Some days I feel like I’m on top of the world.
Some days I don’t.
Some days I like what I see when I look in the mirror.
More often I don’t.
Some days I can do everything I set out to do.
Other days I don’t.
Some days I feel small and insignificant
Some days I don’t.
Some days I get angry at humanity.
…and wonder how we ever evolved to this state.
Some days I don’t think about it.
Some days I wonder what if I made a different choice. Where would I be now?
Some days all I need are cuddles from my cat.
Some days all I need is to be heard.
To be acknowledged. To be seen.
Some days. Some days.
Here’s a little ditty inspired by the dialogue prompt generator on the same site I mentioned in my last fiction snippet. Again backdated. I swear I’ll post something on the same day I write it eventually.
“Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?”
“What did you bury in the garden?” the question was repeated.
“Why on earth would you think I would bury something in the garden?”
“Lettie said she saw you in the garden earlier. As she put it you ‘looked pinched’. Whatever that means. She said you were following the Grounds Keeper.”
“Ah. I was sneaking a cigarette. After all, this is your Family home and I wouldn’t want to put anyone out by smoking inside the house. Gerome would know the best place to hide so I asked him.”
“You could have asked me.”
“Darling you were playing tennis with your friends. You know I don’t like tennis and you would have tried to convince me to play. No, it was easier to ask Gerome.”
“I see your point.”
“Do you, Love? How is it that you came to the conclusion that I must have buried something in the garden from something your sister said? Do you think so little of your Bride?”
“Absolutely not. Lettie’s imagination got away from her is all and she’s upset about Sir Reggie.”
“The poor dear. She’s been searching all day?”
“She just can’t fathom where Reggie would have run off to or why.”
“Really? I can think of a number of reasons.”
“Oh all right. Now, if you would excuse me.”
“Where are you going?”
“To freshen up. It’s almost dinner. Wouldn’t want to show up to your mothers table with an unkempt appearance.”
This is back dated for the 4th of November because I was lazy about posting on Saturday. I found a “First Line Generator” for writing prompts and thought I would give it a try. If interested you can find it here: Random First Line Generator
The prompt that it gave me was the following: It started with a chance meeting on a film-set.
It started with a chance meeting on a film-set. Or so she had thought. Looking back, Landy wondered if she had seen Cam before that. Maybe at a coffee shop, the props department or a random street crossing. Surely it hadn’t started with a glance and sardonic smile across the set during filming. Things just didn’t happen to Landy like that. Relationships didn’t happen like that in real life. Did they? Having worked on film sets for a few years by then made Landy hyper aware of the illusion created by Hollywood and how things actually worked. No matter how hard she tried to think or look back, it all began on that day.
Neither Landy or Cam were actors, nor did they desire to be in front of the camera. They worked in separate departments. She worked with the costuming department and he worked with the props department. One could consider it odd that they hadn’t met before the film since the individual departments worked closely together especially given the length of time they each had worked there. But no. This was their first meeting. The first film.
No, she couldn’t remember the conversation that they had. She remembered Cam was funny. And that their paths crossed ever more frequently as filming progressed. She remembered the lunch breaks, the late nights, the early mornings. She remembered the feeling of time blurring as it often does when working on a film. They spent months working on the film. And then suddenly it was done. Their work was finished. They each moved on to other projects. Other films.
Years passed by.
Landy stood next to Cam. He smiled that smile she noticed so long ago at her. “Ready?” he asked.
She nodded reaching for his hand. “Ready.”
A scene from a story I was working on with a friend. It’s really rough but I’m ok with that. This is part of an ongoing story so it may not make much sense out of context.
Nika Alexandra Benes
Current Location: Scarsdale
Time: 6:30 a.m.
Nika choked on a scream as she sat upright. Shreds of the nightmare clung to her vision before she remembered where she was. Florescent yellow-white light cut a swath in the darkened room as Nika fumbled with the lamp next to the bed. The light didn’t make her feel any better. Or safer. She read the pulsing digits on the alarm clock and realized she had managed to sleep for almost three hours. It felt like fifteen minutes.
Nika shivered as she slid off the bed. The bathroom light only highlighted the lack of real rest and simmering fear that reflected in the mirror as she turned the faucet on. Washing her face, Nika noted that the bruise under her eye was turning a florrid yellow-greenish color with just a hint of purple where the ring Emil wore had cut. There was no makeup in the gym bag she had so there was no way to cover the bruise. Nika stared at her reflection and felt a shiver race down her back. “Keep moving.” she said to the reflection. Her reflection nodded back. Taking a deep breath, Nika picked up the gym bag laying by the door. If she wasn’t going to get anymore sleep she would put more distance between her and New York.
The sun peeked through the low hanging clouds warming the sidewalk as Nika moved through the quiet still quiet streets of Scarsdale. She wouldn’t call it idyllic, but the early morning silence was a contrast to what one heard in New York City. Nika pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. They barely hid the bruised eye but it was better than nothing. The train station was already bustling with early morning commuters.
“Can you tell me where the nearest Greyhound Station is?” Nika asked the woman behind the ticket counter.
“Mmmhm. White Plains.”
“A ticket to White Plains, Please.” Nika said.
The woman behind the counter typed at the keyboard, “Here you go, honey. It’ll be here in five minutes.” she said sliding the ticket across the counter. “No charge. I got it.” she added with a nod. Nika started to protest but the woman waved her off. “Stay safe.”
It’s mid October. Have you decided if you are going to participate in the annual event known as Nanowrimo?
I’ve been participating in this event since 2006 (though I skipped it last year) and was asked to take part again by a friend that has decided to take the time and bang out a draft. I’m thrilled that she is going to participate in the wild ride that is Nanowrimo. And I will gladly sit in the cheering section and spur her on.
I changed my username to align more with who I am and you can now find me on nanowrimo.org under the name Charlie Baltimore if you want to add me to your writing buddy list.
At this stage, I don’t have a clue what I am going to be writing. I fully expect something to spark my imagination within the next week or so. Deadlines have that effect on me. I’m not terribly worried about pre-plotting or outlining. This will be a “pants” draft. As in “By the seat of my pants.”
While I haven’t given much thought to what I am going to be writing, I have been giving a lot of thought to how I am going to write. This year I am going to go “Old School” and not write a word of it on the computer. Sure that will make keeping track of my word count a bit harder but I think it will be fun to get back to how I started writing in the first place – in a notebook.
I will admit that I have an ulterior motive for writing this way. It will let me get back to writing consistently with fountain pens (of which I have many) and all the pretty inks I’ve collected over the last year. My handwriting is actually quite atrocious. It’s a blend of cursive and print that changes every single time I write. Maybe it’s because I am left-handed; perhaps I always struggled to have legible handwriting. I could also just be a poor student. (Did you notice the banner at the top of the post? The nano organizers made one specifically for us lefties!) I could muse upon the reasons my handwriting is horrid for hours if I really wanted to, but in the end I’m not going to let it stop me from using some beautiful ink pens and inks. By the end of November my hand maybe rather colorful. I might even take pictures.
As for notebooks I just ordered two sets plus a one off if needed. Two Clairefontaine 1951 notebooks in black and another two in Raspberry. The one off is a Rhodia notebook. These are by far my favorite brands for paper that is suitable for fountain pens from the few that I have tried so far. (If you have any suggestions I’d be more than happy to hear from you!)
I will have the paper, pen, and ink all ready for November 1st. How will you be writing your draft?
At some point during 2014 Patrick Rothfuss announced that he was having a book published during the Fall. Within days of the announcement I pre-ordered my copy of said book. Then waited patiently for several months until it arrived. This wasn’t the next book in The Kingkiller Chronicles. It was about one of the characters in the series, and that was enough for me to want to read it.
Auri is a whisp of a girl that Kvothe meets while attending the University. She doesn’t live at the University. She lives underneath it in what she calls the Underthing. When I first came across her in the pages of the Kingkiller Chronicles I was immediately intrigued by her and wanted to know more about her. I was quite thrilled to learn that The Slow Regard of Silent Things was about Auri.
Even though I received the book when it was released I waited until after the holidays were over to start it. It was worth the wait.
If you are looking for more insight into the Kvothe and his story you won’t find it in these pages. No, you won’t even find a story about Auri. What you will find is Auri.
The tone, the words, everything…it just is Auri.
It’s hard for me to find the right words. I can tell you that I woke up at 4 in the morning over the course of reading this book and my first thought was of Auri. Seriously. 4 a.m. and my eyes popped open as if I’d been awake for hours and my first thought was not ‘Oh I need to pee.’ It was one word. One name. ‘Auri’.
Rothfuss is keen to say that this book is not a proper story. As a writer, I can see how he arrived at that conclusion. As a reader, however, I must disagree. Everything in Slow Regard is in its proper place. Auri wouldn’t have it any other way.