100 Words – Mistletoe

Raul stood in horror. History repeating itself. He blinked hard to make it go away but still saw it even with his eyes shut. You can't unsee this sort of thing. They'd talked for twenty minutes. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. She was perfect, or nearly so. He was put off by her twitchy nature, circling him as they spoke. Like she was trying to get the attention he was already devoting to her. Suddenly, making no excuse, she marched away. Only then did Raul notice the mistletoe hanging over his head. He'd done it again.

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Writing Excuses

What do you do when you run out of excuses?

I want to be a writer but...

There are so many reasons not to write. Time, money, distractions and hundreds of other minor procrastinations keep us from doing what we want to do. Or do we? I'm talking about me here. I don't know about you. These reasons not to write are not right. Nothing but myself is stopping me. Oh yes, there will be sacrifices. There will be problems and conflicts and all that shit. If I want to write, then I should write and accept the consequences. For me though, I need a plan. I need to know there will be an outcome. Doesn't matter if that outcome is good or bad, but there must be a goal. Here I get into a sticky bit. I'm learning that I should never talk about my work in progress (WIP), because it is always changing and people think I lied to them when I told them about three revisions ago. So no details. However, thinking this all through has given me a plan, not only for this project, but for the next few as well. This is good. Now I just have to internally justify spending more time on writing. In the last month I've gone from half an hour to a full hour. Now it's time to add another half hour, but what do i give up? I do many things during the day that I don't "need" to do, but enjoy. Maybe I could do what I do but cut out five minutes here and there. That sounds so easy and logical. Of course I don't believe any of it. To my detriment, I'm a list maker. If I'm going to add to my writing time, piecemeal just won't do.

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100 Words – Solitary

Berger was a wasted wreck of a human being. A brilliant mind capable of amazing feats as long his nurse convinces him to eat and sleep. She developed a plethora of methods to distract him back to reality. This week nothing has worked. His latest project was a killer. He envisioned the crystalline structure. It wasn't right. As near to perfection as possible, but just not there. A solitary adjustment could complete it, or bring it all crashing down. He cowered before the potential tidal wave of failure in his mind. The nurse ends his misery with a fluffy pillow.

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100 Words – Promise

There was the promise of a keg. We arrived, unknown to the host, but our bottle of scotch bought us welcome. He took the bottle and disappeared into the crowd. We found no keg but ample beer in the kitchen. We settled on the couch. It wasn't until then that we noticed the complete lack of female guests. At first we thought it must be a gay party. Not a problem as long as the good beer held out, but then a loud argument broke out about Fortran vs. Pascal. They weren't gay, they were geeks. We fit right in.

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100 Words – Drive By Flirting

I was the victim of a drive-by flirting. It started with an observation without intent. The woman at the bar had a Betty Boop beer cozy. I commented on it. She smiled and told me the story of her life as a Betty and showed me her Bettie Page tattoo. It was when she pulled down her shirt, exposing the majority of her left breast, that I noticed one of her fingers was a stub. I laughed when her story of its loss mirrored my father's loss of the same finger. She grabbed my thigh, "let's go." I said no.

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Tom Week – Rex in Peace

Rex is gone. He couldn't stand up this morning and his sad confused eyes told us it was time. We had him over 11 years. The vet was very nice and comforting. Some days are just happy days. Got to drive on some great back highways today. Went from 40 degrees this morning to 75 this afternoon. I'm up to 528 followers on Twitter. That's 28 more than Monday. Two tweets yesterday. One bombed and one soared. Cool. I got an email from a recruiter today with a job that actually sounds enjoyable and I'm qualified for it. It's a remote 6 to 12 month contract. I just have to decide if I want a job right now. I wasn't expecting to start looking till January. Restarting work on the new novel(?) Working on my Twitter stuff I've developed a different approach to the first draft process. It's changing how I view the novel characters and calls for some replotting. My tablet died this morning. Went to WalMart and got a new one. It's amazing how much crap accumulated on the old tablet that I don't need on the new. Events continue to keep my depression at bay. Things that need to be done are doable. The wandering will continue. Wanted to ride today. Didn't. Went to renew four of my meds today. They turned down two of them. Turns out while I did have 1 refill left on each of them, the refill period for both ended last month. So tomorrow I have to go to urgent care and convince a doctor-like person that I need my meds. Such fun. Due to the Rex situation I didn't get to urgent care. Ah well, it's only depression.

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Are You A Real Writer?

Am I a real writer?

Of course I am. Are you a real writer? That depends. Have you written anything? That is the question. Have you written anything? For me the anything in that question means anything. Any written thing. If you've written a single string of words intended to evoke a response, you are a writer. Seems simple enough but not everyone shares my view. A recent on-line conversation showed me that some people try to invoke a stricter meaning on the title of writer. By some accounts I am not a writer because I've never been published by a "real" publisher. A bit of background; I self-published a novel and a book of short stories. I wrote two short stories that were published in on-line journals. I participate in a couple daily prompts on Twitter. I have over 500 followers. To some people all that does not a writer make. I disagree. Being published has little to do with being a writer. That's something that happens when the writing is done. The process of writing is not dependent on the existence of the reader. While most writers do want to build and engage with an audience. It is not a requirement. So why do some writers push for these boundaries? The most obvious reason is status. By saying you're not a writer unless your published, that restricts the world of writers to a much smaller, more select group. Therefor being a member of the group makes you more important than those excluded from the group. That's a greedy and weak point of view. Many of my favorite writers have never been "published." People who can make me afraid, aroused or amused with just a sentence or two. They aren't just writers, they are great writers. So if anyone ever tells you aren't a "real" writer, tell them that I said your were. Or better, tell them to masticate excrement and expire.

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100 Words – Bike Drunk

I love riding my bike when I'm almost drunk. "Of course I would never ride when I'm drunk." I say into whatever hidden microphones the cops might have placed on the bike path. Ah, the next dive. Whoever laid out these paths must have been a heavy drinker. At each and every end and junction is a bar of notable disrepute. The trail-heads of vice. If the police ever asked after me each bartender and waitress would swear I just had my two beers and moved on. They don't know they are just one step on the stairway to intoxication.

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