I think I can work with the seemingly hundreds of subtopics I discussed in the previous two assignments. I can possibly do the concept of a sense of belonging or community within the work environment and the dynamics involved with such.
I think I can also use the topic discussed and work the ideas of using the myself as a model of a main character in my writing, pulling my own ideologies into the main character. I think however what I want to do is use the idea I presented in the last essay in which I take sections of my novel and analyze where the concepts and ideas presented came from, I think I would really enjoy that the most.
What I can do is discuss the one character - Troy and how I used The SF Giants pitcher Brian Wilson as a partial inspiration for his appearance. I can also take his son Quinn and evaluate the inspiration for his appearance and motives in the story.
I think this would likely be one of the assignments that I would really get into. Unfortunately I haven't had too much time to think about it yet, but now that the idea is planted, I'm already churning up a framework and exemplory passages that can be used for this assignemnt.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Talk About It
Hey, Hi. Did you read the whole thing first of all? If not go back and read it, damnit. What did you see as being the central idea of the essay? What was interesting, what worked or didn't work? Is it cohesive and easy to follow? (probably not)
Essay 2
Writers block, cliché, I know but it’s the elephant in the room, another cliché, I know. I'm bored with the novel I'm working on. It's missing something. It's missing my interest. That's the bane of any piece of writing and the single most disastrous thought. "Just write" I tell myself, "edit later" It's impossible to adhere to when you edit as you go. "Write something that interests me, fuck the audience," easier said than done. I reassure myself, "You have to write for yourself first, asshole."
iTunes spins up on random shuffle. But is it really? My library is heavily favored towards my favorite band, Mastodon. Their entire discography to just a few scattered songs from varying other artists. Mastodon’s 'Iron Tusk' starts up. The bleating drum blasts roar through the headset. Heavy, pounding guitars charge forward. I want that in my novel. I want to write something that mirrors the sound. Something dire, disparaging something heavy. I'm focused now. Someone’s got to die and it won't be someone you expect or want to die. I'm going to kill a kid.
Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ has a line in it that inspires me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." The line is thought provoking, yet so basic. This kid's blood will be splattered on a concrete median, crumbling as bullets embed in it as he gets shot in the head, right in front of his father. Oh, shit, now we're talking.
I need another character first. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a shop keep in a war-torn, overpopulated city. The television pulls me away from my writing. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I want a piece of that eccentricity in the man I'm molding in my story, so he too, will have an off colored beard.
The future in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel inherently, will reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected in the level of neglect the buildings of the cities; the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. A blank page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.
I write as though I am the main character. The main character is alone, strong willed and ambivalent but with a touch of benevolence. The main difference between us, however is that the character in my story has a goal. He is determined to complete his task; a task that will turn humanity back in the right direction. He is determined to disclose the truth to the masses, even if he is martyred in the process. This ambition and drive directly conflicts with my logic and defies common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Is this character stronger than I? Or am I stronger for realizing my flaws and writing this?
I want to fill this created world with a future that reflects everything that is going on today, all the problems and issues played out down the line. It's a bleak future but let’s face it our existence is just that, bleak. Can one person truly alter the future? I say no, yet I write about a person that will. Is this hope shining through? I'd better kill another character off.
I'm devoted to realism; writing real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really compel a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read, would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that? I want him to question his ethics after words, I want him to feel like shit after making a decision, and I want that decision to play out in a way that each choice haunts him, for better or for worse.
I have to attend a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet is a teacher of ours. She reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept but my mind is elsewhere. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?
I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. Is that even possible? Can we I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. Everything must have been thought of before, be it dismissed or faded into the unconscious, but in the end it’s not about being new or innovative. It’s really about creating something that I am proud of something I feel holds a level of truth and realism that might in fact be a deciding factor for someone who is questioning an idea or concept. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing. Is that me, or my main character talking?
iTunes spins up on random shuffle. But is it really? My library is heavily favored towards my favorite band, Mastodon. Their entire discography to just a few scattered songs from varying other artists. Mastodon’s 'Iron Tusk' starts up. The bleating drum blasts roar through the headset. Heavy, pounding guitars charge forward. I want that in my novel. I want to write something that mirrors the sound. Something dire, disparaging something heavy. I'm focused now. Someone’s got to die and it won't be someone you expect or want to die. I'm going to kill a kid.
Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ has a line in it that inspires me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." The line is thought provoking, yet so basic. This kid's blood will be splattered on a concrete median, crumbling as bullets embed in it as he gets shot in the head, right in front of his father. Oh, shit, now we're talking.
I need another character first. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a shop keep in a war-torn, overpopulated city. The television pulls me away from my writing. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I want a piece of that eccentricity in the man I'm molding in my story, so he too, will have an off colored beard.
The future in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel inherently, will reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected in the level of neglect the buildings of the cities; the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. A blank page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.
I write as though I am the main character. The main character is alone, strong willed and ambivalent but with a touch of benevolence. The main difference between us, however is that the character in my story has a goal. He is determined to complete his task; a task that will turn humanity back in the right direction. He is determined to disclose the truth to the masses, even if he is martyred in the process. This ambition and drive directly conflicts with my logic and defies common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Is this character stronger than I? Or am I stronger for realizing my flaws and writing this?
I want to fill this created world with a future that reflects everything that is going on today, all the problems and issues played out down the line. It's a bleak future but let’s face it our existence is just that, bleak. Can one person truly alter the future? I say no, yet I write about a person that will. Is this hope shining through? I'd better kill another character off.
I'm devoted to realism; writing real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really compel a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read, would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that? I want him to question his ethics after words, I want him to feel like shit after making a decision, and I want that decision to play out in a way that each choice haunts him, for better or for worse.
I have to attend a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet is a teacher of ours. She reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept but my mind is elsewhere. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?
I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. Is that even possible? Can we I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. Everything must have been thought of before, be it dismissed or faded into the unconscious, but in the end it’s not about being new or innovative. It’s really about creating something that I am proud of something I feel holds a level of truth and realism that might in fact be a deciding factor for someone who is questioning an idea or concept. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing. Is that me, or my main character talking?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Blog 9
I put a serious of short stories that I felt were impactful, however not exactly relavant to the overall theme of the piece. I have a great start I feel and a great ending which are very relavent to the topoic however i do veer off on a tangent mid way through the story. I can split the essays up and have already thought about what stories I want to add to the first one to better push my topic.
For my next essay I think what I want to do is explore how, as a writer, influence comes from everywhere. It's omnipresent and always there whether you know it or not and I'd like to delve into how it subliminally or consiously influences your work. I thought of using my novel and the external and internal influences in crafting the world, situations and characters. I think it would be very interesting to do a self evaluation of my writings and explore how I came up with the scenarios and some of the characters and inspect on how my personal beliefs and ideoliogies have come out through this fiction piece.
For my next essay I think what I want to do is explore how, as a writer, influence comes from everywhere. It's omnipresent and always there whether you know it or not and I'd like to delve into how it subliminally or consiously influences your work. I thought of using my novel and the external and internal influences in crafting the world, situations and characters. I think it would be very interesting to do a self evaluation of my writings and explore how I came up with the scenarios and some of the characters and inspect on how my personal beliefs and ideoliogies have come out through this fiction piece.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Rough Draft 1
Dad shut the truck door and headed for church. The cracked beige leather seats of the white suburban gave very little. As I watched him walk down the street, I turned the radio on. Naturally, being the oldest I always sat in the front seat while my three brothers sat in the back. I manned the radio. Every Sunday this was the routine. K-Rock constantly played the rock songs we all listened to. On occasion however we snuck CD's in and played it while the crowds of people passed the rumbling truck playing rock while on their way to church. Dad was in the choir and it made it a hell of a lot easier to get out of church. We had to go early with him but he trustingly left us the keys to play music while we waited for mass to start. We never went in though. Instead we sat in the truck for an hour and a half and listened to music. When mass finally ended he took us to get bagels on the way back home. It was routine. This was our church.
Something was wrong. I never let a ground ball go through my legs. I made the all-star team every year as shortstop. This is becoming as routine as a fly ball. They put me in the outfield. The yellow FoodTown jersey annoyed me now. I was in right field, and still was having trouble with coordination. My mother kept insisting that I was ‘jerky.’ I never believed her until while at my grandmothers I grabbed for a cup of milk, and spilled it on the ground. Every time my mother insisted we see a doctor though, the twitching stopped. My mother, grandmother and my family were distraught. My Dad told me he was praying for me. That was the only year in Little League that I didn’t make the All-Star team.
The new MTV show, The Osborne’s was on. My mother and I loved that show. We sat watching Ozzy curse and bumble his way through the episode. My father sat in the living room with his head down, pretending not to hear the bleeps every two seconds. Finally he had enough, during a commercial break he came into the living room. "What the hell do you have them watching this shit for? Why the fuck do you have this on? It's trash all they do is curse and I don't want my kids watching this filth." My mother replied fervently "I'll watch what I want in my house. At least they bleep out the curses on TV!"
It was dark. All I can remember is my mothers hands on my chest pinning me to the floor of the Ford Aerostar. My father was driving. They were taking me to the hospital, and I had refused to go willingly. My mother was crying over me, and I was shouting every vile thing I could think of. “I fucking hate you! I’ll never love you again. I’ll never talk to you ever again. I hate you!” Repeated over and over as my mother cried. All she could say was “I know, I know”
I can't remember much about what was actually taught in CCD. I can’t even remember what CCD stood for anymore. All I know was that it was where we went to learn about Jesus and the Bible after school. We just called it the Central City Dump. The excitement of seeing Courtney there every week kept me from feigning sick. Every week I would wait for her parents green cavalier to drive up and to see her get out and walk up to the door of St. Mary's where I would attempt what little I knew about flirting. One day I even worked up the courage to ask her for her AIM screen name. She wrote in a pink glitter pen on a small piece of paper. Later that night I'd add her and awaited her sign on every night.
They had a diagnosis. Sydenham's chorea. The doctors and nurses openly admitted they had never even heard of it. They would have likely never even found out about it if it wasn't for my mothers persistence. In the early days of Google and Yahoo, she searched and searched for answers pin pointing one solution and inquiring about it. Mom had to take my brothers to baseball and basketball practices. Dad came in. He had 5 books of word searches and puzzle books, and he brought a movie, a trilogy actually, one I'd heard of but never seen before; Star Wars. I watched it repeatedly. I finished one of the puzzle books while waiting for him to return back from grabbing a bite to eat in cafeteria downstairs. He couldn't believe it. Every day he brought more puzzle books for me to work on, and then he began bringing actual books for me to read along with a bunch of snacks, kit-kats and twizzlers.
“You know, you guys should at least get to mass for Christmas and Easter. This is your faith.” My Dad said in that tone that was filled with perpetual disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” We brushed the comment off like a gnat as we watched the Dallas Cowboys game at my Uncle’s house on Thanksgiving. “What days you have work this week Dad?”
Steven was the name of the boy in the "room" next to me. A room divided by a thin curtain. Steven was my age, 12. He was struck by a drunk driver shattering his leg. His knee and leg had pins straight through to hold everything together. I remember watching TV with him and walking down to the game center and playing Mario, Mario kart and other video games, despite the wishes of nurses not wanting to continue moving Steven's bed and monitoring me as I walk, so they allowed us to bring the NES into our room along with a few games. One day Steven was just gone. He hadn't healed yet. He was moved to another room and that was the last I heard of Steven.
After fully recovering I remember my father attributing my recovery to God. It was a miracle. That never felt right to me. The fact that my entire struggles, everything I've been through, everything I dealt with credited not to me or the nurses or doctors or medicine, but simply, God; God did it. That was unsettling. It was upsetting. The months after were filled with my Mother and Grandmother arguing about the past. My Aunt got involved and it was ugly. I was trying to recover, and was doing remarkably well. They were all yelling in the kitchen as me and my three brothers watched TV in the living room, easily within earshot of the shouting. I had an idea. In the movies and on TV when family is shouting a kid runs in, crying and says stop fighting and shouting. I tried it, but it ended with my mother telling them to leave and to never come back; resulting in a 12 year lapse in the relationship with my mothers entire side of the family.
I was never fully comfortable with the Roman catholic version of life. An early fascination with dinosaurs as a child deeply rooted dates in my subconscious. The Cretaceous period was 64 million years ago, the Jurassic before that was 200 million and before that the Triassic was 250 million. There is carbon dating proof, yet I’m told to believe the Bible. 6,000 years ago? Seriously? A book, scribed by mankind, as spoken through God. What about the dinosaurs?
College level Biology. Much more exciting than high school biology. The fact that I paid for my education seemed to make every subject exciting. Evolution. The professor made it a point to continually say he wasn’t trying to question anyone’s faith, but continued to teach evolution also mentioning that there isn’t complete proof that even science is accurate. I didn’t care. It is obvious that we came from apes. We share a common genetic code of 95% to 98%. Why do we have tailbones? Why is our brain wired backwards? Why do we have a pinky? Why do we have an appendix? If we were made in God’s image, then he too must have these things, right? Can God get appendicitis?
“You know I love you guys. It’s good getting out with you’s.” My Dad said with a smile, grabbing my shoulder and patting my brothers on the back. After every round of golf he says the same thing. It’s surer than the sun rising. “I mean I played like crap. It’s not even fun anymore for me. I don‘t even want to play anymore.” He always says it sincerely, but we all know he’ll be asking us in a few days when we are all available for another round of golf.
Something was wrong. I never let a ground ball go through my legs. I made the all-star team every year as shortstop. This is becoming as routine as a fly ball. They put me in the outfield. The yellow FoodTown jersey annoyed me now. I was in right field, and still was having trouble with coordination. My mother kept insisting that I was ‘jerky.’ I never believed her until while at my grandmothers I grabbed for a cup of milk, and spilled it on the ground. Every time my mother insisted we see a doctor though, the twitching stopped. My mother, grandmother and my family were distraught. My Dad told me he was praying for me. That was the only year in Little League that I didn’t make the All-Star team.
The new MTV show, The Osborne’s was on. My mother and I loved that show. We sat watching Ozzy curse and bumble his way through the episode. My father sat in the living room with his head down, pretending not to hear the bleeps every two seconds. Finally he had enough, during a commercial break he came into the living room. "What the hell do you have them watching this shit for? Why the fuck do you have this on? It's trash all they do is curse and I don't want my kids watching this filth." My mother replied fervently "I'll watch what I want in my house. At least they bleep out the curses on TV!"
It was dark. All I can remember is my mothers hands on my chest pinning me to the floor of the Ford Aerostar. My father was driving. They were taking me to the hospital, and I had refused to go willingly. My mother was crying over me, and I was shouting every vile thing I could think of. “I fucking hate you! I’ll never love you again. I’ll never talk to you ever again. I hate you!” Repeated over and over as my mother cried. All she could say was “I know, I know”
I can't remember much about what was actually taught in CCD. I can’t even remember what CCD stood for anymore. All I know was that it was where we went to learn about Jesus and the Bible after school. We just called it the Central City Dump. The excitement of seeing Courtney there every week kept me from feigning sick. Every week I would wait for her parents green cavalier to drive up and to see her get out and walk up to the door of St. Mary's where I would attempt what little I knew about flirting. One day I even worked up the courage to ask her for her AIM screen name. She wrote in a pink glitter pen on a small piece of paper. Later that night I'd add her and awaited her sign on every night.
They had a diagnosis. Sydenham's chorea. The doctors and nurses openly admitted they had never even heard of it. They would have likely never even found out about it if it wasn't for my mothers persistence. In the early days of Google and Yahoo, she searched and searched for answers pin pointing one solution and inquiring about it. Mom had to take my brothers to baseball and basketball practices. Dad came in. He had 5 books of word searches and puzzle books, and he brought a movie, a trilogy actually, one I'd heard of but never seen before; Star Wars. I watched it repeatedly. I finished one of the puzzle books while waiting for him to return back from grabbing a bite to eat in cafeteria downstairs. He couldn't believe it. Every day he brought more puzzle books for me to work on, and then he began bringing actual books for me to read along with a bunch of snacks, kit-kats and twizzlers.
“You know, you guys should at least get to mass for Christmas and Easter. This is your faith.” My Dad said in that tone that was filled with perpetual disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” We brushed the comment off like a gnat as we watched the Dallas Cowboys game at my Uncle’s house on Thanksgiving. “What days you have work this week Dad?”
Steven was the name of the boy in the "room" next to me. A room divided by a thin curtain. Steven was my age, 12. He was struck by a drunk driver shattering his leg. His knee and leg had pins straight through to hold everything together. I remember watching TV with him and walking down to the game center and playing Mario, Mario kart and other video games, despite the wishes of nurses not wanting to continue moving Steven's bed and monitoring me as I walk, so they allowed us to bring the NES into our room along with a few games. One day Steven was just gone. He hadn't healed yet. He was moved to another room and that was the last I heard of Steven.
After fully recovering I remember my father attributing my recovery to God. It was a miracle. That never felt right to me. The fact that my entire struggles, everything I've been through, everything I dealt with credited not to me or the nurses or doctors or medicine, but simply, God; God did it. That was unsettling. It was upsetting. The months after were filled with my Mother and Grandmother arguing about the past. My Aunt got involved and it was ugly. I was trying to recover, and was doing remarkably well. They were all yelling in the kitchen as me and my three brothers watched TV in the living room, easily within earshot of the shouting. I had an idea. In the movies and on TV when family is shouting a kid runs in, crying and says stop fighting and shouting. I tried it, but it ended with my mother telling them to leave and to never come back; resulting in a 12 year lapse in the relationship with my mothers entire side of the family.
I was never fully comfortable with the Roman catholic version of life. An early fascination with dinosaurs as a child deeply rooted dates in my subconscious. The Cretaceous period was 64 million years ago, the Jurassic before that was 200 million and before that the Triassic was 250 million. There is carbon dating proof, yet I’m told to believe the Bible. 6,000 years ago? Seriously? A book, scribed by mankind, as spoken through God. What about the dinosaurs?
College level Biology. Much more exciting than high school biology. The fact that I paid for my education seemed to make every subject exciting. Evolution. The professor made it a point to continually say he wasn’t trying to question anyone’s faith, but continued to teach evolution also mentioning that there isn’t complete proof that even science is accurate. I didn’t care. It is obvious that we came from apes. We share a common genetic code of 95% to 98%. Why do we have tailbones? Why is our brain wired backwards? Why do we have a pinky? Why do we have an appendix? If we were made in God’s image, then he too must have these things, right? Can God get appendicitis?
“You know I love you guys. It’s good getting out with you’s.” My Dad said with a smile, grabbing my shoulder and patting my brothers on the back. After every round of golf he says the same thing. It’s surer than the sun rising. “I mean I played like crap. It’s not even fun anymore for me. I don‘t even want to play anymore.” He always says it sincerely, but we all know he’ll be asking us in a few days when we are all available for another round of golf.
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