It has been some time since I have written or updated anything with this particular online journal. Well, my personal-personal blog hasn't languished. It's been rather busy these past few months, but there are just some things you don't want to put on blast on one's own personal site. Especially since the intention of this site is to be a platform to build a writing/author career. But basically, people don't need a face for my crazy displays.
Insanity aside I have been making great progress with my book. I mean, enough that it has reignited my fire for my novel The Love Immortal. My current finish date is sometime in August.
I was having a tough time (if you haven't seen in prior posts) editing the damn thing. The moment I sat down at the keyboard to edit I would panic and then subsequently stop altogether because I had gone... for lack of a better word, crazy. I was just overwhelmed. So, I pushed it aside and then just tried to forget about it in an attempt to have my creative ego become a flat surface again. It was in these moments of silence in between projects that I came up with an idea.
When I was younger I remember I would spend hours, HOURS, sitting at my keyboard editing my novel at the time. I would prop up my notebook with either my new chapters to input into WordPad or my corrections from the work already inserted, and I would go to town. I love that memory and would look back and wonder what happened to that kid. Where did he go?
I analyzed the scene and it became clear to me. I would work at one piece at a time. I took baby steps in a larger project. That thought then lead to when I actually finished this project the first go around, NaNoWriMo. And then it dawned on me that it's all about moderation. When I took a massive undertaking and broke it into bite size pieces I was able to accomplish my goals. So, I took my entire novel and broke it from one word document into 31 and agreed to work on one chapter at a time.
I was still nervous from my previous attempt and decided to vent my fears on my personal blog. That was when a person I had never met offered up a token of advice I had never thought of; she said to print out each chapter and edit them on paper.
At the time I thought this woman's suggestion was preposterous. I didn't see how printing it out would make any difference than reading it on a computer screen. Editing is editing regardless. Although, I was desperate and didn't see the harm In giving it a try. Besides, it fit in with that memory of mine.
On the first day I blew through the first chapter and made some great notes and corrections. On the second I input them and transferred the file into a folder titled "Final." Since that time I have finished 8 chapters and couldn't be prouder or more exhilarated to continue on. It felt as though I had found that kid in that moment.
Now, I am forcing myself to remain focused on this task and not on my query letter synopsis.
I hope to have another update soon sharing even more about my progress.
My advice to you (whomever you may be) print the damn thing out to edit. It DOES make a world of difference.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Up From the Murky Depths
It's difficult to become a writer. It's even worse to get past your own demons. I know I've written about this many times before but it is a problem that plagues me every single day. In the moments that I feel strong and the darkness has crept back into the murky hallows of my thoughts I feel invincible. I know that when I get home I will sit my butt down in my chair and I will write. My fingers will fly over the keys giving birth to my words. Yet it is in the moment that I sit down that the creatures of fear and insecurity smell the fresh creativity and they come slithering from their holes and consume everything in their sights until I am left hallow and can barely bring myself to even look at my manuscript. (They just might eat that too... you never know.)
Patton Oswalt has this bit about this movie he saw called "Death Bed" and his own journey of screen writing. It's a hilarious piece of writing and if you're easily offended I'd tread lightly with his other pieces but this one is pretty tame. It mainly is his imagined story of the guy that wrote and sold the idea for "Death Bed: the Bed that Eats People," and how the author had never any doubt in his mind that it was good. Or, as Patton so eloquently puts it, even worse had his moments of doubt and pushed through them to finish the script to the horrible film.
As I struggle through this I am amazed anything ever gets published. Truly. If I ever come into contact with someone who has truly taken the time to edit their work, sent it to an agent, and had it commercially published, I want to shake their hand where I will then inevitably fall to their feet, clutching onto their legs, while I cry. My main goal to hopefully absorb their supernatural powers. If that plan fails, then I would ask them what they did. I've read a few books. All of it is the same. "Ignore your inner critic." You've met critics, right? They're loud, obnoxious, opinionated, douches; and the only way to ever silence them is to hit them with a car. So, unless I want to write a book in the vein of "orange is the new black" that isn't the route I particularly want to take.
I feel like I need to be more specific. Where track on my creativity train seems to end is when it comes to editing ravine. The men that were supposed to build a bridge failed to complete it across the expanse and now whatever attempts are made causes the train to derail and plummet to the rocky terrain below. I can't be critical with my own work. I could when I was kid, for some reason, but as an adult I'm way more fragile than I ever was as a high school student. I remember sitting at my computer for hours after inputting my written notes into WordPad and then going through cutting, rearranging, rewording, each one of my chapters without shedding a tear. It was just something that had to get done. It was just part of the process. No one ever told me, I just knew. It's only after I read books and put all the pressure on myself that I I'm scared to even try.
I wish I could go back and talk to my childhood self. It never occurred to me, until just now, that no one (other than my school teachers I guess) how to edit. It was just something I did. It was a process I picked up entirely on my own and I would remain at my desk for hours doing it. Now when I pick up the story that I edited from that time it's really quite good. The tone, the structure, the pacing. Everything. The story captured my attention that even I, who knew where the story went, wanted to keep reading. I had forgotten so many of the little things I had done.
Patton Oswalt has this bit about this movie he saw called "Death Bed" and his own journey of screen writing. It's a hilarious piece of writing and if you're easily offended I'd tread lightly with his other pieces but this one is pretty tame. It mainly is his imagined story of the guy that wrote and sold the idea for "Death Bed: the Bed that Eats People," and how the author had never any doubt in his mind that it was good. Or, as Patton so eloquently puts it, even worse had his moments of doubt and pushed through them to finish the script to the horrible film.
As I struggle through this I am amazed anything ever gets published. Truly. If I ever come into contact with someone who has truly taken the time to edit their work, sent it to an agent, and had it commercially published, I want to shake their hand where I will then inevitably fall to their feet, clutching onto their legs, while I cry. My main goal to hopefully absorb their supernatural powers. If that plan fails, then I would ask them what they did. I've read a few books. All of it is the same. "Ignore your inner critic." You've met critics, right? They're loud, obnoxious, opinionated, douches; and the only way to ever silence them is to hit them with a car. So, unless I want to write a book in the vein of "orange is the new black" that isn't the route I particularly want to take.
I feel like I need to be more specific. Where track on my creativity train seems to end is when it comes to editing ravine. The men that were supposed to build a bridge failed to complete it across the expanse and now whatever attempts are made causes the train to derail and plummet to the rocky terrain below. I can't be critical with my own work. I could when I was kid, for some reason, but as an adult I'm way more fragile than I ever was as a high school student. I remember sitting at my computer for hours after inputting my written notes into WordPad and then going through cutting, rearranging, rewording, each one of my chapters without shedding a tear. It was just something that had to get done. It was just part of the process. No one ever told me, I just knew. It's only after I read books and put all the pressure on myself that I I'm scared to even try.
I wish I could go back and talk to my childhood self. It never occurred to me, until just now, that no one (other than my school teachers I guess) how to edit. It was just something I did. It was a process I picked up entirely on my own and I would remain at my desk for hours doing it. Now when I pick up the story that I edited from that time it's really quite good. The tone, the structure, the pacing. Everything. The story captured my attention that even I, who knew where the story went, wanted to keep reading. I had forgotten so many of the little things I had done.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Musings of a 10 year plan
So, I’m flighty. I know it and am owning it. I flit from one thing to the next always hoping to find where it is I belong. I don’t understand why I couldn’t have done this when I was a teenager and not in my twenties but… life lesson learned, time wasted, moving on. My main goal will always be the same. No matter what new dream I concoct it will always remain “get published.” Even when I buckle down and then spaz out because I become increasingly overwhelmed I still maintain that hope of one day publishing one of my novels. That’s how I know it is what I want to do. Now, I may want it more so now than later but I am discovering the art itself has a mind and a clock of its own. And I may want it done at one point but it will inevitably be done when it’s done. And as embarrassing as all of my “breakdowns” have been they haven’t been for nothing. I have discovered/realized that a few pieces in my moments of madness weren’t working or were missing entirely that became abundantly clear.
My most recent meltdown has lead me to a hiatus until march, whereupon I will return to my manuscript with vigor and a fresh eye. I know I put too much pressure on myself and expect 100% perfection the first go around. And that’s not how writing works. It’s editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, and editing. Editing. And I’m a lazy son of a bitch. I don’t want to do that so I want it to be perfect from the word go which boils my brain and causes me to crash, hard. Thus I have to take long sabbaticals just to get my ducks in order. At this rate I’ll get my book done in 20 years. That just doesn’t work for me. As petty as it sounds (and a bit arrogant), I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I have plans with my writing career and I have other stories to tell.
Thus, I’ve started to develop a ten year plan in my head. I’ve never really done one before. Sure in my sophomore year of high school they asked me to do one but that one was just to turn in so I could get the credit. It wasn’t thought out at all. I basically just threw words at a page. Now I want to do a proper one. So beyond my ultimate goal, and a more realistic, solid (dare-I-say ‘achievable’) goal is to move to and live in London. It’s something I’ve always wanted and still want. My trip last year only solidified that desire even more. So, how do I get there? I need to work backwards. I do like to write. It’s relaxing, especially when I’m not doing it on company time trying to keep an ear out for my boss coming around the corner. (Is that an admission of guilt?) So what are ways to earn an actual income doing that? Journalism. Okay, how do you get into that? I did some quick research of job listings and most jobs require an applicant to either be in the process of getting a bachelors in journalism or a post graduate. Balls. I have next to no higher education. It’s that lazy thing again. So that leads me to the next lower step. Education. Thus, a ten year plan and not five.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in school. I’ve taken the odd class here and there at the local Junior College but nothing noteworthy. And one of my classes was, according to my teacher, beneath me, but she would shower me in compliments and had such a personality that I stayed in her class. But I never did any homework and failed it with a big fat F. As much fun as she was, I DO NOT want to re-take Basic English. Yes. I took Basic. English. It was during my “get back to basics” phase. I don’t know what the hell I was smoking. I was in a delirium is all I can say. But while I was taking this class I was also doing Creative Writing and got an A. So… go figure. One would assume one would cancel out the other but that’s not how it works, thus my dilemma. Luckily, there is a wonderful little loophole that if I switch to a different JC, and don’t transfer any prior credits, I can start with a clean slate. So that’s what I’m going to do, as a way to ditch the shortcomings of old Josh.
How I look at it, Journalism benefits me personally with my own personal goals, it also looks good on a resume that I have a college education, and it gets me into writing. I don’t really see a downside, other than I’m starting this as I’m pushing 30. God, I hate me. Always late to the party, aren’t you, Josh?
My most recent meltdown has lead me to a hiatus until march, whereupon I will return to my manuscript with vigor and a fresh eye. I know I put too much pressure on myself and expect 100% perfection the first go around. And that’s not how writing works. It’s editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, and editing. Editing. And I’m a lazy son of a bitch. I don’t want to do that so I want it to be perfect from the word go which boils my brain and causes me to crash, hard. Thus I have to take long sabbaticals just to get my ducks in order. At this rate I’ll get my book done in 20 years. That just doesn’t work for me. As petty as it sounds (and a bit arrogant), I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I have plans with my writing career and I have other stories to tell.
Thus, I’ve started to develop a ten year plan in my head. I’ve never really done one before. Sure in my sophomore year of high school they asked me to do one but that one was just to turn in so I could get the credit. It wasn’t thought out at all. I basically just threw words at a page. Now I want to do a proper one. So beyond my ultimate goal, and a more realistic, solid (dare-I-say ‘achievable’) goal is to move to and live in London. It’s something I’ve always wanted and still want. My trip last year only solidified that desire even more. So, how do I get there? I need to work backwards. I do like to write. It’s relaxing, especially when I’m not doing it on company time trying to keep an ear out for my boss coming around the corner. (Is that an admission of guilt?) So what are ways to earn an actual income doing that? Journalism. Okay, how do you get into that? I did some quick research of job listings and most jobs require an applicant to either be in the process of getting a bachelors in journalism or a post graduate. Balls. I have next to no higher education. It’s that lazy thing again. So that leads me to the next lower step. Education. Thus, a ten year plan and not five.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in school. I’ve taken the odd class here and there at the local Junior College but nothing noteworthy. And one of my classes was, according to my teacher, beneath me, but she would shower me in compliments and had such a personality that I stayed in her class. But I never did any homework and failed it with a big fat F. As much fun as she was, I DO NOT want to re-take Basic English. Yes. I took Basic. English. It was during my “get back to basics” phase. I don’t know what the hell I was smoking. I was in a delirium is all I can say. But while I was taking this class I was also doing Creative Writing and got an A. So… go figure. One would assume one would cancel out the other but that’s not how it works, thus my dilemma. Luckily, there is a wonderful little loophole that if I switch to a different JC, and don’t transfer any prior credits, I can start with a clean slate. So that’s what I’m going to do, as a way to ditch the shortcomings of old Josh.
How I look at it, Journalism benefits me personally with my own personal goals, it also looks good on a resume that I have a college education, and it gets me into writing. I don’t really see a downside, other than I’m starting this as I’m pushing 30. God, I hate me. Always late to the party, aren’t you, Josh?
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Reflection
So, here I stand poised on the precipice of a new year. Looking back at 2013 there was no particular milestone in my wishful career choices (aka writing, aka becoming an author) but the major things of note are: getting married to the man I’ve spent the last ten years of my life with; and going to a place I have dreamed of going to since I was a kid, London. Besides these major changes, my life was relatively stagnant for the majority of the year. These things didn’t even occur until November. So… At least I’m ending the year on a high note. Oh, and the other thing that was a major and wanted change was I finally broke my husband down, after years of discussion, to where he wants to adopt. Seriously… that’s big.
As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.
This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.
So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.
By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.
As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.
This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.
So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.
By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.
Monday, October 7, 2013
I know when I'm beat...
So again, I look like a failure. Well... not so much as look but am. I may have agreed to do a public wrimo but I have discovered I cannot. I took something I love to do, something I feel absolutely un-inhibited in doing, and made it the opposite of that. So, instead I will not being doing what I had promised. I just can't. Not now. And no only am I not going to wrimo publicly I'm also going to take a little hiatus from public posts in general. Maybe an odd tweet here and there but in general I need to take some space. I've gotten into a dark place inside my head and to top everything else off I have set bars for myself that not many people could rightly accomplish.
Then there is the fact that I've started querying my novel. Out of the 9 I sent only 5 have responded to me. Which is good. I just thought I would have had more by now. That was a little over a month ago that I began. Oh well. I will just assume they were no's. I have been tough skinned when it comes to the rejection or at least I thought I was. As it turns out I'm wondering if I'm instead storing my emotions in a box for later use or whenever it decides to manifest itself in my life. As you can tell, I am a very healthy person.
Anyway... I realize now that I have put to much pressure on myself to succeed in so many areas. I understand that agents would prefer you to have a platform already built but... I don't know when anyone can find time. Regardless, I am going to take some time away and focus on other things, other projects. Out of the attempted public wrimo I did come about with some really new and intriguing story ideas that I am interested to write out. So, this wasn't a complete failure.
Then there is the fact that I've started querying my novel. Out of the 9 I sent only 5 have responded to me. Which is good. I just thought I would have had more by now. That was a little over a month ago that I began. Oh well. I will just assume they were no's. I have been tough skinned when it comes to the rejection or at least I thought I was. As it turns out I'm wondering if I'm instead storing my emotions in a box for later use or whenever it decides to manifest itself in my life. As you can tell, I am a very healthy person.
Anyway... I realize now that I have put to much pressure on myself to succeed in so many areas. I understand that agents would prefer you to have a platform already built but... I don't know when anyone can find time. Regardless, I am going to take some time away and focus on other things, other projects. Out of the attempted public wrimo I did come about with some really new and intriguing story ideas that I am interested to write out. So, this wasn't a complete failure.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Day 1 of 31
I feel I must preface this with some sort of random explanation. In my super delusional mind I think I have this army of dedicated, mindless, followers that are unsure of my daily activities. I understand that is greatly preposterous but I digress.
For whatever reason I have decided to begin NaNoWriMo a month early. I guess I just wanted an extra day to bear some of the weight from the ultimate goal of a novel length work of fiction at 50,000 words. The other thing that confuses me is why I chose to do it publicly. Already I am sweating and going crazy fearing what people will say and think. Like any good writer I'm a perfectionist.(Mother of god, what was I thinking.) But I made a broad statement on my twitter and regardless of who reads it I made a promise and I want to stick to my word.
My internal mantra has been "just do it." I'm sure anyone that has done NaNoWriMo in the past knows how it works. The basic idea is to hit the allotted number of words; which for me stands at 1,612 since I have a whole extra day. I'm not supposed to re-read, or try and fix what I've written. It's just going. Like the website says: it's a sprint, not a marathon.
This exercise is not concentrated on the ultimate goal of a polished work of fiction. That of course comes later. This is PURELY a chance to get the words down that constantly bounce about in my thoughts. So... here I go.
Day 1 of 31.
Goal: 1,612 words
Start time: 9:15
When Aidan Palmer turned onto Tarotwood Lane, facing his house that sat at the end of the cul-de-sac street, two things were glaringly wrong. His eight year old son Jeffrey sat on the curb by himself, with his knees in his chest, in front of their home and a car that did not belong to him or anyone he knew was parked in the driveway, the driver side door open. Aidan sped up for the last few feet, screeching to a halt into the space next to the stranger vehicle. He hopped out and looked in through the window. The keys still plugged in the ignition, along with a large leather purse in the passenger seat, and a can of diet soda.
Aidan rushed around the car to his son that stood when he came into view, and then met him half-way.
"Jeff," Aidan said, "What're you doing?"
"I don't want to go inside. The lady scares me."
Aidan's green eyes turned to look at the house. The front door stood only slightly ajar.
"What woman, son?"
Jeff merely shrugged, playing with his right ear, a simple clue that told his father he was upset.
"What I want you to do is to sit in my car and lock the doors. Do you understand?"
Jeffrey nodded and held his hand out for the car keys, which his father produced from his pocket and set them into his tiny palm. The young boy did as his father instructed and rounded the end of the Aidan's dinged and scratched pick-up.
Aidan faced the house and braced himself.
The next thing Aidan noticed, as he pushed open the door, was that the deadbolt still held the key in place. The very same key Aidan had just placed beneath the bear statue for Jeffrey this morning.
"Hello?" he called out, his body tensing.
Sprinkled through the house, like a trail of bread crumbs, were women's clothes. He followed them into the family room where he found the mexican woman sitting on the couch, wrapped in a purple blanket, sipping on a juice box held delicately in one hand and holding a bottle of Beer in the other.
"What're you doing?" she said, her brow furrowed.
Aiden repeated the question before he said, "This is my house!"
The woman failed to show any response that she understood. Instead she sat silently, taking another long sip from the straw.
He looked around the room with wide eyes, checking to see if anything was misplaced or taken.
"You need to leave," He said suddenly.
The woman stopped drinking and glared at him.
"Dead Pastor Skip and the ghost told me to come here."
"What?" Aidan said. "Who is pastor skip?"
The woman stood, the blanket falling off of her curved shoulders. Luckily she still wore a red set of bra and panties. In any other circumstance he may have found this exciting but in this very moment he could not. Then there was the fact that she was definitely older than his taste.
"You don't go to Soul Factory?"
"No I don't." He stumbled over words as he tried to find the right ones. "This is my house. Please get dressed and go home."
"The ghost told me to come here."
"I really don't care." He started to pull out his phone. "What's your name, I'm calling the police."
"Can I use the bathroom first?"
Aidan was dumbfounded and annoyed.
"Fine," he said.
The woman made her way without any instruction.
"Do they use the bathroom?" She said, turning back to him at the entry to the hall.
"Who's they?"
"The two ghosts that live here."
"Yeah," he said, "All the time, it's their room."
"Oh, okay," she said blandly. "Can I use the bathroom?"
"I told you yes," Aidan barked.
The woman ignored him and instead answered by entering the bathroom.
Aidan dialed 911 and walked into the kitchen as it rang. He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
"Hello, what is your emergency?"
"Yes, a strange woman walked into my house while I was gone and she's still here. She won't leave."
"Do you know the woman?"
"No."
There was a flurry of sharp clicks on the other end.
"Where are you calling from?"
He told her his location and sighed. He popped the metallic cap of the bottle and took a long gulp.
He turned and the woman stood at the end of the counter. Fully naked, her purse clutched in both hands at her chest.
"Please hurry," he said and hung up the phone.
"What happened to your underwear?"
The woman upended her purse and poured it's contents onto the tile surface. A crushed box of cigarettes, a lighter, gold earrings, necklace adorned with jewels, a leather luis vutton wallet, and a bag of a mysterious powder. Suddenly all of this made since to him.
The woman tossed her bag to the side and grabbed her wallet. She pulled out her license and held it inches from Aidan's face. He took a defensive step back. Then when she didn't move he took the card from her and looked at it. She turned and began walking around the house.
He picked up his phone and took a photo of the license and then the woman, staring into the corner of the room.
She lifted a finger and began drawing shapes in the air.
Glancing at the license again Aiden took note of the address. It was clear on the other side of town.
When he looked up again she was gone. He rushed from room to room trying to find her but she was gone, along with all of her clothes. When he went outside her car too was nowhere to be found.
Jeffrey sat in the driver's side, crouched on his knees, his body turned toward the window.
Word Count: 977
End time: 10:40
For whatever reason I have decided to begin NaNoWriMo a month early. I guess I just wanted an extra day to bear some of the weight from the ultimate goal of a novel length work of fiction at 50,000 words. The other thing that confuses me is why I chose to do it publicly. Already I am sweating and going crazy fearing what people will say and think. Like any good writer I'm a perfectionist.(Mother of god, what was I thinking.) But I made a broad statement on my twitter and regardless of who reads it I made a promise and I want to stick to my word.
My internal mantra has been "just do it." I'm sure anyone that has done NaNoWriMo in the past knows how it works. The basic idea is to hit the allotted number of words; which for me stands at 1,612 since I have a whole extra day. I'm not supposed to re-read, or try and fix what I've written. It's just going. Like the website says: it's a sprint, not a marathon.
This exercise is not concentrated on the ultimate goal of a polished work of fiction. That of course comes later. This is PURELY a chance to get the words down that constantly bounce about in my thoughts. So... here I go.
Day 1 of 31.
Goal: 1,612 words
Start time: 9:15
When Aidan Palmer turned onto Tarotwood Lane, facing his house that sat at the end of the cul-de-sac street, two things were glaringly wrong. His eight year old son Jeffrey sat on the curb by himself, with his knees in his chest, in front of their home and a car that did not belong to him or anyone he knew was parked in the driveway, the driver side door open. Aidan sped up for the last few feet, screeching to a halt into the space next to the stranger vehicle. He hopped out and looked in through the window. The keys still plugged in the ignition, along with a large leather purse in the passenger seat, and a can of diet soda.
Aidan rushed around the car to his son that stood when he came into view, and then met him half-way.
"Jeff," Aidan said, "What're you doing?"
"I don't want to go inside. The lady scares me."
Aidan's green eyes turned to look at the house. The front door stood only slightly ajar.
"What woman, son?"
Jeff merely shrugged, playing with his right ear, a simple clue that told his father he was upset.
"What I want you to do is to sit in my car and lock the doors. Do you understand?"
Jeffrey nodded and held his hand out for the car keys, which his father produced from his pocket and set them into his tiny palm. The young boy did as his father instructed and rounded the end of the Aidan's dinged and scratched pick-up.
Aidan faced the house and braced himself.
The next thing Aidan noticed, as he pushed open the door, was that the deadbolt still held the key in place. The very same key Aidan had just placed beneath the bear statue for Jeffrey this morning.
"Hello?" he called out, his body tensing.
Sprinkled through the house, like a trail of bread crumbs, were women's clothes. He followed them into the family room where he found the mexican woman sitting on the couch, wrapped in a purple blanket, sipping on a juice box held delicately in one hand and holding a bottle of Beer in the other.
"What're you doing?" she said, her brow furrowed.
Aiden repeated the question before he said, "This is my house!"
The woman failed to show any response that she understood. Instead she sat silently, taking another long sip from the straw.
He looked around the room with wide eyes, checking to see if anything was misplaced or taken.
"You need to leave," He said suddenly.
The woman stopped drinking and glared at him.
"Dead Pastor Skip and the ghost told me to come here."
"What?" Aidan said. "Who is pastor skip?"
The woman stood, the blanket falling off of her curved shoulders. Luckily she still wore a red set of bra and panties. In any other circumstance he may have found this exciting but in this very moment he could not. Then there was the fact that she was definitely older than his taste.
"You don't go to Soul Factory?"
"No I don't." He stumbled over words as he tried to find the right ones. "This is my house. Please get dressed and go home."
"The ghost told me to come here."
"I really don't care." He started to pull out his phone. "What's your name, I'm calling the police."
"Can I use the bathroom first?"
Aidan was dumbfounded and annoyed.
"Fine," he said.
The woman made her way without any instruction.
"Do they use the bathroom?" She said, turning back to him at the entry to the hall.
"Who's they?"
"The two ghosts that live here."
"Yeah," he said, "All the time, it's their room."
"Oh, okay," she said blandly. "Can I use the bathroom?"
"I told you yes," Aidan barked.
The woman ignored him and instead answered by entering the bathroom.
Aidan dialed 911 and walked into the kitchen as it rang. He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
"Hello, what is your emergency?"
"Yes, a strange woman walked into my house while I was gone and she's still here. She won't leave."
"Do you know the woman?"
"No."
There was a flurry of sharp clicks on the other end.
"Where are you calling from?"
He told her his location and sighed. He popped the metallic cap of the bottle and took a long gulp.
He turned and the woman stood at the end of the counter. Fully naked, her purse clutched in both hands at her chest.
"Please hurry," he said and hung up the phone.
"What happened to your underwear?"
The woman upended her purse and poured it's contents onto the tile surface. A crushed box of cigarettes, a lighter, gold earrings, necklace adorned with jewels, a leather luis vutton wallet, and a bag of a mysterious powder. Suddenly all of this made since to him.
The woman tossed her bag to the side and grabbed her wallet. She pulled out her license and held it inches from Aidan's face. He took a defensive step back. Then when she didn't move he took the card from her and looked at it. She turned and began walking around the house.
He picked up his phone and took a photo of the license and then the woman, staring into the corner of the room.
She lifted a finger and began drawing shapes in the air.
Glancing at the license again Aiden took note of the address. It was clear on the other side of town.
When he looked up again she was gone. He rushed from room to room trying to find her but she was gone, along with all of her clothes. When he went outside her car too was nowhere to be found.
Jeffrey sat in the driver's side, crouched on his knees, his body turned toward the window.
Word Count: 977
End time: 10:40
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Theft and other things...
My mind still cannot wrap itself around the fact that my laptop was stolen out of my dining room, while I was home with a large group of friends. Nothing else was taken, not a single other trinket, but the pc. My friend's purse was sitting in a chair maybe a foot away from it but that was left behind. My 3DS XL sat on the leather sectional, maybe three feet from the door, (certainly on the way in or out of the dining room and house) and it remains. And the thing that really blows my mind is that it was the most inexpensive device in our entire house. The phone in my pocket was more than that laptop, but it was that which the thief took.
The only solace I get from this situation is despite losing my laptop, containing my many manuscripts, short stories, and the like, I still have them in safe keeping. And to top it all off I don't think they could get to them anyway since my computer had a password protecting it. Although, my best companion and techy told me that was trivial.
When I was younger my parents, for whatever reason, thought it'd be cheaper if the husband of a woman my mother worked with built me a PC for Christmas. It may have been, for all I know, but it ended up where twice the hard drive crashed and refused to load. The first time he successfully fixed his folly, but the second... I was mortified because I had lost all of my work. All of my novels were wrapped up into that single device. I didn't know what to do. As a last resort I took it to best buy and the computer guys there (long before the geek squad) were able to retrieve them and put them on a disc.
Since then I have been relentless when it comes to saving and resaving. I have multiple thumb drives, my files are saved on multiple home computers, and now I have them in a dropbox. Dropbox is the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. I cannot stress that enough. I preach of it's wonders to any and all I come across because it truly is a miracle product. That is where my stories are even now. All the ideas I haven't locked in permanent memory are there. My many incarnations of my current novel. All of it. And if they're not in there they're on the thumb drive I have ringed with my house and car keys.
Like I said... I'm a relentless saver.
As to the computer... My boyfriend gave me the computer he just recently bought for his company to me. It's nice... But I liked my other one, despite being so low-tech. It did what I wanted. It was my friend, my companion, my secret lover. And like any lost love I will truly miss it. But in the end it was just an object. Easily replaceable, as I have found, since I already have another one. It all boils down to the point: who the hell did this?
No matter how many times I run it through my mind it just doesn't make any sense. None. Why take that but nothing else? I've looked. I keep hoping that this is some elaborate joke against me plotted out by one of my "friends." But I knew at the moment I saw it gone, that many in my life refuse to believe, that it is just gone. Gone gone gone gone gone gone. Gone. And I have to live with that.
But, silver lining time folks, I have all of my work. All of my stories, novels, ideas. All of it is safe within my reach and that is truly a miracle and brings me momentary peace. In fact, I worked on a project this evening just to get acquainted with my new friend. I've decided to call him obsidian, but that is irrelevant.
The only solace I get from this situation is despite losing my laptop, containing my many manuscripts, short stories, and the like, I still have them in safe keeping. And to top it all off I don't think they could get to them anyway since my computer had a password protecting it. Although, my best companion and techy told me that was trivial.
When I was younger my parents, for whatever reason, thought it'd be cheaper if the husband of a woman my mother worked with built me a PC for Christmas. It may have been, for all I know, but it ended up where twice the hard drive crashed and refused to load. The first time he successfully fixed his folly, but the second... I was mortified because I had lost all of my work. All of my novels were wrapped up into that single device. I didn't know what to do. As a last resort I took it to best buy and the computer guys there (long before the geek squad) were able to retrieve them and put them on a disc.
Since then I have been relentless when it comes to saving and resaving. I have multiple thumb drives, my files are saved on multiple home computers, and now I have them in a dropbox. Dropbox is the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. I cannot stress that enough. I preach of it's wonders to any and all I come across because it truly is a miracle product. That is where my stories are even now. All the ideas I haven't locked in permanent memory are there. My many incarnations of my current novel. All of it. And if they're not in there they're on the thumb drive I have ringed with my house and car keys.
Like I said... I'm a relentless saver.
As to the computer... My boyfriend gave me the computer he just recently bought for his company to me. It's nice... But I liked my other one, despite being so low-tech. It did what I wanted. It was my friend, my companion, my secret lover. And like any lost love I will truly miss it. But in the end it was just an object. Easily replaceable, as I have found, since I already have another one. It all boils down to the point: who the hell did this?
No matter how many times I run it through my mind it just doesn't make any sense. None. Why take that but nothing else? I've looked. I keep hoping that this is some elaborate joke against me plotted out by one of my "friends." But I knew at the moment I saw it gone, that many in my life refuse to believe, that it is just gone. Gone gone gone gone gone gone. Gone. And I have to live with that.
But, silver lining time folks, I have all of my work. All of my stories, novels, ideas. All of it is safe within my reach and that is truly a miracle and brings me momentary peace. In fact, I worked on a project this evening just to get acquainted with my new friend. I've decided to call him obsidian, but that is irrelevant.
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