Friday, December 28, 2012

Blood in the Trashcan

The power of second-guessing compels me
Backspacix
Deletery
Erasorcism
Obstipated clouds of verb/bloat pissin’ on my nonesuch
compel me-
powering the neverminers of flecking painite
Dichroic sweets and sours
begging to be saved.
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Trifextra Week Forty-Eight -
"This weekend we're asking for 33 of your own words that exorcise a demon. One of your own, or one from your imagination.  Let it bleed on the page."
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Friday, December 21, 2012

Kiss My Pith

Gimme, gimme
Hands await
Expectation, not tradition
Demand, not wishing
Charity, when convenient
Joy manufactured
Love, store-bought
Foods rich, souls broke
In the name of a fat christ in red
Give it up.
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"This weekend we want you to give us a pithy summary of your feelings about the holidays.  Your response does not need to be cynical or sarcastic.  We welcome all thoughts and feelings about this time of year--so long as you express those thoughts and feelings in 33 words."
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Tuesday, December 18, 2012

More Silly

I fear my book isn't smart enough.  I haven't even used the word entropy yet.  
 
And then I remind myself that I am not writing for Asimov.  I am not writing hard science fiction.  I am writing an adventure story.  Because it's fun.  And I love adventures.  And while I do stick my toe into a few accuracies that fascinate me, most of my body is stuck in wonderment, whatiffery, and awesomely badass weapons and a super evil space mafia.  And that makes me smile again.  

It makes me go back to inventing words by smashing together esperanto and latin and aramaic simply for the joy of inventing words.  

It makes me go back to creating real characters with flaws and dirty mouths and sex drives. 

It makes me go back to writing for people who want to run away with blue-haired girls through wormholes that make you puke, or learning how to pull space toward you like rolling up a carpet because it doesn't make you puke as bad as wormholes. 

Where fish eyes are more powerful than the most powerful telescope. 

Where off the grid means off the fucking grid.

Where all the concepts and science and fantasy and ideas that have been jumbled in my head since I was a kid all come together in my own 4-trillion kelvin quark gluon soup that I stir with my bullshit spoon.  

And then, I fear my book isn't quite silly enough. 

The world needs more silly. 
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Friday, December 7, 2012

Peevery

Raconteur beware!
It matters not the color of hair
nor whether shoes be cheap.
Flights of fowl, be they black or blue
likewise mean naught
lest their blackness be
to carry your plot.
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Trifextra- Week Forty-Five-
"This weekend we are giving you three variations on a prompt.  We need you to give us 33 words back, and 2 of those words must be either "cheap flights," "sandwiched in" or "spectacularly clean."

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Monday, December 3, 2012

Guns, Chocolate, Sleep Magik

Phobias grow quite excitably when the soil is right.  My soil has tended to be ripe for them of late, though I do not know why.  My current irrationality toward death has manifested itself in many forms over the past months.  First, it was just a plain ole nightly panic attack.  Those abated a bit with handfuls of pills.  But now, it has returned with a vengeance in the setting of my dog's nightly backyard jaunt.

She's been absurdly predictable in that regard since the day we brought her home back in 1999.  She's old as dirt now, and about as excitable, but still predictable all the same.  Every night.  Just as I crawl under the covers.  Doesn't matter the time.  Nor the daylight or lack of it.  All that matters is that everyone else in the house is asleep and I am in the process of crawling under the covers.  

I've tried to wait on her.  Stay up, you know.  Wait around for it.  I've tried forcing her out the back door.  Nope.  Nada.  I am now positive that her detrusor contractions are directly and invariably tied to how much of my naked legs are currently under my covers.  It's an inalienable fact.

So what does all that have to do with my death phobia?  Well.  Now (and it's been building over months, so it  is not a 'suddenly' kinda thing), I am terrified that there is someone waiting on my back porch to attack me when I am letting the dog out.  Or letting her in.  Either way.  Phobia is the same.  I am terrified.  I unlock the door and let her out.  I immediately slam the door and lock it, knowing that at any of the nanoseconds between the time I open the door and slam the door, someone has free access to pushing themselves through my back door and killing me.  And kill me, they will!  They don't want money.  They don't wanna rape me.  They don't want stuff.  They wanna kill my ass.  Same with letting her back in.  Unlock the door, ohshit ohshit ohshit ohshit ohshit (she's a 13-year-old basset hound, it takes her a while) ohshit ohshit ohshit ohshit, SLAM, lock clicks... Whew... I've averted certain death for one more day. 

What makes it worse is that I am not 100% alert, or even awake really, when all this is going down.  You know that part on Paranormal Activity where that chick stares at the bed for hours?  According to my family, this is the kind of shenanigans I get into at night.  I also eat.  I will wake up in the morning with crumbs in the bed.  Or food wrappers on the couch.  I will wake up to my kids telling stories of Mom sitting on the couch at 3 in the morning with her eyes wide open. 

And yes, by the time I actually crawl in the bed at night, I am not 100% all there.  It all gets real fuzzy, and there is a point after which I cannot get up or I will pass out.  I have passed out before letting the dog out.  It's totally screwed up.  All of a sudden, everything goes black and BAM, I'm on the floor.  Kind of like when you have low blood sugar.  The last time was so weird because every time I tried to lift my head off the floor, it would go BAM right back to the floor.  I tried 3 or 4 times to get up before I was actually able to, and I wound up crawling on all fours back to bed. 

So, you know, when I let the dog out, it's kind of like my awake mind and my REM mind are meeting in the middle.... in that sweet spot where the magic happens.  I used to have sleep paralysis when I was a teenager.  This that happens now is actually much less frightening than that, at least I can move now.  Though, last night the man did come.  The man waiting to kill me on my back porch.  Yep.  He was totally there.  Grabbed me by the hair with a gun.... but he didn't kill me.... he just told me to go back to bed.  He was gone when I woke up. 

Is it possible for sleep to drive someone crazy?  I mean, you know drugs do it.  And alcoholism.  They call it "substance-induced mood disorder."  I wonder if it is possible to have a "sleep-induced mood disorder." What am I supposed to say, "Oh, I'm sorry.  I can't sleep anymore.  I go crazy when I'm asleep." 

Pfftt.....  Apparently, it's the only time I can eat chocolate without making myself feel guilty as shit about it.  At least there's that.


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Friday, November 30, 2012

Here

Here: 

 
 
  And Here:
 
 
 
Just start clicking shit and you'll figure it out. 
Too tired to explain. 
Must.... find.... TV remote....
 
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Saturday, November 24, 2012

Only A Few

My son was with friends, late and dark. 
His friends wanted to go somewhere unsafe.  
Son asked, “Can I go?” 
I said no. 
I spied.  
All of his friends went,
My son stayed.   
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"Give us a few of your favorite things, in whichever form you want, in 33 words exactly."
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Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Still Writing

It is day 20 in the ongoing NaNoWriMo saga.  I've not missed a word count yet, though I haven't sailed past one, either.  

I have learned that leaving my work each evening in the middle of a sentence makes it easier to get started again the next day.  

I have learned that these two things frequently cited by some amateur writers and maligned by many successful ones are not merely quirky personality traits, they are personality faults that must be overcome, and are not, and will never be, conducive to being a writer-
1.  I cannot force myself to write. 
2.  I'm too much of a perfectionist.  

I'm guilty of having said both of those things.  And that fully explains why I have never written anything substantial in my life.  They are things I will never say again, nor concede to. 

I have learned that one's body makes neither exceptions nor concessions to the things it needs depending on your schedule or stress level.  This month, I have lost 7 pounds, had laryngitis and probably bronchitis, and now I have a UTI.  About 4 or 5 days ago, I got heartburn for the first time since I was last pregnant and it hasn't gone away.  I'm pretty sure my bladder is the size of a football and I would imagine it looks like the smoldering shit storm beneath Centralia, Pennsylviania.

I'm exhausted.  I'm still doing this while working a full-time job, doing motherly things, and alongside a kid who is also doing Nano, and who demands that we talk about it and compare notes. All. The. Time.  Talky McFuckingTalkerson. 

I have learned that this book will not be over on November 30.  Maybe 3/4 done. At worst, only 1/2 done.  It depends on what happens.

I have learned that my favorite thing to do everyday, when I sit down to write, is to read yesterday's words to remind myself where I am, remember the idea I had in my head the day before, then completely toss it out the window and do the opposite.  Every single day.   If I did anything different from that, I'd be bored out of my skull.  When I get bored, my writing is shit.  If my writing is shit, I delete it all back to the point where I got bored.  The I make people do a buncha bad stuff.  Then, it's fun again.  I win!

So, you ask, does good stuff happen?  In my stories?  Only if they work for it.  Don't nobody get a free ride on my watch.   Good things don't happen to good people, either.  Good things happen to the characters who spilled blood for it.  Lost fingernails.  Lost children.  Were forced to do horrible things.  Pissed blood.  Vomited worms.  Then, and only then, will good things happen.

That's the way I roll.  I'm a terribly cruel word-mother.


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Thursday, November 15, 2012

Not My Problem

"Some people don't want to hear the truth, of course, but that's not your problem." 
~ Stephen King

Do you ever really sit down and think about why certain books get banned?  I think the quote up there explains it all.

Either the story speaks truth that readers don't want to hear.
Or the story speaks that which readers are afraid might become the truth, if they hear it.  Or their children.  Or anyone else for that matter.

Of course, in my eyes, putting boundaries on that which I, as a human being, am exposed to with any of my senses completely goes against what it means to be human.  Which is to say, what it means to ME to be human.

I've told my son this for years- being a writer requires you to know people.  Not as friends or coworkers or even individuals, but to know human beings as a race.  How they act and react, how they perceive the world around them, what they tend to believe in and what they do not, and why.  And then, from your very first chapter, write everything and anything that forces them to question humanity.  Not their own humanity.  Humanity as a whole.  It's existence and reason for it.  Its potential in both extremes.

I think the one blanket truth humans do not want to know is that for the species to realize its full potential in one direction, it will inevitably realize its full potential in the other.  There is no circumventing that.  I will know absolutely that I have succeeded when someone puts down one of my creations and says to himself, "Is THIS what the world is coming to?"

And then I shall say, "Nope.  It's been that way all along.  And in order for you to be virtuously ignorant, I must bear the burden of being repugnantly nihilist."

You can thank me later.

As an aside, I know I have readers here that don't read my other shit, so, you know.  I wrote a short little thing that's gonna be in a thing which will go on sale December 1st.  You can see my cute little bio here http://waymanpublishing.webs.com/authors.htm, because, you know, why not?  And junk.  

And I am totally kicking punk ass on NaNoWriMo. www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/aimee-davis/ What's scary is how much fun I am having and how little "writer's block." Okay, truth.  I have had no writer's block.  None.  Not even for 5 minutes.  Of course, today is the halfway point.  So, you know, it could go




Yeah, I pretty much just did that.
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Sunday, November 11, 2012

Faces of Death

You don't understand.  You people will never understand. 
I don't get sick.  This just does not happen to me.  My body does not function the way your earthly bags of bones function. 
I am different.  
I am not human such as yourselves. 
So. 
When I get sick, I am pretty sure I am going to die.  
I mean, you just don't understand.  
See, I am coughing, right?  BUT..... it just doesn't stop with one cough!! OMG, there are like  50 COUGHS that happen before I can stop!! 
But it gets worse.  SOOO much worse. 
There is this alien substance that is being expelled from my body when I cough.  It's like.... like.... MUCUS!! Or plasma.  Or ectoplasm maybe.  Or it could be amalgamated boogers.  Dude.  I don't know what amalgamated means.  But it sounds really good with boogers.  
BUT.... it even gets worse!! You just don't get it!!
My skin.... it feels like... like.... HOT.  I mean, yeah, I'm pretty hot and junk, you know.  Normally.  But, this is different.  It's like.... I'm not doing anything, but it's like.... YUCKY!
And then... THEN!!.... I'm so tired.  You just don't know.  SO TIRED.  When I try to run, my body laughs at me.  It actually LAUGHS AT ME.  
I hate food.  Food is so gross.  ALL OF IT.  Gross!!
Except I really want one of those coffee shakes from McDonalds with the whipped cream on top.  That would be fucking FANTASTIC right now.... but I don't have one.  
SOMEBODY GO GET ME ONE NOW!!!
Holy shit, I just threw up in my hand...... 
I'm totally not joking....
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Sunday, November 4, 2012

Too Simple

Twenty-thousand words ago, I carved out your heart with a screwdriver and fed it to your dog.  In another twenty-thousand, you will beg me to do it again.   I like screwdrivers.  And dogs.  
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Trifextra Week Forty-
"we're asking for exactly 33 words about why we write"
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Monday, October 29, 2012

Augustine In The Window


There is a girl who lives in the window.  Her name is Augustine.

In an alternate universe, Augustine discovers the cure for cancer.  She doesn’t live in a window in that universe, but an upstate New York neighborhood.  She goes to an elite private school; Dad’s in real estate and mother is flawless.  Augustine is lavished, lovely, and sweet.  She graduates valedictorian from high school, magna cum laude from university.  Cancer is cured 10 years later.  All except leukemia, with which her daughter is diagnosed at age 15.  Daughter dies shortly after her 17th birthday.  Husband leaves her a couple years later for the little whore in his office.   He tells Augustine that she just cries too damn much and has let herself go, but Libby makes him feel alive again. 

In another universe, Augustine discovers travel at the speed of light.  She doesn’t live in a window in that universe, either, but is given up for adoption at birth.  Mother is an addict, leaves Augustine at a fire station in the middle of the night.  Her parents are not rich, but Augustine never goes without.   She is cherished, lovely, and sweet.  She is diagnosed with schizophrenia in her junior year of college, but thirteen years and a master’s degree later, she is nominated for a Nobel and three dogs are on their way to Andromeda.  Not long after, her illness gets the better of her and she is found hanging in her one-room apartment with the entire periodic table carved into her stomach. 

In the here and now universe, she is just Augustine In The Window.  Stringy brown hair that hangs below the windowsill, so I never know how long it is.  Maybe she holds a doll or a blanket.   Or maybe she waves so discreetly that it is hard to tell it’s a wave.   I know her name is Augustine because her mother always screams it.  And I am pretty sure her mother’s name is Please.  
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3)  a venal or unscrupulous person
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