The short answer – “Great! Fun! I’m grateful to have reassurance that this is indeed what I am most passionate about.  Things are forever changing.  I’m learning so much, exploring everything freely, and dissolving all limitation.  I’m doing it.”

The long answer -

Things are going fantastic!

At first my intention was to sit in the wings and observe.  I’d watch the blogs of J.C. Hutchins, Scott Sigler, Mur Lafferty and all the other influential authors in the podcast novel space.  All the while I’d work on my masterpiece and blow them all out of the water when it was ready.  After a very short while I figured out this was not going to work.  I was sitting in my hobbit hole scribbling but no one was reading it and I wasn’t learning anything about the craft like I wanted.  So I started searching for low-risk ways of exposure.  This is where the 100 word stories podcast came in and GreatHites.  Weekly contests where people voted for fun on the stories and your story was syndicated in a podcast.  It was simple: if people didn’t like your story they didn’t vote for you, done.  No one screamed at you and no one told you it sucked, it was bliss but also not enough to move forward.

I did that for a while and I started to educate myself more about the writing industry.  I subscribed to Writer’s Digest and every podcast I could find about getting better at this writing thing.

So that is where it started and things evolved way faster than I thought from there.

So, where are we now?

I think an itemized list will be more effective than a long hunk of wordy prose.

• I write for the 100 word stories podcast every week.  Those are the 100 word stories you see posted here all the time.

• I write for GreatHites as much as I can.

• I have two stories being published in the GreatHites Podiobooks Anthology.  The Reconstruction and Children of the Garden Wars. (still need to edit those for you Jeff, sorry for the delay.)

• I got into my first REAL writing group that Justin Lowmaster (SpaceTurtle) got me into.  They are a wonderful group of folks and I love interacting with people who nerd out about this stuff as much as I do.

• Give Blood and Thanks is officially a podcast now and is in itunes and all that.  It will hit 17,000 words very soon and be in official novella territory.

• I plunged headfirst into the social media space to rub shoulders and learn from these people I thought I would covet forever.  They are all supportive and great.  I have Twitter and Facebook for now.

• I have a ton of ideas I’m working on and new ones crop up constantly.  I have enough material right now to be locked in a room for about four years and write a few books.

• I’m learning the value of 100% transparency.  What I do that a lot of authors (can I say that yet?) don’t is, I post everything!  I post the ugly draft that I read from with all the typos, crumby syntax, constant switching of tenses, and even spelling errors.  If things get pointed out to me I go back and fix it, but I don’t ever dwell too long.  I’m not submitting to magazines, I’m not agent hunting, I’m not submitting to publishers, I’m just learning and sharing with all of you.  I don’t want to be on this journey alone.  I want my friends to know what is going on and the world to watch me grow up.

• I’m confident that I will be a novelist when the time is right.  Actually, the time will be right in November.  I will be participating in my first official NanoWriMo this year.  I’m extremely excited about it and there is a lot of planning I have yet to do if I am going to reach the 50,000 word finish line in just one month.

I think that covers all the bases for now but things are forever changing in this world so who knows what the next day, week, or month will bring.

Thank you all for your constant supportive words and encouragement.  That stuff really means a lot, truly.

That is how the writing thing is going. – Danny

I pulled another cassette from the old box.  Things were beginning to go in slow motion for me now during these listening sessions.  I imagined the classical ambient musical score at the end of a war film.  The brave solider you fell in love with getting killed in a hail of gunfire.  Red mist exploding from each new bullet hole as the actor convulses from the supposed inertia of it all and you living that split second of life in minutes on film.

Bach’s Cello Suite One in G major suites me just fine.  I hear it, as my hand clutches the plastic  tape of the blind man.  Each quick pull of the cello’s bow resonates within me and I slow my breathing.  I rub my thumb on  the pattern of scratches in the plastic.  None of these tapes have numbers, just a series of scored  hash marks to indicate their order in the sequence.  I put on my headphones and push play.  Bach fades out and the black curtain descends as the blind man once again narrates our life.

“Eighteenth of July, two thousand four.  Today we will examine my interaction with the Vampire last night.  I’m fortunate to be able to interact with the true etherical nature of the beast.  Most sighted people are not able to focus enough to channel and grow their energy like I am.  My gift of blindness makes me an ideal source for the Vampire.  I let him feed off my energy to sustain his corpse  and he in turn helps me understand the other entities of the etherical .  He is desperate to not cross over and feeds much more than I would like.  It leaves me drained by dawn and I must sleep well into the afternoon to regain enough strength for the simple life sustaining tasks.”

I stopped the tape and took off my headphones.  The map of the city on my wall had many various colored thumb tacks but only one black one.  I reserved black for the blind man’s last known residence.  I walked over to the wall looking at the area around the tack.  Hide Cemetery was very close, not cut off  by any running water, and still very much in use.  That is where the Vampire would be buried.  If I was to contact the spirit I needed to know the name, for sure the Vampire would be a spirit by now.  If he had sustained this long, he would be very powerful, I needed to be prepared for that.

I grabbed my camera, notebook, cellphone, and a bag I pet named The Tool Kit.  The Tool Kit had everything I needed for dealing with Spooks.  I went downstairs in the dark and opened the front door.  A light flicked on behind me, it was Mom.

“Little late for band practice, where you headed?”

‘Shit.  Not now.  I can’t deal with this, I’m so close.  Have to think quickly, pacify the overlord.’

“Jake isn’t doing so hot and wants me to keep him company tonight,” I said.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Look.  He just has a lot going on right now and needs me.”  Her eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘not that tone, not under my roof sonny boy.’  I had to cover my ass.

“Sorry Mom, it’s just personal stuff you know.  Its got me worked up.”  She curved one side  of her mouth and wrinkled her forehead down.  She wasn’t buying it, but would she call me out on it?  Don’t know don’t care.  But I do care.  I’ve worked hard to keep up my illusion, worked hard to only let people see my mask.

“Alright, well be careful.  Watch out for the ghouls and goblins.”

‘You have no idea.’

She smiled but looked scared for me.  Mom has been a worrier all my twenty nine years, that will never changed.

“Yea, I will.  Get some sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”  I walked out and stood on the porch, she shut the door behind me.

‘I hope.  I love you.’

I drove my aging Ford Fairmont to the blind man’s old address.  It had become ritual for me now.  I start all investigations at his house and retrace the steps he himself might have taken.  I parked on the curb and took in a breath.  Starting to get scared now.

‘Doesn’t matter what happens Brandon.  You’ll have your proof one way or the other,’  I thought.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.  A text message.

‘Really Son, be careful.  I trust you have what you need.  Love, Mom.’

She couldn’t know, could she?

We are little people.

My Father never hesitated to point out the things we weren’t capable of.

The constant mental abuse battered against my Mother’s mental ramparts.

She might be a small midget, but her pride was as large as a full grown man.

Smuggling a syringe from her work, she would make him a special Hawaiian pizza that night.

I typed the word ‘arsenic’ into the WolframAlpha frame work after we got back from Dad’s funeral.

No results were returned about it killing anyone.

—————————————————————-

Danny says –

1) I’ll record the audio for this story later today.

2) Give Blood and Thanks is postponed until tomorrow night.

3) Working on a REALLY cool story that I need to get finished up for GreatHites.

4) I’m going to do NanoWriMo this year.  So the time  has come for me to kick around ideas and start outlining.  Click the link to learn more about NanoWriMo.

5) I’ve got so much crap in the hopper right now it is disgusting.  I need to get the word count up and that is all there is to it.

6) I love you guys

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 8 and 9 – Download PDF

Chapter 8:  A Thanksgiving Remembered.

A neon Burger King sign illuminated the brown shuffling figure that was Remy.  He smacked his lips at the sight of a discarded Whopper in the parking lot.  Picking it up, he put it under his filthy rags of clothes and set out to find a location to eat.  A place where he would be hidden and out of sight.

The burger meat was cold, the bun stale, and the cheese hard.  Surprisingly he didn’t have to pick off any insects.  Usually, depending on how long the food was on the ground, the ants always attacked first,  then the bees set to work, and if it was a  substantial piece of organic protein, the maggots would soon take up residency.  Remy was only forced to pick off maggots one time, before he knew the ins and outs of being a condemned person.  It was right after she took everything and changed the locks on the doors.  His drinking drove them away, it drove everyone away.  He had no where to go but the gutter, and there he stayed, just like he deserved.

************************************************

“When is your mother getting here?” he shouted from his chair in the living room.

“You need to go and get her from the bus station.  Damn, don’t you remember anything?”

“Don’t patronize me woman, I remembered.  What time?”

“You need to leave in about ten minutes, and you need to stop at the store to get some dinner rolls,” the female voice ringed in his ears.  He loved her to death but she never stopped sounding like the little squealing high school girl he asked to Prom all those years ago.

He opened the drawer on the end table and thumbed open the flask filled with his favorite companion, Mr. Black Jack Daniels as he affectionately called it.  Good ole fashioned southern fire water, just like his daddy used to drink when mamma wasn’t lookin’.  He took a pug off the steel canister and an extra because he had to deal with the Mother in law.  His buzz set right in letting the awkward smile and distant gaze come back, he was to drunk to drive, that was for certain.  You see, he was one of those functioning alcoholics.  Able to be piss drunk and still perform regular tasks just as good as a sober person would.  Well, almost just as good.  He grabbed his keys.

“Give us a kiss babe,” he puckered and she pecked him.

“You okay to drive?”

“Sure I am, just had a little taste to take the edge off.”

“You better watch that, you know how your father got with that stuff,” she said.

“Don’t compare me to Dad, you know I hate that.”

“Sorry I brought it up, be nice to my Mom.  It is Thanksgiving after all, let us try and be civil.  If Roger and I have to be on our best behavior than so do you.”

“Well maybe if she wasn’t such a condescending bitch.  She comes in here every holiday to white glove the place, and then criticize our parenting,” he said.
“It’s just her way,” she defended.

“Des, it’s insulting.”

She walked over and put her arms around his neck.  The long silky red hair flipped back and Remy caught the sent of flowers.  The pair of deep set blue eyes stared into his.

“Let this be a peaceful day for us, for me?” she pulled herself into his chest and grabbed a handful of hair behind his head.  It was one of those kisses you see in a soft core porn flick.  Since they aren’t going to show any actual sex the foreplay better be damn theatrical.  Remy left for the bus station.  He would pick up her Mom, but forget the rolls.  The first of many things he would forget, thanks to Mr. Black Jack.

Chapter 9: Ground Control to Major Winston.

John Martian dropped off his old Datson at the body shop and had a buddy take him home.  He bumped a pole last night and didn’t want his Dad to see the damage to the back fender.  He still lived with the parents; envious of his older brother who had the balls to get out.  But John was the breadwinner, the prize boy, and he didn’t much mind living at home still.  Free rent, food, and the company wasn’t so bad, I guess.  He came in to find his father sitting at the table with an open letter from the Police Academy in his hands.  Some follow up to John’s acceptance judging by the look on his  father’s face.

“Why? Are you stupid? Your brother is out there everyday risking his neck for what?  A city of hoodlums who should just as well kill each other off and be done with it.”

“Dad it isn’t like that and you know it.  Art is doing good work and saving lives.  Plus, I can do this, make good money, and take care of you and mom.”

“If you live long enough,” his Dad said.  John was at his end with the argument about this.  His father always dictated every decision and aspect of his life.  He was his father’s puppet, and he was fed up.  He would be a cop, just like his brother.

“Fuck this.”

John’s Mother gasped in horror looking at the junior and senior Martian men.  John squared up like a young buck lion ready to challenge the Alpha Male for control of the pride.  He would never hit his father, he loved his dad.  He just wished he could have the approval of his best friend, have him be proud of this choice.

He would go into the Police Academy no matter what, in fact he had already paid the fees with the money he had saved from being a mall Security Officer.  Driving around in circles all night and running out skateboarders with his flashlight was safer than being a full fledged cop, but John wanted to see action.  Arthur always had crazy cop stories to tell whenever they were together.  John wanted that sort of life, and he wanted it bad enough to risk his father’s disappointment.  As any boy who has ever been in trouble with his father knows, “I’m disappointed in you” stings a thousand times worse than a smack to the head.

“Watch your mouth.  Jesus, in front of your mother and all,” Winston Martian snapped back.

John left the screen door swinging from the force of his palm.  He would take the side alley and sneak a cigarette to clear his head.  Yet another thing his father would disapprove of.  After about ten minutes of pacing around a small cement alcove, he heard a crash.  The sound of metal fusing with other metal; a nasty car wreck.  He started walking around to see where it happened.  Then he heard his mother scream.  John, started running.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 6 and 7 – Download PDF

Chapter 6:  Hoooooooooot Pockeeeeeeeeeeet

“Record setting temperatures are expected in the City this week with humidity levels in the forties.  Community weather gurus are urging people to keep hydrated and stay indoors.  More on that after the break.”

Remy watched the TV through the rusty steel mesh outside Smitty’s front window display.  The microwave hadn’t produced a damn thing in two days and he was starving.  He opened the windowed door nearly every ten minutes and kept getting the same empty disappointment.  Under normal circumstances he would be gathering up cans, or holding his “will work for food sign” on some street corner, but it was just too damn hot to be in the direct sun.  He held onto hope the microwave would produce again, even tried to leave it alone for a few and come back to it, hoping for another Breakfast Dinner.  Looks like his Guardian Angel has moved on to another lost soul, back to the one man show.

The sign on the door said Smitty would be back at 1:30, said he was, “out to lunch.”  That fat-fuck was constantly eating and living chubby off the misfortune of others.  People from all walks of life could stumble in his store and get pennies on the dollar worth for wedding rings, watches, stolen goods or any electronics, Smitty didn’t care, he took it all.  If the cops collected the inventory lists of all the house robberies this month, guaranteed, half of that stuff was at Smitty’s dingy Swap Meet.  Remy heard the slow clinking of metal approaching from around the block.

Smitty couldn’t be more than a decade younger than Remy was, somewhere in his mid-forties if one had to guess.   He was a butterball sort of man, bald, with a greying short beard that traced his round face, and the unmistakable jingling ring of keys as he maneuvered his great girth to and fro.  He was like an obese pet pig with a bell collar, you always knew when he was coming your way.  Remy hated Smitty’s sort, but he hated most of the beings he interacted with on a daily basis.  There was a time he commanded the respect of men who would die for him, and a family that loved him.  Smitty sucked in a big breath so he could talk and walk at the same time.  It came out more like an asthmatic wheeze.

“Fifteen … feet from the … door … transient.  Unless … your … doing … bus…iness,” you had to feel sorry for him on some level, but mostly it was just pathetic.  Remy took a few steps back, looks like Smitty couldn’t hold out the two minute walk back before beginning his lunch.

“Did it hurt?” Remy asked.

“Did what hurt?”  Smitty put down the grocery bag bursting with snacks from the corner gas station and fumbled with the keys to unlock the shop.

“The mustard and ketchup grenade that went off on your chest.  Looks about the size of a .65 millimeter hot dog launcher with all the bells and whistles.  Chili primer, relish propellant, and no doubt, a nacho cheese firing mechanism.  What are the barrels on those things these days? Bout’ a foot long?”

“You being a smart ass right now?  Fuck off before I call the cops you piece of street trash,” poor Jabba got his feelings hurt, Remy grinned.  It wasn’t because he was fat, Remy didn’t care, it was because he was an asshole to the core and being fat was really all you could fuck with him about.

“Easy Smitt’s, I got something to bring in.  I think it is right up your alley to cook all these hot pockets you just got.”

In the end Smitty only gave Remy thirty dollars for the microwave.  It was worth hundreds and they both knew it, but Smitty had the upper hand.  No one else would even consider paying for shit homeless guys brought in.  Maybe that secretly exposed Smitty’s heart to help the people less fortunate than himself; his artery clogged grease trap of a dick-head heart.

Chapter 7: You stop laughing right “meow”

The price of a diet coke at the station’s vending machine was getting more and more expensive.  Arthur got to work at 7:30am every single day like clock work.  At 7:31am the quarters rolled down the change slot to purchase his diet coke, which went from fifty cents when he started, to a dollar and seventy five cents now.  He found it disgusting how the price of everything goes up in such high percentages, his paychecks certainly weren’t growing at that rate.  He made his way to the small desk and opened the top drawer.

“Jesus Christ, come on you damn children,” Arthur shouted to no one in particular but loud enough to make the room fall silent.  He had that sort of commanding demeanor about him, that is what made him a good investigator.  People rarely lied to his face.

Inside the drawer was a small stuffed cat crusted over with what he could only guess was ketchup.  He pulled it out and threw it in his trash.  A small “meow” came from somewhere.  Arthur shot dirty looks in all directions.  A hand slapped his shoulder.

“Morning brother, arrest any pussies last night?” John said.

“You’re still free, so I guess not.”

“From shooting cat burglars to being a comedian, my brother you’re going places.  Did you find out anything last night?” John said.

“Not really, the place is clean.  Why was the power shut off so soon?”

“We didn’t touch any utilities yet.  We’re not that stupid.”

“Well it’s off, so get it turned back on, and get me the packet of records on her utility bills, I want to check out her phone records,” Arthur said.

“Sure thing, what are you thinking?”

“I have no clue to be honest.  At this point, aliens came down from outer space, probed her, and left.  Did the coroner check for any anal intrusions?  I’m thinking the aliens are the best lead we have.   A woman with her arm chewed up in a blender was found dead in her home, no sign whatsoever that she had anyone else with her.  Maybe she got off her meds and fell into the blender while it was on with the lid off.  Now go get me those utility bills,” Arthur said.

Arthur took a sip off his coke and waited for the Chief to get in.  Still had that leak to deal with today.  What a day it was turning out to be too.

“Meow.”

Arthur grabbed his coat and stormed outside to have a smoke.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 2 and 3 – Download PDF

Chapter 2: Winner Winner Turkey Dinner

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘What the hell?’ The sound woke up Remy just in time to experience the full blown nausea and headache of the hangover he wanted to sleep through.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

‘Shut the hell up,’ he closed his eyes but it was too late.  The inside of the cardboard Maytag home started to spin, there was no sleeping now.  Being a homeless man in the back alley of Front Street had perks at night but not during the day.  No one bothered wanders while they slept but the  morning always brought the foot traffic of early risers to downtown.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Remy rocked his body out of the shelter and felt for his boots.  It was a weird quirk of his, but sleep only came without shoes on, no matter how cold it was.  He tied the laces of the worn doc martins he had found in a dumpster some years back and stood up.

The back of the alley was deserted say for a new microwave that someone had dumped there.  ‘Why would anyone toss this?  Maybe it fell off a truck.  Doesn’t matter now, this should be at least fifty bucks at Smitty’s if it still works.’

He walked over to the microwave to inspect it.  A Sears genuine special, and not one scratch on it.  The aluminum handle caught the rising sunlight and blinded his eyes.  He stepped closer and opened the door.

‘God damn.  Would you look at that?’

Hot and steaming, a fresh turkey dinner was in the microwave.  The mashed potatoes were filled with a reservoir of brown gravy that flowed contiguously onto a pile of white turkey breast meat.  Green little marbles of peas stacked with the precision of the most prestigious upper class restaurant.  The coup de grâce of this food masterpiece was the pile of cranberry sauce bleeding into the base of turkey hill and potato mountain.  Remy wasn’t one to turn down a free meal.  He would take this to Smitty’s after breakfast dinner.

“Morning Remy.  Wow, someone felt sorry for your ass this morning didn’t they?  Lemme have some buddy.”

“Back it up Josiah.  This was in that microwave and I’m claiming them both.  No one was around when I got it, so piss off they’re both mine,” Remy said.

“Alright alright, cool it old man.  I’ll be on 9th and Sierra Ave today so give it some birth.”

Josiah shuffled off with his shopping cart half full of cans rattling on the rough pavement, his “Disabled Vet, need help, god bless” sign was sticking way out.  That boy wasn’t a Vet, he had no idea what war was or what it meant to fight for something, he had no idea what it meant to survive.  He was just a filthy beggar.

Remy sat and polished off the meal slowly with his trusty metal spork.  It was nice to have a hot meal, the tastes reminded him of Thanksgivings spent with his wife and son, wherever they are now.  He sat cross legged and stared at the dirty brick wall of the alley way, eating his food with conservative bites and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin he carried in his back pocket.  Unlike most of the condemned persons around this city, Remy still retained a sense of common manners so long as you weren’t trying to threaten his life.  Being a fifty year old homeless man with a bum leg made that life hard, it made it real hard.  The daily struggle was breaking him down very fast.

He shuffled to the microwave and turned it over for further inspection.  Not one dent or blemish, say for his own finger prints that molested the buttons earlier.

‘Let me get you to Smitty’s.  Thanks for the breakfast dinner.’

Heavy lifting required all the weight be put on his good leg.  With arms under the microwave he grunted and stood looking for his cart that was a good twenty feet away.

‘Should have pushed that over here, to late now, cause my back ain’t gunna do this again today.’

He began slow forward steps, hopefully his arms would hold out.

Remy did not see the discarded plastic soda bottle when he got to the half way point and stepped on it.  The cap was on tight and it held shape.  His good leg lurched forward forcing him to attempt balance with the bum leg.  He let out a yelp of pain and his knee buckled causing him to fall straight back, the back of his head hitting the asphalt first and his vision went black.  Good thing too, if his body hadn’t been so relaxed by the time that microwave fell on his chest, he probably would have busted some ribs.

Chapter 3: Don’t tase me bro.

Arthur Martian might have been a slacker rebel to his father but when it came down to his own security and employment, he was a workhorse.  Not to be out done, his little brother would never leave the station until after Art did, no matter how late into the night he stayed.

“Not one finger print, not one trace of fiber or hair, no foot prints and no sign of a forced entry.  This guy is really good.  A right professional cowboy of murder.  I blame movies and TV.  The media wants to make things so damn real these days.  We are training our children to be killers at the age they can operate the remote.” Arthur was angry, someone got lazy at that crime scene.

“It seems bizarre doesn’t it?  I’ve been over the photographs a hundred times.  Nothing adds up like it should,” John said, at the desk across the room.  There were only two desk lamps on at the station.  The Martian boys wanted to crack this sucker wide open.  Nothing bad had come this precincts way since the riots of 2001.  Detectives were being replaced by science.  Grunt police work was fast becoming a lost art.  Once and a while some cases needed the insight a computer hasn’t been able to produce yet, the human intuition.

“Why are you still here? Don’t you have a girlfriend that needs your attention? It is eleven o’clock get the hell out.  You aren’t helping,” Art snapped at his brother.

‘They didn’t analyze everything, didn’t give him the tools he needed.  He would have to go back to the Snoogin residence himself and see just what the hell was going on.  He hated the foot work but he hated the possibility that a criminal could out wit him even more.’

“I’m going back to the Snoogin house to run over it again.”

“I’ll go with you,” John said.

“The hell you are, I’m going alone.  If you think you can ride my ass to the top you’re wrong.  You will earn it like everyone else.  Like I did.”

Falling Bricks Hurt

     Justin wandered about in the shadows watching the fascinating people. He smelled the breads and listened to the pop of corks for hours before finally settling on the perfect sunny patch of grass to feast. Justin the turtle munched on the greenery of the city he loved, Paris.

     1,063 feet into the sky, Gaston Space Pierre ran back and forth on the observation platform of the Eiffel Tower, his parents not at all effective. A stray brick from a display for Gustave Eiffel found his palm. He tossed it over the rails.

     Justin looked up just in time to catch the impromptu solar eclipse to the head.

Read On -

“Billy lets go, he isn’t worth it.”

“The hell he ain’t Hank.  A kid can’t walk home from school without being scared, that’s not right.  I’m gunna teach him a lesson.”

“You should listen to your brother Billy, no sense in me kicking your ass again.”

“Jeremy that was three years ago, I’ve gotten a lot bigger since then.  Besides, what you’re doin’ ain’t right.  It ain’t right at all.  So square up you pussy, lets go.”

Billy put his fists up like he saw Rocky do in the movies.  The spectating kids formed a circle around them.  Sidestepping like two gladiators locked in battle to the death, one of them would not come out of here the same.  Jeremy struck first.

Billy lost his breath from the blow to his stomach and backed up.  Within seconds he recovered surprising Jeremy’s smirking face with hammering blows.  Jeremy put his hands up but Billy didn’t care.  He would pound on his forearms until they were black and blue, break them if it came to it.  Jeremy stumbled from the high intensity onslaught of Billy’s fists, which apparently were made of brick.  The stumble caused Jeremy’s arm to drop slightly creating a small exposure to the face.  Billy’s right hook had no trouble seeking out the weakness in the defense.  Jeremy’s cheekbone made a loud popping noise as Billy’s knuckles dragged across his face.  The nose was next in line and in that one swift motion, Billy broke it.  Jeremy reached up to hold his crooked nose and fell to his knees.  Blood oozed from between his fingers dripping into dusty dark red puddles on the dirt.

“Now, you might be the popular guy, your father might be the mayor, but you have no right picking on little kids like you done.  Like you did my little brother, like you did to me.  Because you know what Jeremy? We grow up and we don’t forget.  You better start learning that you are a small fish in a big pond and there is always a shark waiting to eat your ass,” Billy stood over the hunched figure.

Jeremy looked up, and in the shadow of Billy nodded his head.  Billy grabbed his little brother by the arm.

“Let’s go Hank, he aint gunna bother anyone no more and Mom will have supper ready by now.”

The crowd stood in silence and parted to let the two boys out.  They set off for home into the orange hue of the sunset.  After about a hundred yards, Billy turned to look back, the crowd was gone but Jeremy remained on his knees staring at their long shadows on the horizon.  Billy was certain things would be quiet for a while, but Jeremy wouldn’t be completely shut down that easy.  Retaliation was coming, just a matter of time and place.

Billy knew that people like Jeremy came to power through fear. While he had the false respect of many, some frustrated soul will always rise up and challenge his authority.  Ultimately the only way to end Jeremy’s reign is to destroy him, but Billy doesn’t have it in his heart to do that.  So Jeremy will rise again, only stronger next time, until another Billy takes the challenge.  Thus perpetuating the state of fear among the children, in the small neighborhood, in the middle of nowhere.

There was an assignment in my writing class (now over) that involved outlining.  I took advantage of it and outlined my novel.  Just by sitting down and figuring out what happens next worked wonders.  I didn’t have to write chapters only to scrap them later, just a couple sentences about each sequence of events.  You can experiment with your stories very quickly this way, and in large projects that is what I will need to do.  When I become a successful writer and have to work with a deadline, outlines are going to save me much wasted time in throwing out chunks of precious word count.  I take a different approach to short fiction, you need to explore ideas to their fullest before they are tossed.

Just the other day I opened up my word processor and I waited, just staring at the screen.   I imagine my brain like a scrolling marquee of ideas.  After watching the ticker for a bit I just picked one and wrote it.  I was able to expand off of this and got about a 1000 words during a lunch break.  I like the story and I plan on keeping it fairly short (2000 words max I think).  This method of “winging it” has worked but also failed. The Las Vegas story I scrapped last weekend was a wing it session.  I explored some ideas to maturation and they just didn’t work.

So do you outline or do you wing it?  That is your question to answer.  I can only speak for myself.  What works for me is outlining the big ones and winging the short ones.  If you are not even pondering this sort of thing try what I am trying.  If it doesn’t work then try something else.  The simple fact that you trying anything at all sets you apart from all the other people out there who stop at the “want to” portion of their writing career.

I wrote about 2,500 words for a piece I was hell bent on submitting for a contest and I scrapped it all.  It was about five hours worth of work and I got to a point where my story lost all focus, and got so far gone, there was no saving it.  Writers count words like the calories of a fad diet, every single one matters.  A few months ago I would have pushed forward with it, thrown my ideas down and called it good, words didn’t matter so much to me then.  While I feel that is extremely valuable for brainstorming and word vomiting ideas that are not quite flushed out, it has downsides.

As you grow as a writer you start to loath the tiresome process of editing.  Sometimes if you write something to horrendous and incomprehensible in the beginning, you will spend twice or three times as long crafting it into something readable.  I’ve discovered that the more I write everyday the easier it is to recognize bad writing as soon as it hits the page.  Just like with any skill, writing is practice, practice, practice, so hang in there.

This is the opening paragraph of what I wrote today, the rest of the piece didn’t carry this tone at all.  I thought I would be able to introduce my characters and come back to this, but it never happened, so it was cast into the ether to die.

“…The riddle of the century was asked of me when I was only twenty-two years old.  Smoke filled lounges, liquor stained carpets, and counter tops with sugary adhesive puddles were to be my world for the next two days.  Revolving bundles of fruit set in motion by hands on large levers make loud dings as eyes light up around the room.  Each one of those hands attached to an individual dream, a life without hardship, the new American Dream.  Faces beaming with smiles or barred teeth are illuminated by the flashing sirens of blue, red, yellow, and green.  What was that riddle? Where is the only place where you can be anyone but yourself? Where what happens supposedly stays for eternity?  This is Vegas baby, the new gold rush, land of the free, and home of the destitute…”

The battle was lost today, but victory was gained on another front.  I learned quite a bit about what it will take in the future for me to stay on track.  Onward!

Download the PDF

I’m really enjoying this story, so I’ll keep on writing it.  I hope this isn’t boring people to death.

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It was a real eye opener for me that I need to invest more in my characters.  So where does one even start to get to know a person they made up?  It isn’t like you get to spend time with them and meet their family, it is all in your head.  I scoured the internet looking for character sheets, and they all list things that  make you see them as objects and don’t really ask the right “What is this person like?” types of questions.   I sought out some of the questions I felt would be more helpful, and I compiled them into this 12 page questionnaire – complete with box to sketch their portrait.  I’m going to try and use this as a tool to help me, and if you REALLY want to get down and dirty with who these people are in your Stories/Novels, than fill this out.

Download PDF of Character Development Worksheet

Anyway, here is a 100 or so word story I wrote for the 100 Word Stories Podcast! on with the show…

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So here we have it, “Harold the Ardently Knight of Battynannas: Part 1.”  It is a long read, about 7 minutes if you don’t fall asleep.   I’m still knew to all this stuff.   Suggestions are always welcome, especially in regards to the audio.

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*panic! gasps for air! WHIZ! BANG! POP!*

Normally in a given day I have about 10,000 ideas that I can pull from thin air.  If I’m given a prompt to write from I can easily generate all sorts of ideas for the criteria.  However tonight I’m drawing blanks and just can’t seem to get past a couple sentences before I run out of gas.  I think maybe my brain is just fried.  Anyone who knows me or can read the top part of this website knows I have been hitting the words pretty hard lately (everyday for hours), and I just need a break.

I can’t think anymore and I’m struggling to even finish this post.  I’m taking the night off unless by some miracle that one great idea comes to me but I doubt it will.