Tales from the Fringes New Cover

I also wanted to share with you the new cover to Tales from the Fringes, which I redesigned a while ago, but I wanted to wait until closer to the release to share it with you all.  I think it looks pretty sexy myself.

Flexibility is also a Virtue

Hello all.  I know it's been a while, but I have very  busy with school and life and what not.  No complaints, it's just that in prioritizing my life, unfortunately it's things like this blog or working on finishing proofreading my short story collection that I have to forgo into order to give myself the time that I need to find a new place to live, buy a car, plan for my family's future, do my school work, plan for my class I'm teaching, grade papers, and work on my thesis --- which unfortunately has been a bit neglected lately too, a problem which, I am addressing this weekend.

Anyways, the point of this is, since I am literally "self" publishing, I am delaying the re-release of Tales from the Fringes for two weeks, to November 1st.  I have been proofreading it, and there is not a lot that I have to change, but I don't want to not finish proofreading and risk leaving any "stone unturned" --- to use a cliche.  I don't see it as a setback, but as a necessity.  Unfortunately, for the time being, until I actually have more time (i.e. I am out of school and I have a regular sort of job), my publishing schedule will have to be flexible.

That being said, since I am paid over winter break, I am not planning on working so that I can do some significant work to my thesis and also finish up Out in the Garage so it is ready on January 14th --- since that date has significance to me, personally.  Anyways, I know it might be disappointing to some of you, but my goal is to put out a professional quality book, and not one with a significant number of typos.  That just takes time and planning, and flexibility when my schedule doesn't work out how I want it.

I have been thinking a lot about my future, lately, and what direction I want to go after August 16th, and I am really have major doubts about going on and pursuing a PhD. --- at least not right away, and, maybe, never. I am also considering going for another year to either pursue another MA in education so I can teach high school English, or another year and getting my MFA as well, so that I can still potentially get a tenured teaching position, and I can more actively pursue what I truly love doing, writing fiction and poetry.  It would also broaden my qualifications and open me up to more jobs --- since there are plenty of businesses, such as greeting card companies or advertising firms, that need creative writers.  I just can't see being in school for another four years, making next to nothing, trying to scrape by, when I can an extra year in school and pursue the same type of career.  I don't know.

I haven't made my decision yet.  I am honestly leaning towards entering the workforce --- since one of my strengths as a writer is my adaptability --- and pursuing a career in something like technical writing (which I would need to research and grow comfortable with in the next 10 months).  I have already started perusing the job listings for the Akron/Cleveland area and doing some preliminary research (for like the median salary for technical writers, etc.) and I am not intimidating by what I am finding.  I am basically looking for the type of job that I can make a decent wage doing something in the writing field.  The type of job that allows have a life outside of work so that I can have a family and can afford to pay off my debt and save money and can read and write like I enjoy doing.

I am glad that I am attaining the level of education that I am currently pursuing, and I feel more confident in my abilities than I ever have before.  The question that I have to ask myself is, what is the dream?  When I am truly honest with myself the dream isn't getting a PhD. in English, it's in getting a job that I enjoy that allows me time to be with my family and friends and to indulge in my creative pursuits.  When I think of it in that way, it allows for more flexibility.

It's not like I will never read another book or challenge myself to understand a complex idea.  Education is something we must all strive for, no matter where we go or what do we in life.  School is a place that focuses on the pursuit of it, but --- at least in my experience --- there are a lot of people who take that for granted.  There are also a lot of people who take for granted that we don't need an institution to gain knowledge, that true knowledge is something we all strive for all our lives, no matter what our situation.  If more people continued to strive for knowledge instead of whatever else their priority might be, the world would be a better place.  Ignorance is not bliss.

New Poems

New Poems, "Stereophonic Slamdance" and "Press Release Style", posted on the Poetry page.  (Keep scrolling down, they are the last two on the page.  When I get time, I might reverse it, but, I kind of put them in a specific order).

Penguin Rangers Unite!

Watching http://youtu.be/uQWxtLUsRYM as I pour myself into something I have not really done in a long time: writing.  I have forgotten what this feels like, but the sensory memory is still there. Anyways, this is why I love my profession, I may never make a lot of money, but I would rather be able to do this as often as possible.

Looking forward to school starting: this is my last week at my summer job! *does back flip*

Right now I am just working on some ideas and feelings I have been having, in story form, scene by scene.  My goal is to be able to leave the final product as much as it is originally written as possible, and to just work on it when I have opportunities to do so.  As a writer, I have been stuck in a rut, working and working and working on the same thing over and over again, and only getting marginally further than where I have been for six years.

Sometimes I will almost ruin a project before I finally get exasperated and want to give up, which is what is happening to my first novel, and I don't want that to keep happening, I just want to continue moving forward and working on my craft and applying what I learn as I am writing, and just try to get better with each project.

I am forcing myself to stick to one version of Out in the Garage, make minimal changes to it, and put it out, because, quite frankly, I have enough other things to worry about, I want to move on and begin writing a new rough draft, more or less in a stream of consciousness style, which I think will be very therapeutic when I am deep in the trenches of school and teaching and writing my thesis. Still, I do want to feel like Out in the Garage is actually finished when I publish it, so I am holding myself to reasonably high standards.

And, actually, what I said earlier isn't entire true, either, the changes I am making -- adding better descriptions and changing the text to the present tense (for the most part) -- aren't exactly minimal, they just aren't very complicated changes, they are building on what is already there and making it better.  I am trying to just keep in mind all of the advice that I have gotten, but follow my gut instinct, which is usually how I am most successful as a writer.

That's how I feel justified in it, that, and I am going to do another proof no matter how many changes I make -- and I am going to still publish it on October 18, 2013, no matter what.  My   schedule is as such: finish the last rewrite by September 11, finish proofreading by October 11, and have a smooth release on the 18th.

I really, really hope the next book doesn't take six years.  I am shooting for one year, but it will probably, realistically, be more like two, with the whole school and getting a job or going to get my PhD. thing, not to mention my marriage and family and friends and what not.  Still, writing fiction and recording music / playing guitar are good releases when I am stressed out and  have the time, and everybody needs that.  I am assuming the thesis is going to be stressful, especially as it approaches April-May.

Anyways, enjoy some RHCP!  Josh Klinghoffer impresses me -- it makes me want to see them in concert again, eventually.

New Out in the Garage Description (in progress)

I just wrote this but I felt that it was pertinent to share it with you (as well as update the description on my BOOKS page).  My goal was to write a more enticing, professional-sounding description of my book, and I think I have accomplished that (just go back and find the various other versions, strewn about throughout this blog).  This description will also be the one on Amazon and all the other websites as well as the one on the back of the book.  Anyways, here is the direction I am going, and I think this turned out very well (we'll see if it is the one I actually end up using):

Lance Adamson was born in the 80's, stranded in Nodtown.  There, he lives with his mom and Grandpa Harry at Grandpa Harry's house.  He spends most of his time playing drums -- when he's not in school, anyways -- jamming with Grandpa Harry, who plays bass, but it is the furthest thing from cool.  While Grandpa Harry is the one who took Lance out to the garage for the first time and taught him how to play -- how to really play, how to let the music carry him away -- to Grandpa Harry, jazz is religion, and, nowadays, all Lance really wants to do is rock out.  Wayne, Lance's best friend, plays trumpet with them -- but he is actually more of a guitarist.  He plays that thing as often as other dudes masturbate.  Lance and Wayne could totally start the greatest band in rock n' roll history, except that Grandpa Harry will never let that happen, not in that garage, anyway.  Lance knows that it's time for a change...

Of the various different versions I have written, I think this one is my favorite.  It sets up the story but doesn't really give anything away.

The Post Where I Say "Fuck It"

The more research I do, the more blogs, Twitter feeds, etc. that I read, the more advice that I get from other writers or well-meaning people who have an opinion, the more I realize how the whole goddamned world has gone completely fucking insane.

This is why I am doubling down on my commitment to myself to write whatever the fuck I want, however the fuck I want, put it out however the fuck I want, and I don't give a damn about what is supposed the right way or whatever.

The people who decide what the right way is don't have my interests or my knowledge or experience and have not legitimate basis to tell me how to do what I do or why.  It doesn't always have to be about making money or becoming famous or whatever.

I can't please everybody but I can please myself, as my masturbating hand will attest.

Oh, what the Hell, here's another (sort of)

[Those of you familiar with my story, "The Backwoods Event" will recognize the beginning of this, but this is the original version, a version of which appeared in my undergrad portfolio.]

Killing Boredom

A Short Story By

 Gabe Gott

Joe Camel, himself, and I, the Marlboro Man, lit up in quick succession with the built-in cigarette lighter of Joe Camel’s 1992 Ford Escort.   Of course, Joe Camel and the Marlboro Man were just our aliases – our real names were Dave and Phil.  For legal reasons, we have to go by those names for the rest of the story.

Neither of our backseat compatriots smoked yet, but we had already gotten Jay to drink, and almost Timmy too, so, we figured, it would only be a matter of time.  We knew their curiosities had been piqued, even if they pretended otherwise.

Dave and I cracked open our windows and the heavy October air swirled into the milk-crate-with-wheels of a car.  Dave had his heater blasting to try to make up the difference.

“Goddammit, do you guys have to, it’s fucking cold,” Timmy said, breaking his vow of chastity or silence or whatever.

“Yeah, what about our lungs,” Jay said, pinching his noise and waving his hand in front like a mime in an anti-smoking ad.

“It would be worse if we didn’t roll down the windows,” I said and turned the music up to drown out their protests.  If they couldn’t beat us, they might join us, I thought, as my menthol-fresh essence trickled around the car, meshing with the crisp tobacco air from Dave’s end of the car, creating an overpowering net of influence over Jay and Timmy.

I had made a compilation, courtesy of Napster, of Marilyn Manson, Tool, Korn, Nine Inch Nails and Static-X songs.  They were the poets and philosophers of our angst.  “Astonishing Panorama of the Endtimes” assaulted our ears as Dave and I filled our lungs and Jay and Timmy’s lungs with nicotine and dormant cancer.

“Violence for the people
They always eat the hand that bleeds
Violence for the people
Give the kids what they need…”

We sang along with Marilyn Manson, our Ohio-born brother, who spoke directly to us – well, all of us except for Timmy, who wasn’t allowed to like such sacrilegious noise.  The car rocked up and down in motion to my air-guitaring, Jay’s headbanging, and Dave’s steering-wheel drumming.

The road continuously materialized in front of us in the headlights as we followed it on the winding, twisting journey through the dense old-forest growth of the rural Ohio countryside – the emptiness between each of the towns that our civilization seemed like it might succumb to at any time.

Dave, Timmy, Jay and I had grown up within five-miles of each other along the same stretch of a two-lane trucker’s highway, US 250, that ran North and South through the state and into West Virginia.  In our 17 years of experience, we had found there was never much of anything to do, so, as we got older, we began to find ways to fight the incredible fog of boredom away from our brains.

Sometimes that led us to do things like Smokey the Bear, Captain Planet and Nancy Reagan crusaded against, but other times, like on that particular evening, we headed south from where we lived at the Northern tip of Ashland county – the steaming Hell-hole gaping pit of nothingness – down 250 to Ashland, the town, where there was sometimes something to do.
Most of the time we just drove around the streets, drag-racing and goofing off, jamming out to the soundtrack of our rebellion against boredom, but that night we intended to go to the crappy three-screen movie theater to see “Fight Club”, which had just come out.

Dave was the only one of us who had a driver’s license, so he drove us after our parents’ dropped us off at his house.  They were all happy to get rid of us obnoxious little twerps, as much as possible, for as long as possible.  It wouldn’t be long until we graduated, until they could be completely free of us.

I stared out the window, thrusting my imagination against the face of the unknown, the night sky and the blackened landscape, searching for the monsters and demons lurking just beyond my field of vision.  I felt mostly sober, but the world was still vaguely surreal and unnaturally knowing.  Dave and I smoked a bowl together before the others had gotten to Dave’s house – but that was hours before and Dave had seemed ready to drive when it was time to go.

From the thicket at the edge of the road just ahead of the car a mother opossum with its tiny rat-babies clinging to its back scurried out into the road and directly into our path.  Dave slammed on the brakes; the creatures praised their metal god as their seven sets of yellow eyes widened.  The Escort, the idol of their holy father, nearly went airborne as it took their sacrifice.
 
“Shit!”

“Fuck!”

“Whoa!”

“Goddammit!”

I grab the dashboard with my hands and try to ride out the violent waves.  The seatbelt tightened and slammed me back into the seat, causing the cigarette to pop out of my mouth with the force of my skull hitting the headrest.  At the same time I felt Jay slam into the back of my seat, as he never wore a seatbelt – he was lucky the Escort was too small for him to be ejected.  Timmy jerked in the same manner and moment that I did, and Dave, with his weight on the brakes and his body pressed to the pit of his seat, skidded the car to a halt.

No other traffic was coming from either direction so we took a moment to catch our breaths as our hearts beat along to the music.  Dave turned the CD player off in a silent tribute to the lost souls.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he said.  Clutching his hand to his chest, he threw his cigarette out of the window.  I recovered my butt from the floor, but the end of it had been put out by the water from the bottom of my Chuck Taylor All-stars.  I tossed it out of the window and Dave and I looked at each other.  Jay recovered almost immediately, but Timmy rubbed his forehead where it hit the back of Dave’s seat.

“Serve’s them right,” Jay said, looking back towards where the opossums must have been.  “They nearly got me killed.”

“They did get killed,” Timmy said.

“You’re the one not wearing a seatbelt,” Dave said, looking back at Jay.  “You should put one on before some other woodland creature kamikazes itself at us.”

“They’re just possums,” Jay said, rolling his eyes, putting a seatbelt on.

“Still, though, I feel bad,” Timmy said.  If the rest of us weren’t here he would probably be crying.

“Let’s go, or we’re going to be late,” I said.

Feeling cheated out of enjoying the entire first one, I lit up another cigarette.  I turned the CD player back on to the mechanical steamroller guitars and screaming that were the sonic interpretations of the weight that dragged at my soul…

While Timmy turned around in his seat, watching the road behind us, Jay glared out his window, and I focused on my cigarette, Dave took one last glance in the rearview mirror and drove off, shaking his head, lighting himself up another cigarette.

“Can I have one,” Timmy blurted out.  Dave and I looked at each other – after we had recovered our disbelief Dave pulled a Camel and handed it back to him.  It had been a long time coming, and we had finally done it.  We basked in our victory, pulling the others one step further in the right direction.  Timmy looked like a confessed murdering, condemning himself to death row, doing whatever he could to punish himself for his crime.

Jay rolled his eyes, shook his head, and then took a deep breath.

“Me too, I guess…  But I’ll take one of yours,” He said, knocking the back of my seat.

“Sure,” I said, pulling one out of the pack that I had not put back in my pocket yet, and tossed it over my shoulder at him.

I turned up the Marilyn Manson and smiled, watching in the rearview mirror as Timmy and Jay light up with the car lighter, and then hacked and coughed until they got used to the poison in their lungs.

#

By the end of the movie, even Timmy had mostly forgotten about the opossums.  Adrenaline pumped through our veins and awe ran through our brains as we left the theater.  Our feet made a candy goo crunch on the carpet of the lobby of the theater as we headed towards the exit.

“Shotgun!” I said as I scrambled to beat Jay out of the door of the theater.  He and I ran to Dave’s car, with Dave and Timmy trailing not far behind.  Jay and I pushed at one another, and he tried to trip me as we fought for the passenger’s seat in Dave’s car.  We ran into the side of the car, which rocked against our weight as we wrestled to get an advantage over each other.  Jay smiled devilishly as he pulled me down to the ground of the parking lot; I grasped for the door handle.  Dave and Timmy made it over to the other side of the car, and Dave lit up a cigarette before unlocking the doors.  I threw my weight and knocked Jay off of me, kicking up with my foot, knocking him clear, and I scrambled my way into the car.

He pulled at my foot, but it was too late: I was in the seat.  I swung the door shut, narrowly missing slamming his hand in the door.

“Ha HA!”

“How am I supposed to get in, dumbass,” Jay said, his face red as he sat on the ground.

“I don’t know,” I said.  “I guess you can just walk.  It’s not that far.”

“Fuck off,” he said, “Just let me in the fucking car.”

“If I get up you’ll just sit here,” I said.  “I want to hear you say it!”

“Fuck you!”

“Just say it so we can go,” Dave said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Timmy said.  “Stop being a sore loser.”

“Goddammit,” Jay said, standing up and brushing the small stones that had stuck pants when he had leapt after me.  “Okay, you win, now let me in the fucking car…”

I pushed the seat back and sat down, shaking my head.

“He never learns,” I said, looking over at Dave and Timmy.  “I am the all singing, all dancing crap of the world…”

 “Let’s start our own fight club,” Jay said, slamming the back of my seat with his fist.  “You and me, Phil, face to face, later tonight…  Then we’ll see how great you are.”

#

Into Taco Bell we went.  We often ate there, sometimes more than once in a night.  Our friend Kevin, who was generally the manager on duty at the time we generally went, met us at the counter.

"Hey, assholes," He said.  Kevin had graduated a couple of years ahead of us, and, in spite of being a burnt out, somehow managed his shifts somewhat successfully.  I guess it took a stoner to get other stoners motivated to work.  "Come out and smoke with me, I'm takin' a break."

"Oh man!" Jay said. "I'm fuckin' hungry!"

"It'll taste even better five minutes from now," Kevin said, and we followed him back outside from where we had just come.

  We followed him out behind the restaurant to where the corral for the dumpsters hid them from view from customers in the parking lot.  Our Taco Bell was one of those old ones, without a drive though, where you could go inside and eat to like 3 in the morning, and employees always parked back by the dumpster corral, so we were relatively safe to go back there and smoke with some privacy.

We got out there and as Kevin pulled the joint he had already rolled, I told him about how he should go and see Fight Club himself.

"It's fuckin' rad, dude," I said.  "I think you'd totally like it."

I watched as he searched around his pockets for a cigarette lighter, the joint plucked in his lips.  I could see the puffy rings under his eyes, and how his eyes were already totally bloodshot.

"If I didn't have to work all fucking night, I might," he said.  "I never fucking get a night off.  My uncle is like the Adolf Hitler of the fake Mexican food industry."

His uncle owned the franchise, but Kevin could pretty much do whatever he wanted there.   Things seemed to go more or less okay when he was there, and there was always a steady stream of business.  He would probably one day manager the store; it wasn't a bad job for an ambitionless stoner.

"I fuckin' hate this place," he said, exhaling a cloud of purple-tinged smoke, which wafted like fresh perfume into my nostrils.  He handed me the joint next.  He always talked about how much he hated the job.  We knew better, though.  "Seriously, man, this place fucking blows.  These kids are fuckin' draggin' me down..."

"These kids?" Dave said.  "You're not even 21, dude."

I took a superman sized hit.

"Easy there, man, this is good shit, you're gonna' flip out in like two seconds," Kevin said to which I grinned, and then he turned back to Dave without missing a beat.  "You know what I fuckin' mean, man...  There is a big different between 16 and 20..."

"Four years," Timmy said.

"Thank you, Einstein," Kevin said.  "You fucking asshole.  Jesus  Christ...  You guys have to promise me something..."

"What's that," Dave said, just as he took a hit and inhaled, so that his words came out all smoky and distorted.  He passed the joint to Timmy, who passed it off to Jay, who tried to match my hit tit-for-tat.

"You guys are going to fuckin' freak out," Kevin warned again.  "You fucking amateurs...  Seriously...  What the fuck was I saying, man?"

He turned to Dave and started laughing.  For a second he turned into Beavis and Dave into Butthead, but I blinked my eyes and he was back to normal again.

"I don't fuckin' know," Dave said.  "You were bitching about your job or something..."

"Oh, yeah, that's right," Kevin said, holding the joint, which I snatched from his fingers 'cause he was takin' too long with it.

"It's going to go out," I said, but he ignored me, too focused on the bit of wisdom he was trying to tell us.

"Get the fuck out of this fucking town," Kevin said.  "Don't make my mistake, man.  Get the fuck out of here and don't look back.  This place is a shithole.  It's gonna' drag you down and sit on you, till you're all purple in the face and shit, and before you know it, two years will have passed and..."

"Jesus Christ," Dave said, taking another small hit before passing directly over to Jay.  He looked at Kevin, shaking his head.  "How much have you had to smoke today?  You say that like we don't already fuckin' know."

"Yeah, man," I said.  "Why the fuck would we stay?"

Jay nearly dropped the joint after he burned his fingers on the tip which had burned down to almost nothing.

"Fucking amateur," Kevin said, taking the roach, hitting off it, and then stamping it out.  Luckily the police around Ashland weren't real receptive, or the garbage man, because the ground was littered with literally a million defeated joint ends.  "Well boys, let's go get some Taco fucking Bell!"

To us, he sounded like Spartacus trying to rally the other slaves into rebellion.  We followed him like we were about to go face a Roman Legion, back around the building, through the front doors, past some startled old people who got out of the way before we stormed over them, and into line.  Kevin went behind the counter and shoved the cashier out of the way.

"What could I get you boys today, it's on me," he said.  He turned to the cashier.  "Go help them bust this food out..."

The cashier quietly strolled back, washed her hands, and put rubber gloves on, and waited to make our food with the others.

"Hey, Gina," I waved to her. She was in my economics class.  "I love you, you know!"

She smiled and looked away.  I had been wearing her down for months.  I hoped I could get her to sleep with me before the year was out.  I didn't want to go to college a virgin.

Ahead of me Dave and Jay ordered, Timmy waited behind me, with a growing number of other impatient people, including the old people, who had that "I would call the cops on you if i could" look in their eyes.  Luckily for us cellphones wouldn't be all that common for another few years yet, at least not around Ashland.

As I looked back, the restaurant wasn't filled with people at all.  Sitting in booths, chatting, waiting behind us in line, scowling, walking in and out of the door were a bunch of giant opossums. I turned back around, and everyone ahead of me was still normal.  Kevin wasn't kidding, I thought, this is good shit...  We would find out later from Kevin, whose dealer tried to call him, but couldn't reach him since he was at work, that the pot we had smoked was in fact laced with PCP.  Kevin smiled at me, his smiled wavered and snaked across his face, and when he opened his mouth it seemed like a deep dark cavern of emptiness.

"Dude," he said, his popping out of his mouth like bubbles, "Are you fucking going to order at once.  I turned around, and realized that all of the possums were staring at me, blinking, waiting for me to order.

"Well," they said, all in sync, "Get on with it."

"Uhhh..." I said, the beadiness and blackness of the possums' eyes causing me to shudder.  "I'll take a chalupa..."

"Okay," floated out of Kevin's mouth and popped on the ceiling.

Timmy moved me over to stand beside Jay and Dave, who wiggled and wobbled about like they were made of rubber.

"That's fucked up," Jay said, his words attacking me like a mini air fleet from the hanger on his tongue.  "Your head looks like a pumpkin!"

Suddenly and without warning, time sped up, and when it went back to normal, I was sitting in the backseat of Dave's car, with Timmy driving, Dave sitting beside me behind his normal spot, and Jay in the passenger's seat, snarfing down his Taco Bell, like a wild animal stripping away flesh from a fresh carcass.

Dave had already eaten his food, and seemed to have turn into a statue, staring out the window.  I realized my Taco Bell sat, scalding on my lap.  Later, from Timmy, we would find out that Kevin just suddenly flipped us out, and made us all leave as soon as our food came up.  Apparently the restaurant was also completely empty, except for a couple of old people, who were too old and senile to notice our distorted states of mind.  I guess PCP can have that effect.

"Didn't you think they were going to get us, man," I said, addressing no one in particular.

Timmy smiled and looked at me in the rearview mirror.

"Who?"

The fucking possums, man," I said.

Jay stopped feeding, jerked his head up and stared at me, blood seeming to drip from his jowls.

Dave slowly turned his head around, his eyes wide and trembling.

"I didn't mean it," he whispered.  "You gotta' let me go...   My parents will worry...  Seriously, it was an accident..."

Then he started shouting, fighting against the seatbelt and rocking the back of Jay's seat.

"I'M SORRY!  THEY RAN OUT IN FRONT OF ME!  IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"

Jay started laughing and then swung around and punched Dave in the face, right in the eye.  Dave curled up into a ball, squeezing as far into the corner of the seat as he could get...

"I'm sorry..." he mouthed.

"Don't worry," Jay said, looking at Timmy.  "I took care of it."

I looked down at his lap at his food, and his Taco Bell was in fact a half-eaten opossum carcass...  Then I threw up all over myself.

The world blurred around me and faded in and out of blackness.  I could taste the sour half-chewed chalupa chunks and threw up again, this time on the floor.

"I took care of it," Jay said.

Timmy looked back at me in the rear-view mirror and over at Jay and smiled.

"Best anti-drug ad, ever."

A Post, Post

Sometimes, especially lately, I feel like I have gone through my book so many times, I just have to let it be "as it."

However, in spite of this, I still feel compelled to proofread it one more time before I print a proof and then I will proofread it, and proofread it again (and all right in a row) and this will be my final effort before I publish in October.

My goals are to improve the language and eliminate the typos.  I want every word to be what I intended, whether it makes sense or not.  It's a lot easier to justify something that I planned than to explain a typo -- which seems like it should be a whole lot easier of a problem to fix.  HA!

The next novel I am in the process of brainstorming and fully planning out.  I expect to be started writing officially soon.

This, of course, is all in addition to my thesis, which I really have to get started on researching.  I just don't want my summer to be over yet.  I have to give myself the right amount of time, so I don't go crAZY!!!!

Then again, that was probably too late a long time ago.  Oh well.  What the fuck ever.

Writer's Block

It's right on the edge, toes kicking dust and stones plunging over, falling, spiraling, diving down into oblivion, falling through to the otherside to these words.  The idea, it's not ready to take the leap.  I can feel it's presence there, the trembling, making my heart beat a little faster, my skin tingle, the rapture working it's way from the center of my cells and bursting out like the first rays of sunlight.

But the idea, it is non-committal.  It doesn't know the effect that it has on the rest of me as I sit here, trembling and glowing.  I can't force it, if I try it will rip apart, exploding into a million pieces and splattering all over the inside of my mind.

I try to nudge it, fill it with confidence, but it won't make the leap.  It won't come.  It keeps dancing around the rim.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, sending a wave of calmness through my system.  The idea dances to a dirge.  No matter how hard I try, I can't convince it of providence; immortality.  The transformation of it's soul from fleeting electrical impulses to ones and zeros.

But I can't force it.  If it won't make the leap, then it will inevitably be forgotten, idea Hell.

I plug in my headphones and put on There Satanic Majesty's Request and know that as much as I want to be in control of my thoughts, they have free will.

Teaser for Tales from the Fringes

First I would like to take a moment to say how shocked and saddened I have been at the tragedies that have taken place over the course of the week.  There is far too much hate and violence in the world.  Hopefully this pushes people together instead of divides people, but, from what I have been reading and seeing on the internet and in the media, I won't hold out much hope for that to happen -- even if it is what needs to happen.  For all of our supposed progress, in a lot of ways we are still the same cave people we have always been.

Still, for some reason, I continue to hold out hope that someday we'll reach some kind of advanced stage of enlightenment.  Of course, we'll all be long dead.

~

Anyway, here is a short excerpt from my upcoming short story collection:

Greasy

They call me The Eggman. It makes sense on a few levels: not only do I bear a passing resemblance to John Lennon (arguably), but I am also a songwriter who partakes in the use of mind-altering substances. I would like to think that it has more to do with these things; however, it mostly has to do with the fact that I make the most kick-ass eggs anyone at McDonald's has ever eaten.

In the mornings, between 5 and 10:30 a.m. when we switch over to the lunch menu, I am the supreme God of pouring Egg Beaters in a mold, cooking to fluffy, folding over, scrambling, whatever, and all while also making the sausage, bacon, Canadian bacon, and steak and sautéed onions at the same time.  None of the little old ladies -- retired schoolteachers, bored housewives, and widows -- who also work in the mornings, can keep up with it.  For the first couple of hours, I am the youngest person who works there by decades.  The other dropouts don't usually come in until later in the morning.

As I work at the grill, my arms moving about on their own, diligently working, amid the grease and liquid egg splatters, I often watch past the front counter, beyond the lobby, through the windows as the pinks and oranges and yellows streak across the sky as the sun rises.  I sip on my coffee as I work, standing there, grilling it up like only the Eggman can.

When I get there wearing sunglasses, they assume the worst.  I keep to myself, make my eggs, slowly edging into sobriety, attempting to not throw up when the nausea hits me.  That association is why I can't eat eggs of any sort.  None of the managers care, so long as I get there on time and I do my job, and the old ladies seem oblivious, although I am sure they are just being polite.  They seem to like me either way, so it doesn't matter.  Even the lady who is a retired school-teacher -- she was the type who had eyes on the back of her head, who was surely feared by legions of 3rd graders.

As I work, I often find myself breaking out into "I am the Eggman, they are the Eggmen, I am the walrus, coo coo ka choo, coo coo ka choo!" -- amid the Johnny Cash and the Patsy Cline that the old people who pack the dining room every morning, sipping on coffee and complaining about the world, play on the Juke Box.

The McDonald's where I work was designed to look like a 1950's diner, and the Juke Box contains mostly the worst music from that decade.  When I become irritated with hearing the same Johnny Cash song for the seventh time in a row, I find a break and run out into the lobby and play the entire selection of James Brown songs, which are about the only songs I can stand, which also signals to the old people that they have worn out their welcome.  They hate James Brown as much as I hate Johnny Cash.  While I am stuck there to the end of my shift, they can leave at any time.

~

Okay, that's all you get for now.  I am officially pushing back the release to May 14 so I don't open up a vein trying to finish my schoolwork, get a summer job, and finalize this collection.  I fixed the last story that I had reservations about, so now it is just a matter of proofreading, mainly for typos, but also for clarity.  I am very proud of how it's turning out and can't wait until it gets officially released.

School-wise, everything is working out very well.  Classes are going well: I have my final papers figured out, classwork is winding down and my thesis is figured out; I was also offered a full assistantship for next year, which I have already accepted and signed the contracts.

First post of the Day (Expect More)

Can I just say that I am really excited for the new Queens of the Stone Age record, due out in June.  They have yet to disappoint me as a band.  The new track "My God is the Sun" is just as good as anything else they have released.  I can't believe it's been six years already since the last album came out.

Here is the newly released video for "My God is the Sun":

I am anxious to see how it fits in with the rest of the album.  They, for me, are more of an album band, which is probably why I like them so much, because I am more of an album band person, in general.  Not always, but most of the time.

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/queens-of-the-stone-ages-new-album-like-clockwork-set-for-june-20130322

Procrastinating on a Saturday Afternoon

Okay.  I think I have made a determination.  Over the past 24 hours, trying to not think about it but unable to stop myself -- especially when I should be more focused on studying -- I have come to a determination about my book.

After some experimentation, thinking about what my professional reader told, I have made some alterations to the manuscript, and I think they have made a significant impact.  I realized that they way I was framing the story was hurting it.  I can't elaborate without revealing too much, but I am very happy with the results.  I have also done a little bit of tweaking in other ways.  Nothing significant.  Sometimes the smallest changes can have the biggest impacts.

Really, in an extremely short period of time I have significantly improved my manuscript.  One of the effects of the changes is that I have brought out the main theme, taking people and things for granted.  To further emphasize this, I am also changing the name to, simply, For Granted.

In addition, I am definitely going the self publishing route.  I want my life to be what I make it, for better or worse.  Maybe I'll never be as popular or successful as a writer as some who publishes traditionally, but I am okay with that.  Besides, most people who publish that way never make a living as writers either.  In fact, very few people are successful in that regard.

I am looking forward to being a teacher, whether at the college level or the high school level.  Of course, getting my PhD. is preferable, and is looking better and better, it is still not definite.  If I can focus more this weekend and get a lot of work done, I will be well on my way to having another successful semester.  Maybe by the end of the week I will have an assistantship and a thesis (and a thesis director).  Hopefully I will get all my class assignments done, and give five successful presentations.  It is up to me, so, if I don't, then I only have myself to blame.  No pressure or anything.

And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the short story collection.  I am still taking time here and there to proofread.  Very, very soon you will be able to read it!

A New Beginning

While it doesn't seem like it should be an easy decision to make, starting over on my first novel is the right way to go -- not because I am not proud of what I have written so far, it just has too many problems that no amount of rewrites will fix.  I have tried to morph it into something better than it can be, and now I have to stop fooling myself and do what I have, in times of frustration, wanted to do for years.

On the bright side, however, I am salvaging parts of the story -- in essence I am taking the best 30-40 pages and hyper-focusing on it for 60-70,000 words.  My goal is to paint a vast, complex picture of a young adult trying to deal with some traumas while spending the summer on a farm half a state away with distant relatives, where he meets somebody who might make it all worth it, if he is not too blind to notice.

I am confident that I can write a draft of this by the end of the summer.  I am taking it as a personal challenge to use the ideas that manifested in the first trial, and work them in a more plausible, more focused, highly detailed way.  The scope of my previous try was too large.  The details were too small, too brief, too disjointed.

In addition, now I know my genre -- at least for this book.  It is a YA novel, a coming of age story.  It has always been the latter, but I had never settled on the former.  It makes a whole lot of sense for me, and, although I have research to do, I feel like it should have been this all along.

It's good that I know this.  Even if it did come at the price of six years of work.  I feel like I could not have reached this point if I had not been through everything I have been through.

My goal is to write as good of a novel as I can, and if that means starting over, then I am perfectly willing to do it.  I have long know there are a lot of problems with my manuscript, and the same ones seem to surface in different ways, no matter what I have done.

To get a professional criticism and confirm all this -- but also that I have potential -- is a step in the right direction.  I wish I had sent it to her sooner, but, I can't live my life dwelling on something like that.  I must continue looking towards the future.

In the meantime I am going to put out this short story collection, Tales from the Fringes, and see what kind of audience I can build.  I will focus on school and settling into a career in education.

I don't really see it as a step back as much as a humbling.  Life is a learning experience and when I lose track of that I get discouraged.  I don't have time to get discouraged.  I can only move forward.

On the bright side, I already know this story inside and out.  It will take discipline, research, and planning, to write a new manuscript, but I anticipate the writing process going more smoothly this time around.  Everything that I lacked when I first started writing fictions I now have.  Looking back on my first writings, I have come an impossible long way.  Now it's time to take all that knowledge and the skills I have developed, and this world and these characters I have created, and put it all together.

--

Tentative Title (since the focus of the book is shifting, the title has to change): Outside the Garden
Goal Length: 72,000 words
Genre: Young Adult Literature

Synopsis: Lance Adamson goes to stay for the summer on his uncle's farm near the small, central Ohio town, Babel, to escape the recent suicide of his best friend Art, as well as other ghosts.  There he meets Evie, his only ally.  With her help, Lance tries to begin the healing process and avoid being sucked into the Nimrod Evangelical Temple and the preachings of Pastor Lee Charles, who has virtually everyone else in town under his control.

--

Like I said, this is essentially a 30-40 page chunk of my book that I am hyper-focusing on.  I have written beginning two pages, and, I am really excited to continue.  I can tell even by the fact that I am able to write a synopsis of it that I am in much better shape that I ever have been.

Everything is coming together.  Not in the way I was imagining that it would, but, this way seems more plausible.  My gut instinct tells me I am making the right choice.  I am excited to be thrown back into the creative process, which, for me, is the best part of all of this.