I kid, I kid…

Okay not entirely true. Being evil and destroying peoples hopes and ambitions takes time and effort. Besides being an abusive father, a rotten husband, and all around piece of scum, I have little for much of anything else. In what time I do find I try and write, when not writing I try to crush the spirit out of others.

I recently finished reviewing the works of another Kids In The Hall victim and sent it back to him.

He sounded like he enjoyed the  beating which has left me a bit (more)founded. I used the word (more) because we already know what word was supposed to be there as it is a given.

This troll of a human being wrote some good stuff. It wasn’t perfect but he had a decent enough story and some good zingy points which I tried to point out. The less than zingy stuff I also tried to point out in my naturally evil way. THE BASTARD DIDN’T CRY!

WTF?!

I think I’m genuinely upset over his not being destroyed over my review. I think for my lunch hour today I’m going to have to go to the local pound and pick up a six pack of puppies for lunch so I can get my evil groove going again.

***

I guess I have to get started back in on my Mr. K story again. Chapter 10 here I come.

I finally understand why my parents groaned when i begged them to take me to Chucky Cheese.

I just finished chapter 9 of my newest draft of Mr. Kobayashi. Yes, I temporarily skipped over chapters 5&6 because I know I’m going to need some quiet time to go over these. What’s quiet time? I can’t ever seem to find it so they are going to wait. Chapters 5&6 are from Rikado’s and Kinni’s perspective. I think they play into just who Ehm is from the viewpoint of other characters but aren’t totally crucial to needing to be done at the current time. Later on when I approach chapter 20+ they come back into the story so I should have them completed before then.

Earlier today I ran my excel sheet and came up with some numbers.

So far I’m not that over my prior word count. This is a good thing.

My half nickel divided by 1.25

Today our writing group got a little bit smaller. Our leader had to ask one member to leave and the other volunteered to leave due to things being stressful.

I’m sorry to see them leave but I also don’t care. In a world with starving children and diseases killing babies I’m not going to waste my emotional energy on something they had a part in doing. I know they could have influenced the events towards another end should they have elected to do so.

To plagiarize and twist Yoda’s words, “Either you do or you do not.” Their lives are in their control.

Recently I had the pleasure(?) of making somebody cry over a review I provided on their writing work. It wasn’t intentional, the making her cry part, as I was just pointing out things that didn’t make sense to me. Isn’t that what a reviewer is supposed to do? Are we not supposed to point out inconsistencies? What is the point of sharing/publishing if you don’t want to make it the best you can. Yes, I also get that people are fearful of having their stories, their inner thoughts, their true inner being, exposed and picked apart. I really do get it. That’s why I don’t write porn or romance novels, or anything of any real substance… anyway…

If you are not ready to have that happen then you are not ready to be an author. Writers make mistakes and not all of it turns out in your favor. You have to own what you can and bury the rest in a shallow grave deep in the woods as you can.

Here is a piece of honesty. This might sound dark and twisted but its the honest truth. I wasn’t truly ready to share my first pieces of work, which were pieces of shit, until I read other peoples own pieces of shit and saw just how bad they were. I am going to say this again. It took me seeing just how bad other peoples (amateurs) stuff was for me to feel confident enough in knowing that my stuff was on par with the shit they were producing.

I equate it to watching that show that Bob Saget used to host, America’s Funniest Crotch Shots or some other name that doesn’t describe it as well as I just did. I needed to see (on paper) all of the testicle squeezing anguished that they called a story. I needed to see them fall over so my own falling over wouldn’t seem so out of place. I was just as dumb(er)er as the best of them. I needed to see that perfection doesn’t exist and my voice, as mispelked as it is, has a place of its own. Granted for most people that might end up being the garbage can. I can accept that because I know that of all the crap I read from other people, most of it isn’t my cup of tea either.

Now that isn’t to say that all of it is crap. Some of it I truly enjoy. Some of it is darn good. Unfortunately one of those people just chose to exit our writing group.

I wish them well. I hold no ill will. In life there are rarely second chances. Them quitting now isn’t the end all of endings but it is another self-created road block that didn’t need to be there in the first place.

I think what I’m trying to say that life is short and people need to stop Sageting themselves.

​http://www.tor.com/2016/10/06/tor-com-publishing-opening-to-fantasy-novellas-on-october-12th/

So…

It’s Sunday and it’s 5:39pm right now. I’m currently sitting in a Wacky Tacky playland as Drew is running around screaming and having fun at the birthday party of one of his new kindergarten friends.

Oh the fun.

So while he is screaming I’ve got my little $110 dell laptop out and am trying to be quasi-productive. I know, I know, I could be socializing with the other parents and crap but honestly, I just don’t care. I’ve got ACDC’s “back in black” blowing through my Bluetooth headset and into my brain. F’em! Losing one’s hearing has never been so worth it.

So I finally received word back on that writing contest I submitted to back in April. Guess who has two thumbs and won third place in the contest. Yep, my friend Greg. Congrats Greg. I got nada. Yep, I’m the real zero here.

😛

Guess I will have to post one of the two stories I submitted to the contest on this site here.

Now where did it go?

…

And I’m back.

This seems rather appropriate considering where I am today. Not I didn’t plan this puny event, it planned me.

The following is my story.

======================================================

Journey into the Pits of Bhal

By David Wheeler

Josh reached over and grabbed the shoulder of the woman he had first met two hours ago. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Susan glanced at his hand, causing Josh to pull it away. She focused upon his face and said, “We’ve been training for this. You can do it.”

Their drill instructor, in his crisp sharp uniform, stepped upon the raised podium so as to be seen by the entire room full of recruits. All the chatter and noises of preparation came to a halt. “It is almost time.” A murmur of nervous talking washed over them. It evaporated just as quickly as it started. The instructor added, “Do you have any final questions before the blast doors open?”

Josh wanted to raise his hand to quit. He wanted out. Nothing in the universe sounded better than to strip out of his uniform and flee. He wanted to cower under his blankets, pretending that all this didn’t exist.

But it did. It was now and he was here.

“You will face fire from the enemy. Those of you that are lucky will be killed instantly. Those of you that are unlucky bastards will survive this day but not without scars of your own. Someday, if you manage to live that long, you might have beasts of your own to whom you will share stories of glory. You will tell them of your exploits and how you avoided death on days like today.”

Josh heard the crashing of metal striking the floor. He looked over and noticed the man before him had dropped his water container. He forced his eyes back up while trying to remind himself to step over the spill and thus avoid getting himself killed because of his dumb ass slipping.

Josh knew war was hell, but this just seemed so much worse.

Susan turned to face Josh and he could see the terror working its way across her face. She was losing her resolve. He knew he needed to try and help her. He tried swallowing his own fear, not for himself, but for her. “You can do this!”

Her eyes started tearing up, “I…”

Josh cut her off, “I’m afraid too.” He swallowed, “But that don’t matter right now. We are here to get a job done.” He forced a smile, “Right now we can’t afford our fear. Try to focus on something else. Try to focus on why we are doing this… like world peace or something.”

The slightest smirk etched up from the corners of her lips. Lips that now seemed to be the most beautiful things in his life. Josh cursed himself for even going there, but with what was about to happen, why shouldn’t he embrace one last moment of joy before getting splattered to the four winds.

That smirk came with a roll of her eyes, “Oh my God. That is so dumb.” Her faced hardened up again, “Thanks, Dinger.”

That wasn’t his name, but it was the name she had given to him during their training. When they had first met, she said he was a dead ringer for somebody else she had known, so that is why she started calling him ‘Dinger’.

A part of him hoped that the prior person was somebody she had been close to. He could feel himself yearning to exploit that advantage in order to get closer to her. The only part that bugged him about it, besides it being creepy, was that he had no idea what that person was to her. Somebody who reminded her of her uncle could put some serious baggage on his game plan. What also bugged him was that his anointed nickname came in part from the word ‘dead’. That was something he had a vested interest in avoiding right now.

Not thinking through on his actions, he extended his hand out toward hers. She looked down at his hand and gave him a look as if questioning his sanity, and pulled hers away.

She was right. What the hell was he thinking trying to pull something like that at a moment like this? They were about to face almost certain death and needed to keep their focus sharp. Another part of him screamed out internally, ‘What is the point of all this if we can’t accept what it is to be alive in the first place?’

His instructor spoke again. “Thirty seconds until the blast doors open!” Josh swallowed hard. “Today is a day that will live in infamy.” Josh closed his eyes and tried to picture something beautiful, but all that came to his mind were images of carnage. He forced his eyes open once more. “Today is the day you will go out there and give everything you have!”

Josh was feeling the need to relieve his bladder. No, he would at least save that for after the battle. He then thought of just letting it go during the battle. Besides out there amongst the beasties no one would know who it had come from.

The instructor stepped off the stool and pulled it to the side. He checked the monitor on the wall and slapped a button next to the doors, which triggered their opening. He shouted “Go! Go! Go!”

The room full of recruits charged out the doors. Josh had forgotten about the water and ended up slipping. Those out the doors first came under immediate enemy fire. Airsoft cannons started lobbing projectiles at them even before they could clear the doors. Josh, slipping thanks to the wet soles of his boots, somehow managed to avoid being struck. He stumbled out from the gate and landed into the pit of Bhals.

He forced himself to breathe and immediately his mouth and nose were saturated with the scent of urine. Somehow he had managed to land on his ass into another puddle. Either someone else’s or his own. He didn’t want to think about it either way.

Their company, store number 1987 of the Charlie Cheese Fun Time Pizza Factory, was under enemy fire. Their enemy, the little beasties of Kaleb’s 8th birthday party, were there to make sure none of the employees got out of the Bhal pit alive.

End

==========================================

Well?

I can’t but help think the nexus of that story came from me being at another Wacky Tacky some six months ago.

I guess that’s it for now.

Tootles everyone,

(The man with some slightly deflated balls) Dave

😛

https://prowritingaid.com/

I have a theory. I have no proof of this theory… but I have a theory.

My theory isn’t as wild as the theory of gravity but it’s got its own share of impracticality.

Imagine if you will… the beginning of the big bang… The Universe is born from nothing. It is the result of random particles blinking into existence, possessing incredible amounts of energy, and then blinking out again. Only instead of annihilating itself completely from the polarity it possesses, a tiny infinitesimal portion of it sticks around. Could this  infinitesimally small residue be our universe?

Now here is where it gets weirder. Imagine that dark matter is nothing more than residue from other universes that have since been born of nothing and have since returned to nothing.

You see, as a *NERD* I’m quite educated in the theory of my own wild imagination. I know from watching various NASA/COSMOS/NERD type shows that our own universe is going to experience some sort of heat death in about elevenidy-quadrillion-pexillion-hugeillion years. That’s a real number, look it up. Back yet? Good. Now that you have studied up on the thermal heat death of the Universe… what is to say that dark matter, which doesn’t react to anything in our universe, is nothing more than the spent ash of prior Universes? Does spent ash ignite when thrown into the furnace of a big bang? No, otherwise it wouldn’t be called ash. See, I told you I was smart.

Think about this. Go on, I’ll wait here for a bit.

…

Back?

Still thinking I see. We’ll I don’t mean to push you too fast here but I don’t have all the time in the universe to wait. I have my own version of a thermal death to attend to at some point. You see dark matter doesn’t react, or at least as far as we’ve been able to determine. So if it was inert, save for its rudimentary gravitational force-

Damnit I just had a phone call and that took me out of my head. It was a wrong number too. It’s almost as if the Universe is trying to keep me from solving all of its secrets. *Looks for aluminum hat*

I know my thinking might sound weird but I assure you *adjusts newly dawned hat* that it’s no crazier than the crackpot Galileo. Yes, before you go there, I fully admit I had to google how to correctly spell his name.

Now leave me and my jars of urine alone!

GET OUT!

So there we were, all four of us sitting around the dinner table. My daughter, Megan 10, likes to play this dinner time thing where she pulls precut questions out of a plastic drinking cup to and uses them as conversation topics.

My wife, being the cleverest vixen she is, decided to pull up her own question off of her phone for a bit a variety. It’s my wife’s turn to ask her question to which she reads off, “If you could be any person you wanted for a week, who would it be and why?”

She looks to her left and eyes me expecting an answer. I lower my fork and focus my gaze out into the beyond for the one and half a seconds it takes for me to come up with an answer. Refocusing on my family I reply “Hugh Hefner, I think he lives an interesting and artistic life.”

The part glare, part frown, part grin I get from my wife tells me my mouth trumped my brain again.

My daughter looks to me as says “Who’s Hugh Hefner?”

My wife’s eyes lock onto me as if saying ‘See what you’ve started?’

I face my daughter and say, “He was a man of naturalistic art.”

Something sparks in my daughter’s face as she faces her mother and says “I would want to be Taylor Swift cause I would sing her music. I really love her music.”

My wife says, “Somehow I knew you would say that.”

I wink in my wife’s direction, “Did you know I would say mine?”

I just get an eye back.

Then our son, Drew 6, speaks up. He says, “I want to be Hugh Hefner as well.” My wife and I exchange looks of ‘Does he even what he is saying?’ Drew then adds, “He sounds fun.”

My wife looks back at my face and comes close to spitting up part of her dinner into her napkin out of ever increasing laughter.

Two minutes later, once she has calmed herself down some more, she says to me “I would have chosen Jacqueline Kennedy for the sheer Joy of watching you in Dallas.”

Mildly put off by her desire to see my brains sprayed out I come up with my response. “I’m surprised you didn’t say Lorena Bobbitt?”

She raises her glass of wine and gives a mock salute.

The hate I have for my current job has killed nearly all of my writing mojo.

My boss, a.k.a. ‘Vinegar’, has started noting the times we (not just myself but in fact our entire team here) come and go and how long our lunches and breaks are. She has even gone so far as to come in early just to try and catch me coming in late. I haven’t been late and don’t expect to be but it’s just offensive. She has also taken it upon herself to sneak up on us to make sure we are where we are supposed to be.

REALLY?

Aside from this drama I have gotten only about two pages deep into reworking my Mr. K novel. This would be the third draft of the story and what is good/sad (I’m not sure which) is that from when I wrote the second draft, winter/spring of 2015, I can feel the story getting stronger.

I’ve also been slowly editing a novel which was written by the father of a childhood friend of mine. My friend and I have since parted ways due to him getting a bug up his butt. I’m not making that up as those were close to the words his father used when I ran into him during that workshop last Friday.

Knock Knock…

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

2 pages done on draft 3. 🙂