another this evening. No more though.”
“Yeah,” I say, my head half-cocked towards him. I notice he is looking directly at me and not off into the distance as he chatters on.
“I can understand why women would avoid the caffeine, but us guys, no problem. I mean, a young guy like you, and I can tell you’re young and active, can drink a Coke or Pepsi every now and then, cause you’re going to work it off. It just gets dangerous when you’re having as ix-pack a day. Same goes for beer.”
Slightly troubled and mostly annoyed I look at him, say “yeah, you really gotta be careful about that stuff,” turn back to my book.
“Now, do you go to school up here?”
“Yes,” and I’m being as curt as possible in hopes of squelching his curiosity. Instead he doubles his efforts, engaging me in an intense series of questions that ends with a detailed explanation of the decline of a mall in the suburb where I live. Then it’s back to my status as a student.
“What do you study?”
I surprise myself by telling the truth. English, creative writing, and not architecture, the usual response to bus-borne queries.
“Oh, yeah? I’m a minister now, but I minored in English Lit back in college.”
“Weird coincidence, huh?” There isn’t a shred of sincerity in my response. He continues on about his days in college and how they led him to a successful career in scriptwriting and I’m just waiting for the religious sales pitch but he never gets to it. More talk of college and how he majored in English Theatre and how he moved to L.A. to write for film and television before he was called away to be a minister.
“Well, I majored in English Lit and English Theatre and went to L.A. about a year after college, to work on film and television scripts. I bet you’d be surprised to know that writing for television and writing for the screen, which is film, are very different.”
I’m about to say that I’m not surprised and that I actually have quite a bit of experience writing ‘for the screen’ before I’m distracted by what he just said. Earlier he had mentioned a minor in English Lit and now, not forty-five seconds later, it’s reversed. Probably just misspoke. Then it gets worse.
“Yeah, I had a major in English Lit, European History, and Philosophy, and a minor in English Theatre. Yeah, I had a double major and a double minor.”
I let him run with it, egg him on. “Wow, that sounds like a lot of work.”
“Oh, it sure was. And I had grades too. 3.7 for my minors. 3.5 for my majors. No, 3.6 for my majors. But you know, I also worked. I put myself through college. I had two part time jobs and one full time job. While my friends were on summer vacation I was working.” He finishes his coffee and I notice the tattered pages of an atlas in his other hand, the kind you’d find in a high school geography textbook.
“That’s cool though, that you did all that yourself.”
“Sure is. Oh, and I had another minor. You’re not going to believe it. Can you guess?”
“Uhhh, architecture?”
“I also minored in Pre- Law.”
“Wow, you sure were busy,” I say, though it’s almost “you’re right, I don’t believe it,” except at the last second I decide not to call him out but to encourage him. I want to know how far this will go.
He rambles for a few minutes, recalls his decision to move to Los Angeles some more, tells me all about his successful, rich industry friends, and again mentions how he was called away from film to be a minster. Except, he doesn’t say minister. He says apostle. A record scratches, the needle bumped out of the groove in my head. Static hiss, confusion. Before I can recover, put the needle back in the groove, he’s moved on, deep into an explanation of why so-and-so is the most accomplished cross-over novelist slash screenwriter and why his name will be the one we’ll be talking about in the universities years from now. Too startled by the apostle comment, I fail to catch the author’s name, though I can’t imagine it belongs to any actual human being, alive or dead.
“But you see, the Lord called me away from all that. He made me an apostle and what I do as an apostle, see, is I have authority over nations and countries and people.”
“Really?” trying to sound as authentic as possible.
“Yep. I work with prime ministers and congress and presidents. And I go to these countries and nations and I work with their leaders and provide protection, if they acknowledge my authority.”
“Protection? From what?”
“Pestilence, plague, famine, drought. Those things. But only if the leaders choose to accept my authority over their nation.”
“I see. How do you communicate with these leaders?” Now I’m trying to stump him, probing him to see how though out his delusions are. His response is pure verbal lightening, fast and precise.
“Correspondence. And telephone. I work directly with the prime ministers, so I use the telephone with them.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, sir. You can read my license here.” He hands my the atlas. Across the bottom of the pages, scrawled in an impenetrable cursive, are words and sentences that I could never hope to understand. The map itself is a world political map and I notice many of the countries are highlighted. Maybe he notices my eyebrow twitch and anticipates my question or maybe he reads my mind, but either way he offers an answer before I can ask.
“These are the countries I have authority over.”
“I see.” The United States, Canada, Greenland, Australia, New Zealand, North Korea, many others too small to see. One stands out. “Antarctica?”
“Yep. And up here, too,” he indicates the top of the map, where the entire Arctic Ocean is a mess of blue map ink and yellow highlighter. “That’s the Arctic. I’m recognized there.”
“By the polar bears?” I try to sound genuine but I know some sarcasm must have bled through. He’s unfazed.
“You know it,” he says, and I want to ask if he communicates with them via correspondence too, but decide to ask him if any countries have denied his authority. Again, I hope to catch him or throw him off guard, but his reply asserts the kind of confidence one can only have if they believe they are telling the truth.
“Well, the U.S., of course,” he laughs. “And New Zealand. Australia too, at first, but then they saw what I did for all these other countries and changed their minds. And the U.S., that’s just a racial thing, because I’m Afro-American. That’s all Congress there. And that George Bush Jr.”
When I ask him how he provides protection from pestilence and the like, the bus comes to a stop The driver announces the stop and my mystery apostle tucks his atlas away, stands up.
“Well, good talking to you. Good luck with school. Remember, you just have to put yourself out there.” And he’s gone, down the aisle and out the door and into the anonymous sea of people boarding and de-boarding. I spin around to the two kids sitting behind me, my eyes wide.
“Did you guys hear any of that? What that guy was saying?” They just star back, their faces blank mirrors reflecting the same look I must have had when the apostle initially spoke to me. “Okay, I guess not.” I turn to a girl across the aisle, but she’s engaged in a cellular conversation and isn’t paying attention. Nobody is in front of me. “Anybody hear that guy? He was crazy!” I say as loud as I dare. Almost a yell, but not quite. No one even looks at me.
Two stops later I get off the bus and walk to my car. I open the door. I get in. I drive home.
8.19.2009
Preview
Soft at first, then louder. Hard hoof-falls echoing down the dim hallway. Click clack. Click clack. Four doors away, maybe three. Each step accelerates his heart rate by twenty beats. Click clack. Click clack. Two doors. Click. Clack. The hooves slow as they draw near their destination. Click. The impact is heavy enough to rattle dishes in the sink. Clack. A long shadow slides under the door...
8.17.2009
That Girl In Class--You Know The One
Patches of skin peeked through tattered denim and
bleach-blonde locks splayed over obscure
necklines, a belt of rainbows, wrapped waist,
thin, pelvic bone pushed against taught skin--opposing mountains
and a tattoo, crawled and curled over lean
shoulders. She makes a fist around a pen,
writes like she's etching stone.
bleach-blonde locks splayed over obscure
necklines, a belt of rainbows, wrapped waist,
thin, pelvic bone pushed against taught skin--opposing mountains
and a tattoo, crawled and curled over lean
shoulders. She makes a fist around a pen,
writes like she's etching stone.
8.16.2009
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