Monday update

I have considered for some time that I should have a weekly update of what I am doing. I was going to do it on Saturdays and call it my "Saturday Evening Post". I found that Saturdays are bad for doing something regular like that.

Maybe Mondays will work. I'll try.

What I am doing...

I had fun last night when Mick Bordet of the "Some Other Scotland" podcast sent me a script with some lines for me to record. This is my first attempt at adding my voice to a podcast drama, and since SOS is one of my favorite podcasts, I feel honored. It is in episode 14. We'll see how I sound.

I listened to all the episodes of "Give Blood and Thanks" (Warning: Explicit for language and violence, so far.) Danny Machal does a such a great job with his recording and story telling, it motivates me to improve my recording and delivery and get my podcast story started.

My story, currently being seriealized and presented on the Great Hites weekly podcast, 'The Price of Friendship' is on its sixth episode. I have written enough, about 5000 more words, to make another 4 episodes. I still have a lot of story in my head. I have mentioned to some that I intend to do 30 to 40 10 minute episodes.

In a month or so I will have a room in my house that I can dedicate to family hobbies and will make a corner for my recording. Right now I record in my bedroom. The computer is right next ot the mic and the air conditioner is outide the window, so I get a lot of sound. When I can get a better quality sound, I will start re-recording the episodes.

I continue to write new short fiction, every week, for the 100 Word Story, Weekly Challenge, at www.podcasting.isfullofcrap.com and The Great Hites podcast at www.greathites.blogspot.com .

I have another story that I am writing for an editors world. I thought I had a pretty good story, but...Well, he really tore it apart. He told me not to be discouraged, but it was pretty staggering to my fragile ego. I'll get after it tonight, and see if I can redeam myself, at least in my own eyes.

Finally, I have my local writers meetup group tomorrow night. I am a bit discouraged about it as well, in that the writing presented is so outside my taste. I know that I should be open minded and read others work to broaden my understanding and improve my skills. However, this month, one of the stories centers around the life and life style of a gay man, and another is how a woman is selling her "spirituallity coach" business through writing about herself. Both of which are unappealing and almost distasteful.

I am considering finding a writers group on line, that might be more in alignment with my beliefs and/or standards.

This Week

Im going to Arizona this week to attend a conference of The Association of Childrens Prosthetic and Orthotic Clinics. (ACPOC) It has been years since I last attended a conference, and I am really looking forward to renewing my focus by hearing what others are doing, and what my be new and innovative in my field.

I figure that I will have ample opportunities to write; downtime between presentaions and in the evenings. (I'm not a partyer or really very social.)

Guy David's podcast 'Night Guy' #100 came out this week and he gave me a chance to share my oppinions about what the future holds. There were quit a few contributers, so it is a very diverse and interesting podcast.

I just caught up with all the episodes of the "Some other Scotland" podcast which is an interesting and unique approach to sharing an altenate history story in a podcast. I am loving it, and reccomend it to anyone. So far it is very family safe. It is by Mick Bordet who has a wonderful Scotish accent; he is easy to listen to and draws you into his beautifully discribed world. He has also started contributing on 'Great Hites' short story podcast and has shown what an extenive talent he has.

I have a number of stories that I need to post, but am a bit lazy, and busy with preparing for the trip to Arizona. Besides, you can find them on all the other sites where they are posted. (See my blog list.)

This weeks stories

This week I have taken a mental illness theme. It is often a theme, in my mind. I wrote 'The Dishwasher' first, and then followed the Smelly Rose prompt with a similar story. (But much shorter.)

Here is the 100 word challenge story:

The smelly rose powder told Johnny his mother was going out even before he saw her wearing the dress that showed too much of her legs.
"Don't go out, Mom. Stay home and watch a movie with me." He begged.
Anger flashed momentarily in her eyes. "You know Mommy needs her medicine. My friend, John, said he can get some."
There was a knock at the door.
"Go to bed by Ten. I'll be out pretty late."
Johnny saw a grubby hand with dirty finger nails grasp his mothers arm as she left the house.
Johnny went straight to bed.

I began my recording of 'The Dishwasher' with some philosophy about harmonica playing versus playing the blues. If you want to hear that, you'll have to go to the Great Hites podcast. Here is the story:

The Dish Washer
He picked up the cup to put it into the sanitizer. The handle dropped off and broke into several pieces on the floor. "Why they don't change all these for plastic," he grumbled and bent to pick up the pieces. His hand reaching for the closest piece, he stopped and stood back up. He kicked the pieces under the sanitizer, then quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen him do it. They would make him move the heavy machine and clean underneath it, if he gave them the slightest reason.
He looked into the sanitizer, there didn't seem to be any room for the cup that he held in his hand. It was chock full with chipped and broken coffee cups, cracked and stained plates, and beer glasses so completely covered with hard water spots that they appeared opaque, even frosted.
He took out three of the glasses, moved some coffee cups and replaced the glasses, leaving enough room for the newly handless cup. The rack of cups, glasses and bowls was a fascinating and intricate utilization and conservation of space.
Unhappily resigned that the arrangement couldn't be improved, he pushed the rack shut and lowered the door of the sanitizer. He poked the green button to start the cycle.
Twice he turned from the deep stainless steel sink where the bus boy had dumped more dishes into hot, soapy water; he turned to stop the sanitizer and rearrange the cups. Instead, he stopped himself and went back to hand washing the dishes.
He had been warned; and he knew that they were watching; he could feel their eyes on his back, when they were in the room with him. They told him, "Do it fast. Just throw them in there and they'll come out clean." He heard it from them everyday, each time they caught him reorganizing the cups and bowls for greater efficiency. "Just thrown them in there", he muttered, reaching into the warm suds and rubbing the food off another plate.
He dipped the plate back into the soapy water and lifted it to watch the soap bubbles ooze off the plate and down from his wrist to drip off his elbow. He studied his deformed reflection on the wet surface of the cheap white ceramic plate. He watched his nose grow large and then small as a ripple of soapy water moved by.
"Robert Mc Feergan", the announcer said, and Robert got to his feet and walked across the stage. An honors graduate in Mathematics, he had continued his studies and received his masters and doctorate degrees in Statistics. He could see himself on that hot, June, Arizona day shaking the deans hand, receiving his diploma. As he turned and walked back to his seat, his young wife, with tears of pride in her eyes, blew him a kiss.
"Robert Mc Feergan," he suddenly said out loud to the plate, now mostly dry, in his hand. He held it up. "I present you with the plate of ignominy. The highest award for failure to perform to ones potential. For your outstanding service as a dishwasher, for the ability to clean even the grimiest of plates under the most favorable of conditions, I award you the plate of shame." His voice was raising in both fervor and pitch. "Take it you fool. Carry it with you, for all to see. So that all may no the limitless potential of your ineptitude and incompetence." The waiters were staring in through the open door. Customers were getting from their seats, trying to see the cause of the commotion.
Looking again at the plate, his image faint and deformed, he was revolted. As if suddenly realizing that he was holding rotten meat in his hands, teaming with maggots and roaches, he screamed, "No! I won't have it!" He threw the plate to the floor with such violence that it unbalanced him and he fell forward, striking his head on the corner of the stainless steel sink.
The shock and pain of hitting his head brought him out of his rant, to find himself on hands and knees, watching a pool of blood, on the floor, rapidly growing in size, as his blood flowed steadily from the gash on his head.
The hostess rushed over, "Oh, Bobby. Your head. Here, here is a cold towel. Sit down and hold the towel on your head." Her hand was on his shoulder, and he felt himself turning to sit, and taking the towel from her hand, pressing it to where he felt a sharply dull pain at the crest of his head.
"That's it Bob." The owner walked in. "I've had enough. No more broken dishes, no more screaming rants, no more scaring the customers. Here is your pay, plus an extra day. Take it and don't come back."
"I'm sorry, Jack." He could hear himself saying. "I'm sorry, my head is bleeding."
"I'm sorry, too, Bob, but you have to go. We've tried this and it's not working."
"My head is bleeding," Robert repeated as he got to his feet, he could hear the surprise in his own voice, as if he had just realized why he was holding the towel to his head.
"Go Bob. There's a clinic down the road, you know where it is." Jack took him by the elbow, and lead him to the back door.
The light outside was brilliant and harsh. He squinted up the road in the direction of the clinic. He took several steps in that direction, then abruptly turned to cross the street. Amid the honking of horns and cursing of drivers, he made his way to the liquor store. He stepped toward the door but stopped just short of it, sudden horror turning his insides to water, and he felt a wet warmth running down his leg.
In the reflection of the glass door, he saw a monster. Equal in size and nature to the famous Frankenstein monster. It held its overly large head with one hand, blood covering its misshapen face. In its other hand it clutched a wad of $20 bills. The macabre image faded into that of his own, but as urine pooled around his feet, in shame and frustration, he realized that he couldn't enter the business, in such a condition.
He shoved the bills into one urine soaked pocket. He turned toward the clinic again, but after only a dozen steps he stopped. His head hurt, the world was starting to spin, and his wet clothing chafed his thighs as he walked. He swayed a bit and then sat heavily in the middle of the sidewalk trying to keep the world from spinning around him. However, he soon toppled to his side, vertigo and weakness sapping his balance.
Overwhelmed by his impotence, in pain and self pity, he lay on his side weeping, pedestrians careful to step around him, and careful not to look too closely at him.
He knew that he should go to the clinic, but he couldn't. They would ask too many questions. "What is your street address?" "Who is your next of kin?" "Do you have your insurance card?" "Are you taking any medications?"
Medication! That's what he needed, he shifted his body and looked in the direction of the liquor store. He felt for the money in his pocket. "I just need a drink," he groaned. If he could just get some whiskey he would be alright. He would feel even again, in control. That is why he washes dishes, after all; to buy alcohol. He was too proud to pan handle; still, he needed to get the whiskey, his medicine, to make him feel right, so that he could be himself.
He stood on the front porch of his suburban home staring at the door, the frustrations of the office, like a recent sunburn, persistently aggravating and refusing to cool, even with the passage of time. He stared at the faux antique door knocker, just below the peep hole and in his mind, as if it came directly from a Dickens novel, the knocker took the shape of a human visage. But it wasn't the ghostly visage of a deceased miserly business partner; it was his own. He pointed his finger at the door and shouted, "You know that I should be the one running that place. I'm the Vice president of production! If they would just listen to me, they could be so much more efficient. Instead it's, 'No, Robert, that would take too much time' or, 'Put that idea down of paper, Bob, and we can see if we can whittle it down to make it more cost effective.' It's been three years now, and they haven't used a single idea that I've presented. Why'd they hire me, if they won't implement any of my programs."
He rubbed his face with a sweaty hand, put his key in the lock, and turned it. Strange, the door was unlocked. He would have to talk with Karen; he had lectured her before on keeping the doors locked when she was at home, without him there. He had to lecture her a lot recently; leaving lights on, windows open, going outside in a halter top, and how she was raising their little girl; she was getting a bit spoiled, and only three years old.
He pushed open the door, "Kare?", he called out. "Honey? You left the door unlocked again, you know how mad that makes me," his voice trailed off, as he realized that there was nobody home. As he walked through the door to the kitchen he could see the piece of paper on the table. He stopped and stood just inside the doorway, as if not approaching it, not reading it, would make it not real.
The sun had set, and he had to turn on the light to read it, when he finally approached the letter. "We're gone. Don't try to find us, you won't be able to. I've taken all we need, you can have the rest." 'What more was there?', he asked himself in despair.
He sat at the table and wept. He only got up to go to the liqueur cabinet, filled a laundry basket with as many bottles as he could and returned to the kitchen table, where he stayed for days. The phone range, people pounded on his doors and windows, but he never answered, never even moved. Finally, weeks later, the police came; they broke open the door and took him; filthy, emaciated, barely coherent; to the hospital.
Here were the police, again. He looked up from where he lay on the sidewalk, holding his bleeding scalp. "What are you doing there, pal? Been in a fight?" A cop with a night stick in his had was asking. "You got an address, bum?" The second cop said, "I think you must be a vagrant. You know we don't want vagrants bothering the decent people around here."
He rose on one elbow, looking around, expecting to see vagrants chasing decent people around, threatening them with bad breath and body odor. 'Decent people', he thought. 'I'm a decent person, what about me.' "I'm bleeding" he shouted at the cop, "can't you see I'm bleeding?" He was getting to his feet, to speak to the policeman face to face. "I have more education than the two of you combined," he wanted to shout at them, and make them see that he was a decent man, as decent as any other citizen. All he got out was, "I have more," when the first cop hit him with the night stick.
Riding in the back of the police cruiser Robert Mc Feergan was about to reenter the American mental healthcare system; prison, limited counseling, even more limited medication, and then back onto the street.
'Well,' he thought, 'At least they use plastic cups in prison.'
　

Last weeks stories

Here are my stories from last week.

The 100 word story was in response to some comments that Lawrence made about Inigo Montoya during the 100 word challenge the previous week. If you have listened to the 100 word podcast, you know that he has a, somewhat, foul mouth.

The prompt was, 'Rusty Steel'.

Inigo lay dead, the thrust to his heart so rapid and deadly that little blood oozed from the fatal wound.
It wasn't a thrust from the shinning, razor-sharp, blade of a master swordsman, like Arnesto Cervantes, nor was it the rusty steel of a clandestine, blackguard, mercenary.
He had no opportunity to use the Agrippa defense and take advantage of uneven ground, or engage in witty banter with his attacker.
He couldn't thrust his fist into the gaping wound and difiantly challenge his murderer.
Lawrence cut him down with an attack he could not counter; an expletive to the heart.

On the Great Hites site, the prompt was, 'And where shall we go for the Honey Moon.'
I thought it would be fun to write a story about weiner dogs, so my story was called 'Hot Dogs in the Park'.

It was a pleasant day in the city park, and though it was the lunch hour, they were the only two there.
He smiled a toothy grin at her, winked his eye, and licked his lips. She looked his way and sniffed the air; It wasn't as if she needed to, she could smell him without even trying. He didn't smell bad, just not very interesting.
He walked over and sat down next to her, as she lay, sunning herself. "Your big head is casting a shadow on me," she said and looked away. Now that he was close enough for her to really see him, she realized that he wasn't bad looking at all.
He stood and walked around to her other side and sat again. She found herself looking directly at his chest; full, nicely shaped and muscular.
She snorted; an awkward, accidental, sound, and she was aghast. She turned to look away from him, again, trying to hide her embarrassment.
He leaned over, his mouth close to her ear. "What do I have to do to keep your attention", he whined, then he laughed.
'Oh, you have it!', she thought. She was getting used to his smell and there was something attractive about it.
"I don't know," she said eventually, "Tell me something interesting."
He thought for a moment. "I'm pure," he said, hopefully.
She rolled her eyes. "That's what they all say. And that's not very interesting, anyway."
"OK," he said, "You have the most alluring, deepest brown eyes that I have ever seen. They draw me and suck me into them, and hold me there; they tell me that I am your pet, that I must be obedient to your every command."
She grinned, and said, "That's close. And very flattering, I might add. But I want to hear something that says, 'This guy is something special!' I want to hear something that Wows me."
He thought for a moment more, and with a gleam in his eye, he said, "I'm a super hero. I can fly."
She couldn't help it; she laughed out loud. "That's one I haven't heard before," she said and laughed again. Her laugh was a magical song that lifted him to his feet. She stood as well and he leaned his chest into her and her scent was an intoxicating perfume.
She playfully pushed her shoulder into his chest, and said, "You are kind of cute, maybe we could meet for dinner some time."
He was overcome by her nearness and nuzzled his nose behind her ear. He licked her neck. The sensation that rippled from her head to her toes was thrilling, but it was sudden and unexpected. She turned her head to look directly in his eyes and said, "Hold on, Turbo. You're moving a bit fast. I mean, shall we choose where to have the honeymoon, first, or just start naming the children." Her comment more biting than she intended.
He was slow; he was a guy after all; but he clearly read the sarcasm in her tone, and was abashed. She could see the shock on his face and the hurt in his eyes, as he looked down. She felt guilty and small. "Hold on," she said, "I just mean, we only met. Let's take our time."
Just then, a woman approached. "Oh," she breathed, "I have to go. I'll see you around, sometime, ok?" She turned and left.
He sat down, dejectedly, to watch her leave, her stubby legs beating a rapid cadence as she hurried after the woman.
Shocked with realization, he jumped to his feet and barked after her, "I'm Fritz! My name is Fritz!" Floating on the wind, he heard her laugh; that magical laugh; and she said, "I'm Schnitzel."
He sniffed the air as her laughter faded away. The laughter would fade, but her scent wouldn't, he could follow her scent forever. He closed his eyes and followed her in his mind; past the post office, the grocery store, the pizza place. As she approached a row of apartment buildings, his senses picked up another smell; he smelled danger.
Without hesitation, he raced to a park bench. Leaping onto it he vaulted himself into the air. Short forelegs extending in front of him, his long ears flowing across the sleek fur of his neck and back, he flew out, over the city, his ultra-canine powers of hearing and scent, alert; he searched for crime.

I hate 'meh'.

Since I have been following flash fiction podcasts, and they regularly quote feedback on previously posted stories, I have become familiar with the ubiquitous comment of indifference, 'meh'. It seems, almost, a trite rite of passage to denigrate someones hard work with the single syllable of condescending indifference. I have even heard people incongruously use the vile three letters in as absurd display of their condescending arrogance, "..a great, big, resounding, MEH ...". Can they not say what they think, or is it more important to sound like they belong? This previous quote was not indifference, but dislike.

If I must use this 'non word' to join the tribe of flash fiction critics, I will, no doubt, remain outside their fraternity.

On being a Hero.

Why, when I was a kid.....

Our heroes were astronauts and athletes. The Beatles had just hit the U.S., so the Pop Superstar wasn't any ones goal. We looked up to athletes, like, Mark Spitz, Joe Namath and O. J. Simp...... Well, there is my point.

When did the hero step down from the podium. I have to look back on a few years ago when Brittany Spears was told that impressionable youth looked up to her as a role model. She denied that she was a role model.

My 100 word story is about Michael Phelps. The present day Mark Spitz, (He won a lot of medals in the Olympic swimming events.) Someone for kids to look up to. Eating right, working out, smoking pot at a college party.

I think that it has been a long time since heroes were heroes.

Here is my story:


Michael Phelps likes to do everything fast. Whether it is chopping vegetables, signing autographs or learning to speak Chinese, with Rosetta Stone.
On a flight to Europe the in-flight movie was Crocodile Dundee, and that gave him an idea. Redirecting his return flight through Egypt he went to the Nile to show Paul Hogan what he was made of. In his speedo, he jumped in to out swim the crocodiles.
His goal was to beat the records he set in the 2008 summer Olympics. Instead, in London, 2012, he'll be in the paralympics, competing as a double, below knee, amputee.

Working in the field of orthotics and prosthetics, I know a lot of heroes.

100 word podcast - Wikipedia Wildcard

This week the weekly challenge at the 100 word story podcast turned out to be the first ever 'Wikipedia Wild card'. The idea is that you go to Wikipedia, click on random essay, and write about what comes up. I had only read the prompt on Saturday, and assumed that you had to write on the first essay you pulled up. I listened to the Podcast on Monday, and found that if you didn't like the prompt, you could keep trying, but you would have to list the ones that you didn't like.

My first try brought up the prompt, "People just like us." I went with this, not just because I didn't know that I could, 'reboot', but because it allowed me to address a thought that I have had for some time.

There is a website called http://www.withoutsanctuary.org/ where they have a hundred postcards of lynchings. I was so disturbed the first time I found the site, (referenced from a psychology podcast I had listened to), that I have often pondered; How would I have acted in the crowd? Would I have stood up in defiance of the mob? Would I have just skulked away? Or would I have moved along with the 'Righteous Wrath'?

In 100 words, I ask these questions. I will post that story here, after I upload it on Friday night.

Here it is:


It looked like the entire town came out for the event. There was a carnival atmosphere in the town square. People just like us gathered to view the lynching. See, here's the postcard. The black man raped a white girl; no one is sure who the girl is, but there were plenty of white witnesses. There was a grim fascination as they hauled him up and some commented and even laughed at how he thrashed about. They mutilated his body afterwards. It didn't seem right, what they did. But they were good people who did it, people just like us.

I changed my intro and bed music for it. I felt like it was too grim of a subject to have 'happyish' sounding blues. I converted it to mp3 and listened before uploading the story, to see if the music was too loud. I learned from my Christmas Haiku that if the music is too loud, you lose the entire story. It was too loud again, so I toned it down for the final upload to the 100 word story podcast.

As a post script I might point out how my attitudes toward people of african descent has changed since my youth. Having been raised in a primarily 'white' neighborhood, I thought that I had healthy racial attitudes. We only had about 5 black people at my high school of about 1200 students. However, I has quick to stereo type minorities, based on the prevailing attitudes of the mid 1970's.

Since that time I have spent 2 years living in South Africa, and then 5 years in the U.S. Army, including 3 years in Hawaii, which is a field experiment in racial stereotyping and prejudices.

I can't argue that I don't still have preconditioned attitudes, but I am not locked into them. If I find that I have an unhealthy attitude about a person or people, I truely, and honestly, try to identify if I am falling on old learned attitudes or if I have founded my own beliefs through personal experience.

I speak for desmond

I wrote a 100 word story about Desmond on about the third week that I had started submitting stories to the weekly challenge. I kept hoping for the prompt to come up in a way that I could use it for this story....It took me 15 entries to finally win one and choose a prompt that would fit.

This week was the result, 'Chicken Nuggets', and everyone was a good sport about it. There were some good stories and I voted for each that I liked.

I had Des record my story. Both Lisa and I spent time saying the words and having Desi record them. Then it was tons of editing to get all the words in one long line. I recorded Bekah playing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" for the intro and outro music.

I just listened to it on the Weekly challenge podcast and it seems like it came out pretty well. You can hear it and see the text at www.podcasting.isfullofcrap.com and the text of it is below.

I won

I'm a double winner this week. First time for both. I the weekly challenge on Great Hites, or course I was the only entry, maybe that made it a weakly challenge.

After entering 15 times on the 100 word weekly challenge I won. "Winner, winner, chicken dinner!!!! I've wanted to say that since I saw 21 for the first time.

My prompt, Chicken Nuggets, is the challenge for next week. I have been trying to get this prompt for 14 episodes now. I hope this story flies, I have been thinking about it for a long time.

Also, I got to help record a story for someone else, with Jeff Hite. We'll see what it sounds like when it is posted on the 100 word challenge today.

Here is my story going in the challenge today:

The stalker followed his prey across the university campus, keeping enough distance behind her to avoid detection. She was young and slender and he ached to hold her in his arms, to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze the life from her.
He had followed her before and knew her schedule, her routine. Tuesday and Thursday nights, her class would begin in daylight, but would be fully dark when it let out.
A tidal wave of urgency washed over him. Crouching, ready to attack, he saw her, alone, unaware, last to leave Phys Ed 203, advanced kick boxing.

Great Hites

This week I entered Jeff Hites' story contest for the first time. Lawrence of the 100 word story podcast mentioned the prompt that Jeff had chosen, it was about space elevators. I first read about space elevators about two years ago in an astronomy magazine. The whole idea intrigued me and I have spent a lot of time since then imagining the process at work. I figured that now was the time to branch out and try a complete story longer than 100 words. I will post the story below.

I have enjoyed the 100 word story contests. I like the challenge of honing the text around a single idea until you have just the barest structure to present the idea. Recording the story has also been a learning experience, and though it may not sound like I have improved much when listening to the podcast, I have seen a remarkable decrease in time it takes to go from sitting down at the mic and uploading it to podcasting.isfullofetc.etc.

Writing the story of the space elevator felt almost like taking a relaxing run down a forest trail after spending a week doing nothing but speed workouts around a track. (I started running at the same time I started Nanowrimo, so my thoughts are also on physical activity.) It felt good to describe Jeremy's past, share some of his feelings, etc.

I heard the prompt on Monday, and the story was due by tuesday eve. While listening to the story after it was posted, I realized some inconsistencies. I caught one before I recorded. Origianlly I had Jeremy sprawling across the floor when the lift door opened.....Doh! That would be tough in low earth orbit. One that I didn't catch was his age. I had him as a child when Elison Onizuka died in the shuttle disaster. He sounds like a young adult, and has a little sister. That would put the narrator of the story, at his age, right about now. For a little more credebility, I should have written him in, at least, his thirties. My daughter, who is now 22, was born in Hawaii, but was not old enough to remember the space shuttle disaster, though it happened while we were there.

Oh, well. We'll see if my next effort makes more sense.

Nanowrimo follow up.

I have to say that the Nanowrimo was great experience. I started late and had to hit it pretty hard, but was able to finish a winner.



I had to average more than 2000 words per day. It was interesting to see my attitude change while the word count climbed. On the Nano site they give you encouragement based on where the average person would be on that day of the month. Starting ten days late, I could get the advance scoop on when I should start getting discouraged.



The first 10,000 words were a lot of fun, and everyday I felt like I had the whole world at my disposal and everything would be wonderful. The next 15,000 words were written from under a fog of discouragement. Every night when I sat down to write I would ask myself if I could do this, or if I shouldn't just quit now.



The weekend before Thanks Giving I pumped out a lot of words and brought myself to where a lot of other writers were, and I could see that I just might pull it off.



As I finished my last words on November 29th, I had a feeling of satisfaction that I had set a goal, worked hard, and completed it. I also thought that I had written 50,000 words of rubbish, and had expressed that sentiment to several people since completion.



However, I have started my first edit and rewrite and have found that I really like my story. I have found many places that I now feel are trite and some others that were poorly written. But I like it enough to go back through and make it right.



My goal has alway been to podcast a story. The original plan was for my scouting story, but I want to do this one. I am practicing recording my reading by participating in the 100 word weekly challenge, and now I have also entered in Jeff Hites short story podcast as well.



The plan is to spend the next two months editing and rewriting. Then have my brother proof read the story, and do a third rewrite. Finally, I want to take a week off in March or April and record the entire story. I don't know if I'll be able to get all the episodes produced in that week, but I should have a big portion of it done.



I emailed Mur Lafferty about my Nano experience and she read some of it on 'I should be writing' podcast. Here is the portion that applied to Nanowrimo:

These are the things that I learned from Nano.

Plot happens. I had listened to you, your interviews, and feedback talking about words per day. I always thought, ‘what a mechanical and unartistic way to create’! I found that putting out 1500 to 4000 words in a day squeezed creativity out of me that I didn’t know that I had. Plot twists appeared from around corners, and my characters started saying and doing some interesting things.

I also came to understand what ‘organic writing’ is. I would sit down at 8:30 pm, with a Monster energy drink, knowing that I needed 2000 words before bed. I knew where I wanted the story to go, but not outlined bit by bit.

Write now, rewrite later. If I worried about spelling, grammar, and consistency, or even coherencey, (at 10:30 pm, I get up at 4:30 am), I could get about 500 words per hour. Throwing all that to the wind, I would get 1000 + per hour.

Finnally. It’s a better story than I thought. After it was over and people would ask me, “Did you make it?” I would respond with, “Yeah, but it’s mostly rubbish.” I started my rewrite yesterday and found that I really like my story. It has potential and I might as well take it as far as I can. (Being a big Nathan Lowell fan, [not to mention a big Mur Lafferty fan]), I am going to podcast it initially, while submitting it to regular publishers. If I can cast a shadow even faintly comparable to these two giants, I will feel gratified.

Goodbye anonymity

I got my 100 word story done early this week, and actually sent it in today. I am becoming the "Totally together guy". I actually excercised today. That's twice within four days. I think I might go floss my teeth.

I included this blog address with my entry today, so there is the small potential that someone other than myself will actually see this page. Of course that is likely to only happen once....but anyway, people who previously only knew me as the guy who wanted to be called Norval Joe will see that I am a 48 year old dork who likes to write blog notes to himself, and calls himself Norval Joe.

My new hobby

I listen to a lot of podcasts. One genre of podcast I listen to is the creative writing type. Some of them are; Mur Lafferty's 'I should be writing', and I'll appologize now for mispelling names; Tee Morris's, 'Survival guide to writing fantasy'; 100 word stories; and the Podcastle, and escape pod, podcasts.

I have mentioned, previously, my aspirations to both podcast and write my novel.

The advice I hear on many podcasts and interviews with authors is to write consistently. That is part of why I am trying to be more consistent in writing on my blog; it forces me to put down coherent thoughts about a subject.

So, my new hobby is writing, and my excersize is writing 100 word stories. When I have a few minutes before I need to be somewhere or doing something, I grab a word or a thought and see if I can get that idea into a story in 100 words. I figure that someday one of these little bits will turn into 'My Novel'.

I have also mentioned that I have 'A story' that I am now trying to put onto paper, but one of the ideas that I get from these creative writing casts is that you can't have 'just one' story. We'll see.