The Write Every Day Thread

[Tea on tuesday]

Since some people expressed an interest in writing but weren't quite comfortable in putting stuff out there this thread is for you. Whether you are serious about writing or would just like to improve your creative writing skillz, this thread is for you.

Here are the rules:

- Just post something, and try to write a little bit every day. This isn't totally realistic but strive for it anyway. I'll try and post stuff here and pretty much all of it will be rough/first draft. It will be unpolished, and it will probably be rough around the edges at the very least. One of the best habbits you can get into as a writer is writing everyday. Right now it's not about writing flawless; it's about writing. <--- period.

- Critiques aren't required, but they are encouraged. Critiques aren't just useful for the people getting critiqued. They're useful for the person reading them and the person doing the critiquing. I, personally, don't give a shit whether you say something nice or not. Dimplomatic dick touching has never actually improved anyone's writing before, but it has certainly made it worse or kept it from getting better. That said, just saying, "I like it." or "I don't like it," isn't helpful.

- Check your ego at the door. Sometimes it's hard not to take an attack on your writing as an attack on you personally. Get over it. If you actually have a well thought out reason why something is the way it is then by all means say so, but don't get all pissy about it.

[brekk]

so like fictional writing or whatever we want?

[Tea on tuesday]

And here's a quick poem of encouragement I wrote:

Fool's Haiku

I've some poems---I've
been meaning to write. I worry
I will write them wrong.

And another,

I saw a pretty girl on the street,
so I went to say, "hello,"
but this weather is cold
my lips are chapped
and the words fell
right through the cracks.

[Tea on tuesday]

Originally Posted by brekk

so like fictional writing or whatever we want?

Anything and everything. It can be random word sketches or you can string a story together over a couple weeks. Doesn't matter. It doesn't have to be fiction per se, but it should be creative.

[Overgauss]

Exerpts from various writs:


Perception of meme reality can make what is near seem far.
So true that God can see what man cannot.
So true that banal eyes cannot see what is air.
So true that banal eyes cannot affix themselves upon the Concept of Vauss.

The Adept cannot be surprised.
Surprise is due to the limits of perception.
To perceive the unperceivable requires what others often call "a stretch of the imagination", but actually requires what you now know as the concept of mutable reality.
Mutable reality is the key.
Perception is the lock.

..."The Ring binds the Vauss because the Concept periodically wills itself into an orderly structure. While it self reorders it is bound by the ring like a large map rolled within the constraints of a sole slender satin ribbon. The Ring is then the Caretaker while this reordering occurs."

"Ahh, I see it in your eyes. You wonder what then binds the Ring. Just as you see in my eyes what can be the only answer. It is We who bind the Ring. Therefore it is We who bind Vauss. Which beggars the question, what is it that binds Us?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++

[Bralkan]

I'm probably just going to continually edit my post, since I'll [hopefully] just be adding to this work.

Parrot's Song

All I've found are books and conversations written by other people.
A long time now for all their power songs to go on, all trumpeting.
"Here I am for the world to see! For look at the sense that I have made!"
Alas, I'll chirp my song - I think we all are parrots reborn.

The ghosts of Greece call through out, even the Christians couldn't do with out.
Germany has opened their door; Heidegger, Husserl, Nukes and Nietzsche.
The French felt the need to elaborate. They are my favorite ones.
Alas, I'll chirp their song. I think we all are parrots reborn.

Perceptions are all we have, just like the Greek one's shadows on a cave
Sarte thought to exist his way out; we're always caught by times influence
But his accepting of a disparinging freedom should not free us
Alas, I'll chirp my song - I think we all are parrots reborn

[Lusiphur]

I started thinking about this piece last night while I was watching Heroes (of all things). Its still rough but I will throw it up here for now.
---

"Time, she flexes like a whore" as Bowie once sang. That feeling you get when caught in an interminable moment, boredom the eternal demon pushing to get in, to eat your soul, devour your mind. Alertness to the fore you push back at the demon, the need to stay sharp, focussed on the job, committed to achieving the desired result.

He lived in that moment it seemed. The only time when life was draped in colour, mostly because it was the only time he truly paid attention. He found it ironic, he used to be concerned about it but that was a few too many jobs ago, the only time life had meaning was when he was intending to end it.

--

I usually start with a mood or a moment and go from there. Not quite sure where this is going yet ..

[Lusiphur]

-----

The wait. The anticipation. That's why he kept taking these jobs, not the actual job itself, that was merely the unpleasant aftermath. Much like cleaning up after sex. Only when everything was on the line, when he was about to kill someone for money, when every sense was alive, calculating risk, watching for interference, waiting for the mark, did he push through the grey fuzz life was surrounded by and see everything in true colour.

So he crouched, here in this piss-stained corner. Waiting for his mark to come out of the club. Throught the thick soles of his boots he could feel the rythmic thump of the bass. Not his kind of music normally, but in this moment it was a glorious thrill along his senses. He shifted his weight to avoid cramping and the tension in his muscles was another epiphany of delight. Here in the dark, alive with the knowledge of what he was about to do.

---

Hrmm, 2 paragraphs a day is harder than it looks. Think I have an outline for this now. Lets see where it goes

[Tea on tuesday]

I should have thought a little beforehand, but I'm out of town for a wonderful Geography conference 'till tuesday, so until then nothing from me, but I'll post a huge update when I get home.

[Millie]

I must say, I really dig this thread and the idea behind it. Keep it up, y'all!

[Himeo]

Untitled, first draft

The fall begins a frenzied movement
it seems like everyone around me scrambles
to grab what they can.

I cannot go with them; what I need rushes
toward me as my desires taunt my soul.
Things I cannot have.

I have no direction. The guards of
September expose the cost of my delay.
The leaves have fallen.

[Tea on tuesday]

Originally Posted by Himeo

Untitled, first draft

The fall begins a frenzied movement
**good start here

it seems like everyone around me scrambles
**This line is a bit awkward; it's far too verbose. You could drop it..me and have a deeper impact by replacing them with adj noun. Like cluttered vultures or something. Like, "cluttered vultures scramble to/grab what they can"---that's not really a great example since vultures are cliche---and it's dumb as hell, and poetry must always strive to say something in a new way.

to grab what they can.
**If the 2nd line gets fixed this is good.

I cannot go with them; what I need rushes *ok

toward me as my desires taunt my soul.
**This is probably your weakest line. It doesn't really mean anything. What exactly is your soul? What is mine? What desires? How do they taunt? What I'm driving at here is that you need something concrete.

Things I cannot have.
**It's not a terrible line, but it could probably use a novel rewrite

I have no direction. The guards of**<---curious line break

September expose the cost of my delay.**just cut "my"

The leaves have fallen.
**hrmmm, I'm not sure this line follows what preceeds it. I get where you're trying to go, but I'm not sure you are accurately conveying that.

Originally Posted by Lusiphur

Hrmm, 2 paragraphs a day is harder than it looks.

It is! But don't be discouraged, as you get accustomed to it it starts to flow easier.

[Tirinal]

I'm doing some traveling inbetween midterms due to a lack of actual work that needs doing (econ major = yay).

..

There is an odd quality to China. A dense, regurgitated mass of humanity writhing like a snake's body bereft of head, yet it all seems to function flawlessly. It defies comprehension. Every few decades as many people as were killed in all the wars of the world step down and another group of completely different and completely similar people claws upward to replace them. And nobody seems to notice or consider this the least bit out of the common way. Tiananmen Square gapes its jaw wide to devour the yawning horizon, and in every corner, in every open nook and cranny there is a person taking up some small measure of space. I keep getting the feeling that it's just an elaborate experiment in pacing. Step, left, march, chant. Ninety years of experience garbled into a few score words remembered by the child and forgotten within another generation. And then they look at me and map out the course of my life with dread callousness, as though wondering to which automaton I pledge fealty. Fertilizer in training. Wormfood. I am white in China.

Repeat.

This is the new world order. You can't compete with something of this nature. This is life regimented into a pattern of cast-iron and makeshift chains. It happens everywhere but here it's concentrated. A thing of mass. The girl with the long ponytail to the grandmother with the short, tethered bun in every household of every shanty town in every province expanded worldwide while I stand still besieged with postcards and fanciful trifles that veil a Cheshire grin. I am white in China.

Repeat.

It accents home and accents sickness. The comforting neon pulse of Starbucks logos beckon, and then that stifling pause as well-worn and well-caressed green letters dance coyly into alien shapes. I am white in China.

Repeat.

I am white in China.

[Lusiphur]

----

As he shifted his weight some of the stray glass from the broken exit light crumpled under his feet. Popping the bulb had been risky but he needed to be shrouded in darkness for this and the light had shone right into the rear of the alley way. He moved slightly to his right and with his gloved hand quickly swept the ground free of shards. It wouldn't do to be betrayed by a noise at the wrong moment.

He had no idea how long he had been waiting. It mattered not to him anyways. He always came on a job with no way to tell time. He planned jobs so that they were not time dependant. He lived for the wait, the anticipation. Marking off the minutes until the aftermath was an unwelcome intrusion into that pleasant time. He knew his mark would use the rear exit. He knew that his mark would be the first to use the rear exit as he was tonight's VIP guest in the club. At that point all the night vision gear and the small laser pistol he was carrying would do the rest. Silent, invisible and retreating back into the grey fuzz he would be.

---

Setting a mood. Might be a bit overdoing it but will change it up soon. I promises

[xilsharn]

I wrote this while i was deployed last year to fill the time. This is a single chapter of I think 10-12k words I wrote in this story; it's also the best portion. The rest spirals pretty uncontrollably downward in a shitstorm of muddled science fiction thriller concepts. It's horrible, pedantic shit because I have absolutely no idea how to write fiction. I think this is also a rough draft among rough drafts that I later edited together a bit better. So poke it full of holes without being mean because I don't think it's the worst fiction writing EVER and it has some merits. So be gentle ^_^

--

Colin Duvall winced as he drove his red Saab down Sycamore Lane, catching an eyeful of its model home with the white banner proclaiming loudly in big blue letters, Welcome to Lakeshore Pines!, a light breeze fluttering the primary-colored pennants affixed to either side of the sign.

This area hadn’t been his first choice. He had always hoped to live in an older neighborhood, with huge Midwestern oak and maple trees in every yard, littering the ground every autumn with a thick blanket of rust-colored leaves.

Something about these new additions always made them feel like a temporary place to live. Maybe it was the turf on the lawns that looked like it had just been stamped down, the green blades like a duckling’s downy feathers, barely concealing the brown earth underneath. Or maybe the little saplings, tied to a stake by a thin piece of rope, without which they would undoubtedly fly away at the slightest breeze. More probable, Colin suspected, was the fact that almost every house was occupied by a young couple, usually in their mid-30s or early 40s, with maybe a kid or two. No old men or women in sight. It was these senior citizens, he concluded long ago, who gave a neighborhood its roots. His wife had fallen in love with the two-story colonial, though, and he eventually succumbed to the charms of both Christine and the house.

Colin yanked the car into a hard right turn, pulling into his slightly inclined driveway. He shut off the ignition hoping he had gotten everything at the supermarket Christine had asked him to. She was making her signature spaghetti tonight, so the paper bags sitting in the back seat were full of tomatoes, garlic, cheese and thick loaves of French bread.

“Hey,” Christine called from the front porch, “need a hand?” She shielded her eyes from the sun, rapidly declining behind the Fillmore’s house across the street from their own. She was wearing a pair of designer jeans and a plain hooded sweatshirt, both bought from the thrift store. Her hair was clipped up into a quick bun on the back of her head. He smiled involuntarily. Every so often Colin would get treated to a glimpse of the girl he had first fallen in love with just after he had graduated Ball State with a fine arts degree, the beautiful face with high cheekbones, the full lips, the blue eyes that ruptured into an azure glow whenever she smiled. Eminently selfless and helpful, he recognized traits of hers that he wished he could cultivate in himself.

“Nah, I’m good, just a couple bags.”

Colin looked up at his home. It was, he had to admit, pretty remarkable. Only a few years ago they had been struggling to get by as he interned as a photographer’s assistant and she waited tables at a nearby restaurant. Now, he was a photographer working for a magazine about Indianapolis business, culture and nightlife, and she had begun working as a paralegal at a mid-sized law firm in downtown Indy. They lived in the suburbs, had two cars and not a whole lot to complain about.

He walked into the kitchen and set the bags on the countertop.

“I, ah, got us a little something special for tonight,” he said, digging into the double-layered brown paper bag. He never got over feeling a little nervous about spending extra money. Not that she ever bothered him about it, but old habits of pinching pennies and watching every dollar died pretty hard, even after you had become comfortable.

He pulled the twenty-dollar bottle of wine out of the bag and presented it to her like the waiters at Christine’s former place of employment did, resting it on the forearm of his left arm, bent at the elbow and raised chest-level. She looked over, smiled, then leaned in and gave him a kiss. If anyone had asked Colin at the market why he was buying wine, he would’ve said he simply likes the taste; while perhaps technically true, it would not have been entirely honest. Wine always had an aphrodisiac effect on Christine, making her giggly and grabby. It affected her in a way beer and liquor did not. Because of that, Colin had learned to become a regular Bacchus, a connoisseur of wine, knowing which labels and vintages had the most potent effect on her amorousness. It was devious and underhanded, a thoroughly rotten thing to do; however, she only complained the next morning with a devilish grin on her face, and never refused vino next time it was offered.

He placed the bottle on the kitchen counter then pulled the bread knife from the utensil drawer and began making deep serrations in the loaf that didn’t cut quite all the way through. Dabbing a basting brush in butter, he applied a thick coating to the crust, and sprinkled on some garlic salt. He opened the door to the oven and a blast of hot air hit his arms and face. Colin was glad one of them could remember things like preheating.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” said Christine. “What do you say about us both getting away from work for a week or two and heading out on a road trip, or something?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, I guess. You have some paid vacation on the books, right? But what about me? I’m one of two full-time photographers at work. You know reporters can’t take a good photo,” complained Colin. He looked into the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. He popped the top and took a small, slurping sip. The kitchen was slowly filling with the Italian smells of garlic, basil and tomatoes. Colin sighed. “It’s not that I don’t think that’s a good idea, but I think we should make sure we’re on more stable footing before we run off and do something like that.”

Christine laughed a short, amused laugh and brushed the cutting board clean of the diced tomatoes, pushing them into the pot where the tomato paste was already beginning to gurgle. “More stable footing? Colin, we’ve got three months’ salary for each of us in the bank, we’ve just about got the Saturn paid off, and we’re damn near free of credit card debt again.” She ran the board under the faucet, rinsing the yellow-green seeds and red juice that lolled on the surface. “We’ve even got our IRA started. How much more stable do you need to be?”

Colin sighed. He knew he was paranoid about money; he probably always would be. It seemed to be the plague of people who came up without very much and, when they get it, have no intention of losing it again. It seemed to him to be a much more prudent thing to put money in investments and savings rather than buying “things.” He liked having fun, and sure, once in a while they would go out and buy some clothes or upgrade one of the computers with an unnecessarily powerful video card. Those times were rare, however. Christine had never exactly used the words miserly or scrooge with him, but it had been close a couple of times.

“Yeah, you’re right I guess. I just worry about running out of money, or something. I don’t know. You know how irrational I get.”

“It just seems like you get irrational when it’s not a new toy,” Christine said, shrugging. “I know I love the Saab too, and drive it plenty, but it was more than we needed. I would’ve been okay with another Saturn.”

Nothing to say to that, thought Colin. She’s right, I know my paranoia can be overridden by excitement, if you can call it that. Maybe giddiness would be closer. He thought of the first time he ran his hand over the clear coat, gripped the leather steering wheel, popped the clutch and roared onto I-465 during the test drive. His heart still skipped a beat thinking about driving the machine.

Christine added liberal doses of garlic and basil to the simmering sauce, and tossed in thyme leaves as she stirred it. “The sauce will be ready for your tasting in about five minutes, sire.”

Christine’s sauce had a kick to it Colin loved. He called it “tang.” He could never remember what spice made his jaws ring at just the right frequency, whether it was the garlic, basil, or thyme, but he knew it when he felt it. He would dip the wooden spoon into the sauce, extracting barely a tongue-full, then slurp it from the spoon, drawing in air through his teeth to cool it. If his mandibles didn’t buzz, he’d say, “Hmm, not quite enough tang,” just as an afterthought, like a food critic panning the delicateness of a puff pastry or the presentation of a soufflé. Expressing displeasure with a sauce would be an insult to a chef, but to Christine there was something cute and charming about Colin being so thoughtful about spaghetti sauce, a tradition they had had since the second time she’d fixed him her specialty. Colin had remarked about the quality of the kick of the sauce the first time, so the next occurrence she invited him to taste test. It had been happening ever since.

When the sauce had been brought to proper levels of tanginess, the bread baked to a golden brown and salads prepared, they moved everything to the table. Colin looked around his house and smiled. He loved his wife, he loved his life. Everything seemed exactly where it should be, every knick-knack on the shelves just so. The ceramic fruits they’d sat on the floor and painted one rainy day during their engagement were still hanging above the kitchen cabinets, and were perfect mementos of what their relationship was about.

Colin knew the conversation about the vacation wasn’t really resolved, and he knew she knew it. He’d ask his supervisor at work tomorrow about taking a week of vacation in June. He wasn’t opposed to getting away for awhile. Maybe back up to Wisconsin Dells; he’d loved going there with his family as a boy. Hey, maybe New York City. Neither Colin nor Christine had ever been there, and he was definitely a city boy. He loved the nighttime city sights, especially the way the skyline lights up the evening sky. It held a magic for him, especially on when it snowed. That sentimental feeling about snowy cities hearkened back to high school, when he had a crush on a girl named Kelli. He fantasized about asking her out, riding around in one of the carriages you could hire downtown. They would go to a fancy restaurant and wear nice clothes. She would rest her beautiful blonde head on his shoulder as snow fell around them and the horses would never shit on the pavement. At the end of the night they would have a very sweet kiss and she would stand on her stoop and look after him as he walked back to his car, which, in the fantasy, was never the teal Geo Metro he actually drove in high school.

It was a fine meal. Colin ate too much, as usual. He was on his second glass of wine and was enjoying the very light buzz. Christine had shaken her head at the offer of wine, which was a little disappointing, but hey, maybe once the dishes were clear. She was mopping up her plate with a piece of garlic bread. Her salad bowl was practically licked clean. Must not have eaten lunch, he thought.

“So, Colin—“

“Listen, Christine, I’m not really opposed to the idea of a vacation. Maybe up to Wisconsin, or maybe even New York City. We could fly up and—“ She put her hand on his and smiled. It was a tight smile that started at her mouth and somehow didn’t quite make it up to her eyes.

“Colin, no. I’m pregnant.”

--