So, I've been doing this little animated cartoon. I'll post a link to the actual animation when I finish the prologue, but for now, I've got screengrabs and character sketches here:
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php?set_albumName=album57
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Book Covers
So, I'm getting a better hand of this digital collage idea. That one with "the survivalist" was a fluke, I guess. I've been designing book covers for fun. They're of my own books or short stories. But most of them aren't my pictures. I'm just finding them off the internet and playing around with them. So, yeah, I've got some celebrities and stuff in there. Just ignore that fact and enjoy. I'll post a few below, but the rest are in my photo album. Once I develop this skill a little better, I'll start taking my own pictures and remake some of these.
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php?set_albumName=album53
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php?set_albumName=album53
Saturday, November 18, 2006
KERES rewrite
So I've come to the conclusion that...
In the article I mentioned earlier, it references Hills Like White Elephants, where Hemmingway tells the story from the point of a random eavesdropper in this conversation between a man and a woman. I've read the story. It makes the action very distant and that's kind of what I'm going for. So I tried to re-write chapter one by having it from the point of view of an eavesdropper, but without actually making it a real character. It's like omniscient without actually getting into anyone's thoughts. The narrator can see and hear everything, even smell, but can't know anything else. What is that called? Empirical? Anyway, it's more concise and I think it's working for the time being.
Chapter One
The sky was blue this morning. The plane smelled of moist towelettes and recycled meningitis. Some of the airline staff helped passengers store their carry-ons in overhead bins. And a thirty-something year old Asian man was shouting obscenities at the stewardess.
“Mr. Stipes, if you don’t take your seat and fasten your safety belt, I’m going to have to call security and have them escort you off this flight.”
The man pointed a finger in the stewardess’ face. “No, you don’t understand, lady. This plane is not taking off because I have a student still missing.”
“The airport will make sure she’s on the next flight to Utah as soon as she arrives.”
“Listen here, I am the teacher of, and therefore am legally responsible for, these six students. If they are not all in my field of vision, I go to jail, okay? Do you want that burden hanging over you? No! I didn’t think so, so let me do whatever I goddamn please.”
“Duke, catch.” It was the voice of a teenage girl. She was a simple creature, eyes bugging from under her glasses lenses, chin disappearing into her neck. She tossed the angry man a cell phone.
Duke Stipes put the phone up to his ear. “What?”
The stewardess reached for the phone, but Duke pivoted out of reach listening to a voice on the other end. “Sir,” she said. “The use of electronic devices on this flight is…”
“Shhh.” He held a shushing finger to her and waited for the wailing on the other end to cease. “Grounded my ass! Your mother does not understand the importance of a soprano part in a jazz band with a statewide reputation. Hey!”
The stewardess had swiped the mobile phone from Duke’s grip. “Take a seat, sir.”
Duke plopped down in his chair, buckled, and put his hand out palm up.
“I’ll return this at the end of the flight.” She stalked off.
“Hey!” Duke began to pull at his seat belt as though ready to tackle her, but he couldn’t manage to get it done in time. “Goddamn it.”
“Way to go,” said the girl with the glasses. “That’s my phone.”
“You’re promoted to soprano, Keys.”
The girl, Keys, snarled. “I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Only seconds later, he banged his hands on the arm rests. “Hey, let’s get this plane in the air!”
Between Duke and Keys were two things. The aisle. And another teenage girl. This one was something gentler to look at, almost sacred. Soft lines defined a small nose, watery eyes, and lips more mature than she. She scooted down in her seat and blinked at Duke. Then she reached into the backpack held between her ankles and pulled out a small novel. In the time it took her to get through the first five pages or so, someone had stifled Duke with an alcoholic beverage. A couple pages later, the plane lifted off the earth’s surface. A few dozen pages after that, the clouds had fallen away, leaving only sky. By the time the book had exhausted her attention, the plane’s wheels were skidding across the runway in Utah.
In other news, I've completely changed up my website (simple-assault.com) by moving all my pictures off the actual site and onto free photo albums. Check it out.
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/albums.php
In the article I mentioned earlier, it references Hills Like White Elephants, where Hemmingway tells the story from the point of a random eavesdropper in this conversation between a man and a woman. I've read the story. It makes the action very distant and that's kind of what I'm going for. So I tried to re-write chapter one by having it from the point of view of an eavesdropper, but without actually making it a real character. It's like omniscient without actually getting into anyone's thoughts. The narrator can see and hear everything, even smell, but can't know anything else. What is that called? Empirical? Anyway, it's more concise and I think it's working for the time being.
Chapter One
The sky was blue this morning. The plane smelled of moist towelettes and recycled meningitis. Some of the airline staff helped passengers store their carry-ons in overhead bins. And a thirty-something year old Asian man was shouting obscenities at the stewardess.
“Mr. Stipes, if you don’t take your seat and fasten your safety belt, I’m going to have to call security and have them escort you off this flight.”
The man pointed a finger in the stewardess’ face. “No, you don’t understand, lady. This plane is not taking off because I have a student still missing.”
“The airport will make sure she’s on the next flight to Utah as soon as she arrives.”
“Listen here, I am the teacher of, and therefore am legally responsible for, these six students. If they are not all in my field of vision, I go to jail, okay? Do you want that burden hanging over you? No! I didn’t think so, so let me do whatever I goddamn please.”
“Duke, catch.” It was the voice of a teenage girl. She was a simple creature, eyes bugging from under her glasses lenses, chin disappearing into her neck. She tossed the angry man a cell phone.
Duke Stipes put the phone up to his ear. “What?”
The stewardess reached for the phone, but Duke pivoted out of reach listening to a voice on the other end. “Sir,” she said. “The use of electronic devices on this flight is…”
“Shhh.” He held a shushing finger to her and waited for the wailing on the other end to cease. “Grounded my ass! Your mother does not understand the importance of a soprano part in a jazz band with a statewide reputation. Hey!”
The stewardess had swiped the mobile phone from Duke’s grip. “Take a seat, sir.”
Duke plopped down in his chair, buckled, and put his hand out palm up.
“I’ll return this at the end of the flight.” She stalked off.
“Hey!” Duke began to pull at his seat belt as though ready to tackle her, but he couldn’t manage to get it done in time. “Goddamn it.”
“Way to go,” said the girl with the glasses. “That’s my phone.”
“You’re promoted to soprano, Keys.”
The girl, Keys, snarled. “I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Only seconds later, he banged his hands on the arm rests. “Hey, let’s get this plane in the air!”
Between Duke and Keys were two things. The aisle. And another teenage girl. This one was something gentler to look at, almost sacred. Soft lines defined a small nose, watery eyes, and lips more mature than she. She scooted down in her seat and blinked at Duke. Then she reached into the backpack held between her ankles and pulled out a small novel. In the time it took her to get through the first five pages or so, someone had stifled Duke with an alcoholic beverage. A couple pages later, the plane lifted off the earth’s surface. A few dozen pages after that, the clouds had fallen away, leaving only sky. By the time the book had exhausted her attention, the plane’s wheels were skidding across the runway in Utah.
In other news, I've completely changed up my website (simple-assault.com) by moving all my pictures off the actual site and onto free photo albums. Check it out.
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/albums.php
Friday, November 17, 2006
Success and Failure
Calendar
It's done! Quote Calendar is done! I added some quote bubbles and fixed up the cover page nicely. I came to a little road block when I couldn't fit in everything on November and December, but I fixed that by making those two months a total of six pages. Sweeet.
Haven
For some reason unknown to everyone but my muse (ha.) I've been inspired to start actually writing the Haven sequel that's been stewing in my brain for a while. I have a feeling I'll be writing Keres before this one, but it seems way easier than Keres and way easier than I thought.
You see, a few years ago, I tried to write a sequel to my first novel (Emerican Adventure) and it was awful! I just couldn't get back into the mindset. But so far, Haven II (doesn't have a subtitle yet) is pretty easy. I wrote the beginning of chapter one, but got a little bored of it because I know where it's going. So I stopped for now. Basically all of chapter one will be a summary of the first book but from Callum's perspective, and through the interpretation of the movie that Michel et al made about Callum's adventures.
Then I started writing chapter two, which is much better and parallels the first book with some obvious differences.
It's done! Quote Calendar is done! I added some quote bubbles and fixed up the cover page nicely. I came to a little road block when I couldn't fit in everything on November and December, but I fixed that by making those two months a total of six pages. Sweeet.
Haven
For some reason unknown to everyone but my muse (ha.) I've been inspired to start actually writing the Haven sequel that's been stewing in my brain for a while. I have a feeling I'll be writing Keres before this one, but it seems way easier than Keres and way easier than I thought.
You see, a few years ago, I tried to write a sequel to my first novel (Emerican Adventure) and it was awful! I just couldn't get back into the mindset. But so far, Haven II (doesn't have a subtitle yet) is pretty easy. I wrote the beginning of chapter one, but got a little bored of it because I know where it's going. So I stopped for now. Basically all of chapter one will be a summary of the first book but from Callum's perspective, and through the interpretation of the movie that Michel et al made about Callum's adventures.
Then I started writing chapter two, which is much better and parallels the first book with some obvious differences.
Haven II
The spirit drinks of the river of life and breathes a stream of energy into the ear of the sleeping Dreamer. The boy stirs slightly, but does not wake. The night wears on and he groans more and more, rolling over, pushing his blankets from his bed. Still he does not open his eyes. Well before daybreak, the full moon aligns with his bedroom window and casts a beam of white light on the dreamer.
His eyes fling open. He gasps and sits up. His bare calves and heels scrape the mattress, searching for the comforter, but they find none. The Dreamer looks to the window and freezes in the lunar spotlight.
“I must go out into the world.”
The boy gathers very few things and rushes out into the balmy night. His feet slap against the pavement as he reaches the front gate. He drops his only possessions on the ground and steps into his brown loafers. He collects the couple other articles of clothing and pushes the gate open with his free arm. He strains as the gate tries to push him back, but finally the steel gate screeches just enough open for the thin boy to slip though. He makes sure to shut it behind him. Now standing in the bushes, he peers back between the bars to from where he’d come. He gives a monumentous sigh and crawls out of the shrubbery and into the real world.
The Dreamer emerges into cold world where smoke covers the sky and litter covers the lawns. This is the city.
He steals a glace back at the bushes hiding the gate of his secret shelter. His eyes water with the yearning to return, but the spirit makes another appearance. The boy cannot see it, but it dances about his head and flits in and out of his ear, whispering suggestions that he cannot ignore.
“I must proceed through this world.”
He takes a few steps and stops.
“But why?”
He takes one last glace back at the shrubs, but he can’t quite make out where the gate was. The entire wall is covered in these hedges.
“Because I need to get inspiration of course,” he assures himself and continues his walk.
[continue story]
The film reel ended. The lights came up. I could not applaud.
I wanted to. Everyone had worked so hard on this one, but some creature of my mind was gnawing at the back of my brain like Ugolino in the ninth circle of Hell. It was all false. The whole point of the movie was just crap. I would know, I directed it. I didn’t write it though…
I turned my head to look at Callum, the boy on whom the character of the Dreamer had been based. He sat against the side wall, refusing to take a seat. He held his knees close to his chin as if he were afraid someone might notice him and strike him down. His blue eyes barely surfaced between his blond bangs and his khaki pants.
The audience began to shift, finding their things amid other people’s things in hope of either retiring for the night or pursuing new creative projects, now freshly inspired. It was in this transitional period that Callum caught my gaze. I held it for a long time. We probably would have continued staring that way all night had Biaji not interrupted.
“Mich-y!” He wrapped his arms around me. “That was soooo good! Whoo, I got chills. Come on, we’re wanted at the autograph table.”
Biaji had found himself an orange and blue tweed jacket for the occasion. He was under the impression he was looking pretty sharp, which he probably would have been had he not been also wearing his red swimming trunks.
“Twelve weeks, Michel!” He spoke to me, but turned sideways and projected into the theatre so that everyone still leaving could hear his declaration. “Twelve weeks of hard work and it’s done, and what a hit! Do you know how many people are taking home copies tonight?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” I ducked my head to try to capture a glimpse of Callum under Biaji’s waving arm. He’d gone.
“Like…a lot. I don’t have the actually numbers yet but, it’s…a lot what are you looking for?”
“Where’s Callum?”
“Don’t start that again. Probably at the autograph table where you should be, Miss Director.” He put out his hand and slid me one of his alluring smiles. I clenched my teeth very hard, trying not to give into that charm, but took his hand. Together, we made it to the autograph table. Callum hadn’t arrived there yet. Maybe he didn’t plan to.
Percy, the actor who’d played Callum in the movie, already stood behind the table scribbling on DVD boxes with the Sharpie someone’s given him. I couldn’t get over how strange he looked with blond hair, a transformation that had consisted of Percy, Seyhak, a bathtub, a death grip, and a bottle of peroxide. His scalp still peeled from the distress of chemicals, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing ever hurt when in the haven.
A girl leaned over the table, watching Percy sign his name. “You play the tortured soul so well,” she praised. “How do you do it? I mean, that mindset, it’s so…out there.”
Percy’s writing paused only for second. I almost missed it. He glanced up, but his gaze retreated back to the autograph. “Acting’s what I do.” Only then did he smile at the compliment. He handed the box across the table and just stared at her.
“Well you keep it up, then.” She walked away, almost disappointed.
Percy scanned the mountains of DVDs still sitting on the table, but he must have sensed me watching him, because he looked up and smiled at me.
“Congratulations,” I told him.
“All thanks to you. You’ll have to direct more often. I got way more freedom in this movie than anything Biaji ever directed.” He looked sidelong at Biaji signing autographs at his own end of the table.
“He’s a visionary. My ideas are just too flimsy to give you better direction.”
He smirked. “Could have fooled me.” He fiddled with one of the boxes.
“So really, Percy, where did your inspiration come from? I mean, do you think there really are these…” I gestured to the air around my head. “…spirits lurking about, ready to manipulate us into certain death?”
He sobered more so. “You’ll have to ask Callum.”
I tapped a DVD box. “This is his testimony. He believes it. Do you?”
“Spirits,” he said, pondering it as though it were the first time. “Uh.” He made like he was ready for a clarification on the whole issue, but simply resolved it with a “No.”
“No spirits then.”
“No spirits. Either Callum’s trying to hide his real intentions or he dreamed it all up. He’s good at dreaming stuff.”
I curled my upper lip in thought. “Doesn’t sound right either way.”
He laughed, his dark eyes brightening a few value degrees. “Are you saying you believe in these spirits?”
“Absolutely not!” I didn’t know what else to say. “I…no, that’s ridiculous. But…there’s something, right? Something we don’t know about.”
He winced. “You mean like how we didn’t know about Sapphire? You think there’s more secrets? No, nuh, no, I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep. You should…” He pointed his marker at me, accusingly. “…you should…stop thinking for a while. Talk to Calllum if you’re confused. Talk to Loudon, maybe.”
“But Percy, think about it.”
He leaned over the table and lowered his volume. “No, Michel. I know you’re into this detective phase, but I cannot deal with anymore conspiracies.” He scowled and went back to writing on boxes even though the autograph line had fizzled out.
I sank. Maybe Percy was right. Maybe our recent encounter with swapping souls and walking through other people’s dreams made me paranoid of the paranormal. No, there was something going on here. Maybe the story was real to Callum, but it wasn’t real in the sense of actual events. Something had made Callum leave the haven that day and I was going to figure out what it was. I’d never believed in wandering spirits, but I was beginning to accept elements of reality that were less and less practical these days. I refused to be surprised again. So what was it? Would it come for Callum again? Would it come for others? If I tried to stop it, would it come for me?
The spirit drinks of the river of life and breathes a stream of energy into the ear of the sleeping Dreamer. The boy stirs slightly, but does not wake. The night wears on and he groans more and more, rolling over, pushing his blankets from his bed. Still he does not open his eyes. Well before daybreak, the full moon aligns with his bedroom window and casts a beam of white light on the dreamer.
His eyes fling open. He gasps and sits up. His bare calves and heels scrape the mattress, searching for the comforter, but they find none. The Dreamer looks to the window and freezes in the lunar spotlight.
“I must go out into the world.”
The boy gathers very few things and rushes out into the balmy night. His feet slap against the pavement as he reaches the front gate. He drops his only possessions on the ground and steps into his brown loafers. He collects the couple other articles of clothing and pushes the gate open with his free arm. He strains as the gate tries to push him back, but finally the steel gate screeches just enough open for the thin boy to slip though. He makes sure to shut it behind him. Now standing in the bushes, he peers back between the bars to from where he’d come. He gives a monumentous sigh and crawls out of the shrubbery and into the real world.
The Dreamer emerges into cold world where smoke covers the sky and litter covers the lawns. This is the city.
He steals a glace back at the bushes hiding the gate of his secret shelter. His eyes water with the yearning to return, but the spirit makes another appearance. The boy cannot see it, but it dances about his head and flits in and out of his ear, whispering suggestions that he cannot ignore.
“I must proceed through this world.”
He takes a few steps and stops.
“But why?”
He takes one last glace back at the shrubs, but he can’t quite make out where the gate was. The entire wall is covered in these hedges.
“Because I need to get inspiration of course,” he assures himself and continues his walk.
[continue story]
The film reel ended. The lights came up. I could not applaud.
I wanted to. Everyone had worked so hard on this one, but some creature of my mind was gnawing at the back of my brain like Ugolino in the ninth circle of Hell. It was all false. The whole point of the movie was just crap. I would know, I directed it. I didn’t write it though…
I turned my head to look at Callum, the boy on whom the character of the Dreamer had been based. He sat against the side wall, refusing to take a seat. He held his knees close to his chin as if he were afraid someone might notice him and strike him down. His blue eyes barely surfaced between his blond bangs and his khaki pants.
The audience began to shift, finding their things amid other people’s things in hope of either retiring for the night or pursuing new creative projects, now freshly inspired. It was in this transitional period that Callum caught my gaze. I held it for a long time. We probably would have continued staring that way all night had Biaji not interrupted.
“Mich-y!” He wrapped his arms around me. “That was soooo good! Whoo, I got chills. Come on, we’re wanted at the autograph table.”
Biaji had found himself an orange and blue tweed jacket for the occasion. He was under the impression he was looking pretty sharp, which he probably would have been had he not been also wearing his red swimming trunks.
“Twelve weeks, Michel!” He spoke to me, but turned sideways and projected into the theatre so that everyone still leaving could hear his declaration. “Twelve weeks of hard work and it’s done, and what a hit! Do you know how many people are taking home copies tonight?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” I ducked my head to try to capture a glimpse of Callum under Biaji’s waving arm. He’d gone.
“Like…a lot. I don’t have the actually numbers yet but, it’s…a lot what are you looking for?”
“Where’s Callum?”
“Don’t start that again. Probably at the autograph table where you should be, Miss Director.” He put out his hand and slid me one of his alluring smiles. I clenched my teeth very hard, trying not to give into that charm, but took his hand. Together, we made it to the autograph table. Callum hadn’t arrived there yet. Maybe he didn’t plan to.
Percy, the actor who’d played Callum in the movie, already stood behind the table scribbling on DVD boxes with the Sharpie someone’s given him. I couldn’t get over how strange he looked with blond hair, a transformation that had consisted of Percy, Seyhak, a bathtub, a death grip, and a bottle of peroxide. His scalp still peeled from the distress of chemicals, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing ever hurt when in the haven.
A girl leaned over the table, watching Percy sign his name. “You play the tortured soul so well,” she praised. “How do you do it? I mean, that mindset, it’s so…out there.”
Percy’s writing paused only for second. I almost missed it. He glanced up, but his gaze retreated back to the autograph. “Acting’s what I do.” Only then did he smile at the compliment. He handed the box across the table and just stared at her.
“Well you keep it up, then.” She walked away, almost disappointed.
Percy scanned the mountains of DVDs still sitting on the table, but he must have sensed me watching him, because he looked up and smiled at me.
“Congratulations,” I told him.
“All thanks to you. You’ll have to direct more often. I got way more freedom in this movie than anything Biaji ever directed.” He looked sidelong at Biaji signing autographs at his own end of the table.
“He’s a visionary. My ideas are just too flimsy to give you better direction.”
He smirked. “Could have fooled me.” He fiddled with one of the boxes.
“So really, Percy, where did your inspiration come from? I mean, do you think there really are these…” I gestured to the air around my head. “…spirits lurking about, ready to manipulate us into certain death?”
He sobered more so. “You’ll have to ask Callum.”
I tapped a DVD box. “This is his testimony. He believes it. Do you?”
“Spirits,” he said, pondering it as though it were the first time. “Uh.” He made like he was ready for a clarification on the whole issue, but simply resolved it with a “No.”
“No spirits then.”
“No spirits. Either Callum’s trying to hide his real intentions or he dreamed it all up. He’s good at dreaming stuff.”
I curled my upper lip in thought. “Doesn’t sound right either way.”
He laughed, his dark eyes brightening a few value degrees. “Are you saying you believe in these spirits?”
“Absolutely not!” I didn’t know what else to say. “I…no, that’s ridiculous. But…there’s something, right? Something we don’t know about.”
He winced. “You mean like how we didn’t know about Sapphire? You think there’s more secrets? No, nuh, no, I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep. You should…” He pointed his marker at me, accusingly. “…you should…stop thinking for a while. Talk to Calllum if you’re confused. Talk to Loudon, maybe.”
“But Percy, think about it.”
He leaned over the table and lowered his volume. “No, Michel. I know you’re into this detective phase, but I cannot deal with anymore conspiracies.” He scowled and went back to writing on boxes even though the autograph line had fizzled out.
I sank. Maybe Percy was right. Maybe our recent encounter with swapping souls and walking through other people’s dreams made me paranoid of the paranormal. No, there was something going on here. Maybe the story was real to Callum, but it wasn’t real in the sense of actual events. Something had made Callum leave the haven that day and I was going to figure out what it was. I’d never believed in wandering spirits, but I was beginning to accept elements of reality that were less and less practical these days. I refused to be surprised again. So what was it? Would it come for Callum again? Would it come for others? If I tried to stop it, would it come for me?
Digital Collage
I don't even know what to say. Yeah, it's pretty bad. See, I've been looking at some Dave McKean artwork because it really inspires me, and lately because I'm doing a formal analysis for Art Appreciation. So I decided that I would try to make a digiatal collage like Dave McKean. First, as practice, I'd just find pictures off the internet and try to recreate a drawing, but with scraps of photos. So I tried it. What a disaster! Check this out. Laughable.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Blue Blood
I added some more to that short freewrite from before. Here you have it.
One white feather wafted to the ground and landed in a puddle of blue ink. Slowly, the fibers of the feather began to suck in the ink as tree roots would bits of the water table. Blue commenced its invasion of white downiness. Each soft branch sagged under the weight of the navy tar. The shape deformed so much, the object no longer could be identified as a feather. Blue concluded its incursion and overtook white until the object lay completely flat and submerged in thick, boiling liquid. A demon’s blood runs blue.
Lingering on the fringe between that little gray area that, if you look too closely, proves not to be gray at all, but a pattern of black spots on a white background, and the white area, she tipped forward and fell straight out with her arms hanging off the sides of her like broken wings, no longer responding to the signals pulsed out by brain nerves. Light dwindled. Her broken frame bounced off the black spots of the gray area and she landed face first into the black. Splurp said the black area as her body impacted its gummy surface.
Submersed from the waist down in something much like tar, she sat up and examined her ruined figure. Blood gushed from her armpits where her arms had broken. She gave a shake of her head, sending her hair twisting about like an explosion of tangled ropes, and rolled her shoulders back, discarding her broken arms. The bloody limbs fell into the muck, and she stood.
Light from the white area still fingered its way down through the black spots above as though the gray area provided a canopy for the rain forest of the black area. And forest it was indeed. Oh, what animals dwelled here. What creatures! Sucking and wheezing all around her, they trudged through the steamy stew landscape, their forms falling just out of light. Shapeless, featureless abstracts condemned forever to wander this dark land.
The armless angel – her name was L – began her journey through these lands. But first, she knew, she’d have to find herself some new arms by which to pick up things, or perhaps by which to defend herself.
A beast, nameless for one could not distinguish one species from the next, skulked by ignorant of the recent arrival. The angel was on his back before he could have known. What a squeal that creature did cry! She wrapped her legs around the animal’s hind quarters and sunk her fangs into the scruff of his neck to anchor her dominant position. With one clean thrust of her pelvis, she tore off its back limbs with her legs. Shrieking, shrieking, oh the blood, what black blood mixing with the landscape, the same mixture.
And the angel donned her new arms, black and oozing down her sides. The bumpy flesh boiled little bristles of hair, appearing almost blond when a cylinder of light hit it just right. The knees of the animal were bent contrary to the elbows of a humanoid, so the woman took control of these possessions as though they were her own and snapped the bone backward, crushing any cartilage to protect it from just that. She reached with fingers, but found only hooves. The rough bone wiggled on each side of the split. She bared her teeth, now stained dark gray. Exercising the muscles behind these hoof bones, she stretched them back and forth until they split wide open, allowing thin pallid fingers to emerge. Once free, they tore apart the hooves until they could be cast aside. She gave another shake of her hair and clawed her way through her arm skin with her new found fingernails. She attacked the tufts of blond hair, prying them from their soil like uprooting weeds. Flesh separated from muscles and dropped away. The angel bled red.
L pulled at the skin on her hands. She stretched it until it reached her shoulder and there she let it go, taught against her vulnerable insides. She yanked it around the sides to completely cover the surface of her new arms. Her fingertips smoothed out the areas where the edges came together, and the wrapping melted together. Her form was complete. And she bled no longer.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Huh. Well that sucked.
Keres
So I continued to write Keres based on the beginning I have posted below and it deteriorated to some awful state of simplicity that I kept finding myself in before when I trashed earlier versions. Is it that I'm having problems writing omniscient point of view? Am I not distant enough? This is what the creative writing professor sent me: http://awpwriter.org/magazine/writers/djauss01.htm
It's very useful and I will meditate on this.
Calendar
I've only got November and December left to do. I almost considered scrapping all the work I'd done in preference for a page-a-day calendar that tears off, but I eventually returned to sanity. Maybe someday I will do an alternative version.
Writers of the Future
I want to submit an entry to the Writers of the Future contest to get some money, but with a limit of 17,000 words, I'm not sure my portfolio will be able to provide me anything. Anything I have is too long or too old. (In my case old = not good enough) Perhaps I will need to invent something new.
Documentary
I have proposed the idea of me making a documentary in England for my stay in London for the study abroad program here. I hope it goes through seeing as how I turned in my application six days after the deadline, but it's their fault for not advertising it.
drawing:
Which version do you like better? I don't have a scanner, so I had to take a picture of it. The one on the left is with the flash and the one on the right is without. It looks like I got them at a little bit of a different angle too because the proportions are slightly different.
Art Assignment
I've got two assignments for Art Appreciation. One is a website. I've created the template from scratch and added some frivulous detail. I will post it when it's done. I still need to do some research on satire artists. I don't know many even though it is my favorite function.
The second one is a 16-hour visual journal in which I will do like a scrapbooked journey. I will take my photos over Thanksgiving. One will be with my dog, one at the dinner table mimicking American Gothic, and one of isolated sleep paralysis. That's all I know of so far. The rest will probably be spontanious.
Website
Please note that I have taken most of my stories off my personal website (simple-assault.com) because I want to save space, but you can read them if you email me. I have left about six on there. I also updated the drawings page.
I just ate a whole bag of M&Ms in 30 seconds.
Please disreguard any spelling errors in this piece as I have not proof-read it. Thank you.
So I continued to write Keres based on the beginning I have posted below and it deteriorated to some awful state of simplicity that I kept finding myself in before when I trashed earlier versions. Is it that I'm having problems writing omniscient point of view? Am I not distant enough? This is what the creative writing professor sent me: http://awpwriter.org/magazine/writers/djauss01.htm
It's very useful and I will meditate on this.
Calendar
I've only got November and December left to do. I almost considered scrapping all the work I'd done in preference for a page-a-day calendar that tears off, but I eventually returned to sanity. Maybe someday I will do an alternative version.
Writers of the Future
I want to submit an entry to the Writers of the Future contest to get some money, but with a limit of 17,000 words, I'm not sure my portfolio will be able to provide me anything. Anything I have is too long or too old. (In my case old = not good enough) Perhaps I will need to invent something new.
Documentary
I have proposed the idea of me making a documentary in England for my stay in London for the study abroad program here. I hope it goes through seeing as how I turned in my application six days after the deadline, but it's their fault for not advertising it.
drawing:
Which version do you like better? I don't have a scanner, so I had to take a picture of it. The one on the left is with the flash and the one on the right is without. It looks like I got them at a little bit of a different angle too because the proportions are slightly different.
Art Assignment
I've got two assignments for Art Appreciation. One is a website. I've created the template from scratch and added some frivulous detail. I will post it when it's done. I still need to do some research on satire artists. I don't know many even though it is my favorite function.
The second one is a 16-hour visual journal in which I will do like a scrapbooked journey. I will take my photos over Thanksgiving. One will be with my dog, one at the dinner table mimicking American Gothic, and one of isolated sleep paralysis. That's all I know of so far. The rest will probably be spontanious.
Website
Please note that I have taken most of my stories off my personal website (simple-assault.com) because I want to save space, but you can read them if you email me. I have left about six on there. I also updated the drawings page.
I just ate a whole bag of M&Ms in 30 seconds.
Please disreguard any spelling errors in this piece as I have not proof-read it. Thank you.
Monday, October 30, 2006
KERES
I took another stab at writing the beginning on Leonie's story arc for my novel Keres. This is at least the FOURTH attempt and I think I might be getting closer to a keeper. This may not be the one that ends up in the book, but it's better than the first three tries.
The prologue is available here: http://www.simple-assault.com/Stories/KERES.doc
The chapter I started writing, which eventually will not be chapter one of the novel, but Leonie's first chapter, I will post here:
(Go easy on me, it's the first draft.)
Ten Years Later
Chapter One
Joel Stipes had a problem with authority, which was this: He hated it. Senior faculty, mostly men, in tweed suits sitting behind a table, glaring at him over their stupid bi-focal lenses, he hated that. Each one of them had a framed piece of paper in their offices that gave them the right to squander his dreams with a simple “No, Joel, we don’t find it appropriate for you to take your vocal jazz class to the Southwest this summer.” Screw ‘em. If Utah meant pulling the vocal jazz band tighter together, he’d be damned before a room of fuddy-duddies could stop him. No more than one week after school let out, he was on that plane with five of his students, and no one was the wiser.
“Where the hell is Amber?” he asked.
The stewardess motioned to his seat. “Sir, will you please sit down? The plane is about to take off.”
“Wasn’t talking to you.” He pointed at Leonie, his star alto. “Leo, Amber, where?”
Leonie gave a dramatic shrug from across the aisle. “Don’t think she’s coming, Duke.”
Keys leaned over Leonie, stretching her seat belt to its limit. “Oh yeah, Amber called me and said she can’t come.”
“What? When was this?” Joel Stipes, affectionately known as Duke by his students, nudged the stewardess aside to get a full view of Keys.
“I dunno. When we were standing in the gate.”
Duke grabbed at his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Keys sat back in her seat and proceeded to suck from her soda straw. “Forgot,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
He put out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
The stewardess tried gently to put his hand down. “Sir, we’re about to take off. The use of any electronic devices is prohibited at this time. I urge you to take your seat and buckle…”
Duke pointed a finger in her face, feeling his authority redeemed. “No, you listen. I’ve got a plane of high schoolers that I’m responsible for. I got one kid who’s not on the plane and I need to talk to her to find out what’s going on. Keys, give me the goddamn phone!”
Leonie scooted down in the seat, trying really hard to keep from smiling. She loved it when Duke made a mess of things, at least when it didn’t harm her directly. Those phony flight attendants had no idea who they were dealing with.
Keys obediently handed over her pink cell phone.
“How do you work this thing?” Duke mumbled to himself, repeatedly punching little plastic buttons. “Make it work!”
Keys sighed and unbuckled her belt. She leaned over Leonie, who looked at the stewardess. She had her hand on her hip and was glaring at Leonie, not sure how to deal with this. Leonie mouthed “Sorry.”
A moment later, Duke was yelling at a teenage girl twenty miles away. “Grounded my ass! We need that soprano part or we’re nothing. Get your mom on the phone, Amber.”
That’s when the stewardess snatched the phone away. “I’ll give this back at the end of the flight,” she said and stalked away.
“Hey!” Duke shouted back. He opened his mouth to say more, but another stewardess came up behind him and helped him back into his seat. She didn’t leave until she knew for certain he was safely buckled.
Once she’d gone, Keys, having returned to her seat, leaned over Leonie again and whispered, “Way to go. That’s my phone.”
“Well, you should have told me Amber called when we were still in the airport. You know, the punishment goes with the person that actually did the screwing up.”
She put her hand up to keep him from lecturing further. “Yeah, yeah.”
“You know what this means, right? You’re promoted to lead soprano.”
“I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He turned and looked down the aisle. “Hey, can I get something to drink?”
Keys sat back in her seat and put her headphones on. “Psycho,” she muttered.
Leonie dug around in her backpack and pulled out her paperback. Ignoring Duke’s pleading with the airline employees, she engulfed herself back into her book. It wasn’t long before she found herself reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension. Her mind kept drifting back to the field trip at hand.
Firstly, she’d been amazed that it had actually come into affect what with Duke’s unorganization and the low budget of her school district. She couldn’t believe the board of directors had actually given him the okay to take the jazz band to Utah, but then again, the whole thing with permission slips and fundraising had been a little sketchy. With putting the program under the alias of Wintercabin Bookclub and fundraising only off school property, she had to wonder how many corners he’d cut to get them this far.
Secondly, she was no musical prodigy like Keys. Keys had been playing piano since she was like three years old. She wasn’t even really part of the jazz band, but Duke insisted on bringing her along as the teacher’s assistant because he needed an instrument to get them in tune, and he sure didn’t know how to play anything. Even the three boys sitting on the plane somewhere behind her either had a good decade of vocal training or natural talent. She felt she’d been an accident. She’d been placed in choir class because her art class had been canceled. There, Duke had discovered her skill and recruited her in the after school club, Vocal Jazz Band I. This caused some resentment among the other musicians, especially Amber. She wouldn’t admit it to Duke, but she was glad the prissy soprano had gotten grounded.
The prologue is available here: http://www.simple-assault.com/Stories/KERES.doc
The chapter I started writing, which eventually will not be chapter one of the novel, but Leonie's first chapter, I will post here:
(Go easy on me, it's the first draft.)
Ten Years Later
Chapter One
Joel Stipes had a problem with authority, which was this: He hated it. Senior faculty, mostly men, in tweed suits sitting behind a table, glaring at him over their stupid bi-focal lenses, he hated that. Each one of them had a framed piece of paper in their offices that gave them the right to squander his dreams with a simple “No, Joel, we don’t find it appropriate for you to take your vocal jazz class to the Southwest this summer.” Screw ‘em. If Utah meant pulling the vocal jazz band tighter together, he’d be damned before a room of fuddy-duddies could stop him. No more than one week after school let out, he was on that plane with five of his students, and no one was the wiser.
“Where the hell is Amber?” he asked.
The stewardess motioned to his seat. “Sir, will you please sit down? The plane is about to take off.”
“Wasn’t talking to you.” He pointed at Leonie, his star alto. “Leo, Amber, where?”
Leonie gave a dramatic shrug from across the aisle. “Don’t think she’s coming, Duke.”
Keys leaned over Leonie, stretching her seat belt to its limit. “Oh yeah, Amber called me and said she can’t come.”
“What? When was this?” Joel Stipes, affectionately known as Duke by his students, nudged the stewardess aside to get a full view of Keys.
“I dunno. When we were standing in the gate.”
Duke grabbed at his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Keys sat back in her seat and proceeded to suck from her soda straw. “Forgot,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
He put out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
The stewardess tried gently to put his hand down. “Sir, we’re about to take off. The use of any electronic devices is prohibited at this time. I urge you to take your seat and buckle…”
Duke pointed a finger in her face, feeling his authority redeemed. “No, you listen. I’ve got a plane of high schoolers that I’m responsible for. I got one kid who’s not on the plane and I need to talk to her to find out what’s going on. Keys, give me the goddamn phone!”
Leonie scooted down in the seat, trying really hard to keep from smiling. She loved it when Duke made a mess of things, at least when it didn’t harm her directly. Those phony flight attendants had no idea who they were dealing with.
Keys obediently handed over her pink cell phone.
“How do you work this thing?” Duke mumbled to himself, repeatedly punching little plastic buttons. “Make it work!”
Keys sighed and unbuckled her belt. She leaned over Leonie, who looked at the stewardess. She had her hand on her hip and was glaring at Leonie, not sure how to deal with this. Leonie mouthed “Sorry.”
A moment later, Duke was yelling at a teenage girl twenty miles away. “Grounded my ass! We need that soprano part or we’re nothing. Get your mom on the phone, Amber.”
That’s when the stewardess snatched the phone away. “I’ll give this back at the end of the flight,” she said and stalked away.
“Hey!” Duke shouted back. He opened his mouth to say more, but another stewardess came up behind him and helped him back into his seat. She didn’t leave until she knew for certain he was safely buckled.
Once she’d gone, Keys, having returned to her seat, leaned over Leonie again and whispered, “Way to go. That’s my phone.”
“Well, you should have told me Amber called when we were still in the airport. You know, the punishment goes with the person that actually did the screwing up.”
She put her hand up to keep him from lecturing further. “Yeah, yeah.”
“You know what this means, right? You’re promoted to lead soprano.”
“I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He turned and looked down the aisle. “Hey, can I get something to drink?”
Keys sat back in her seat and put her headphones on. “Psycho,” she muttered.
Leonie dug around in her backpack and pulled out her paperback. Ignoring Duke’s pleading with the airline employees, she engulfed herself back into her book. It wasn’t long before she found herself reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension. Her mind kept drifting back to the field trip at hand.
Firstly, she’d been amazed that it had actually come into affect what with Duke’s unorganization and the low budget of her school district. She couldn’t believe the board of directors had actually given him the okay to take the jazz band to Utah, but then again, the whole thing with permission slips and fundraising had been a little sketchy. With putting the program under the alias of Wintercabin Bookclub and fundraising only off school property, she had to wonder how many corners he’d cut to get them this far.
Secondly, she was no musical prodigy like Keys. Keys had been playing piano since she was like three years old. She wasn’t even really part of the jazz band, but Duke insisted on bringing her along as the teacher’s assistant because he needed an instrument to get them in tune, and he sure didn’t know how to play anything. Even the three boys sitting on the plane somewhere behind her either had a good decade of vocal training or natural talent. She felt she’d been an accident. She’d been placed in choir class because her art class had been canceled. There, Duke had discovered her skill and recruited her in the after school club, Vocal Jazz Band I. This caused some resentment among the other musicians, especially Amber. She wouldn’t admit it to Duke, but she was glad the prissy soprano had gotten grounded.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
A Whole Lot of Olds
Not a whole lot of news today.
I've been working a lot on school and study abroad stuff.
Speaking of which, haven't picked out a topic for sure for an international movie. I thought about a girl who draws all these different stories, but now I'm not so sure. My ideas seem really cool for the first couple days but dwindle. I guess when I find one that lasts, I'll know it's the right choice.
Quotes calendar? I'm into August. Whoo!
My school did a production of Marisol, which was very good. Then I felt compelled to write something, but all I got was this:
One white feather wafted to the ground and landed in a puddle of blue ink. Slowly, the fibers of the feather began to suck in the ink as tree roots would bits of the water table. Blue commenced its invasion of white downiness. Each soft branch sagged under the weight of the navy tar. The shape deformed so much, the object no longer could be identified as a feather. Blue concluded its incursion and overtook white until the object lay completely flat and submerged in thick, boiling liquid. A demon’s blood runs blue.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Smile
Yeah, so The NOMS got chosen along with 15 other people to have their sort films shown in LA in front of a live audience. Holy crap.
http://www.extremefilmmaker.com/filmlist2006.htm
http://www.extremefilmmaker.com/filmlist2006.htm
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Burbank with a Baedeker
I've also been working through this idea of a collection of short stories about this eccentric man named Burbank. He's probably late twenties, early thrities. I sort of got the idea from Josh Joplin's Dear Mr. Henry letters. I'm not going to copy any of the events or anything, but having a very obsessive main character could be fun, but so far, my attempts at writing the scenes have failed. They haven't been funny at all.
I am considering making it a collection of short comic strips instead/as well. I think it would be cute. I just don't know what the stories are like yet.
In other news...
Keres -- I've made a little progress on this lately. It was a nice day, so I went outside and just started writing some of it. The first go was in first person, even though I know that it will end up in third person. I started over, changed the scene, and switched to third person. Neither chapter will end up in the final, I'm sure, but I'm working through characters and ending up with a few golden lines here and there. Still trying to fight the urge to be witty. It's a horror book. I can't let it be funny.
Calendar -- I've finished January through April now.
Free-write:
Like shadows of giant birds, the inhabitants of the house flickered in and out of their dinner table seats with the unsteady light of the candle at the center of the room. The candle, in actuality, was not lit by flame, but despair—a sort of black tar that wisped through the room on the breeze, causing creatures to fade in and out of reality. The breeze, in actuality, was not the gentle gale of the morning, but the motion of sadness, lapping up remnants of souls with uneven waves.
Such was the never ending state of the gloom.
Outside, someone had stapled a sign, which read “Welcometohell” in tacky orange marker, to a shrubbery. The shrubbery had no leaves, but grew little buds of melancholy, which could be mistaken for decaying bird feet, talons and all. The building itself was nothing pleasant to look at unless it was pleasing to stare at a hut made of fecal matter whilst getting your eyes probed through with an ice pick.
A chimpanzee-like thing guarded the entrance. If one could get close enough, they would see that it was not an ape of any kind, but a demonic gargoyle covered in mossy flesh that grew hair perhaps as a result of poor hygiene. If one could get close enough to tell that the moss-covered gargoyle was no ape, they would see why no one had ever returned with a description. In the creature’s left hand, it clutched a truncheon with a large spike rammed through one end. The creature had yet to utilize its stick – tree limb – for the rippling muscle beneath that moss-covered surface always provided enough force to crack stony knuckles against squishy faces.
Dark forest surrounded the hut. The canopy covered the sky so densely, night remained the local constant. Misty apparitions lurked between trees, never daring to venture near the guarded abode of the abandoned. If the inhabitants of Welcometohell ever had a family, they’d been long since forgotten, for hope no longer remained, as the candle had snuffed it out.
Eirie. Five feet tall. Would they have called him a hero then?
Eirie with six toes on each foot. Would they have feared him if they knew what was to come?
Eirie, taste buds in all his ears. Would the ape still have torn him apart?
Death is not so limiting in the gloom. In fact, it is practically a requirement. The average inhabitant of the hut had squandered four point three lives by the time Eirie showed his fleshy self up on the doorstep.
Eirie’s nose hurt. It was so small, he couldn’t quite scratch at it with his clunky fingers. He tucked whatever excess chin he had up into his neck to preserve the strong-jawed hero appearance. Death’s Cake, he’d been told, sat on the dining table inside the hut, and he was to have a piece. Eirie was not a boy of sugary indulgences and didn’t know why he must eat any of Death’s Cake, but he was a firm believer in prophecy. If the parchment lying at the bottom of the creek whispered his fate, as it had, then he’d be damned before he’d let opportunity slip him by.
Eirie ripped a twig from a tree with a loud snap, the wick gone. He pressed it against the side of his smooth nostril and scraped it up and down until the pain subsided. He gave the stick a flick away and continued his march through the forest. He let out a gentle belch, causing the smell of boiled dandelion to hang in the air. Eirie couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten, but judging by the ever fading scent of his own breath, he was due one soon. Cake should quench is craving.
Oh, that pain in his stomach, though. Was it the hunger or something else? The constipation, probably. Every full breath in, his belt buckle threatened to give way, and that jab below his navel stirred his guts into a frenzy, catalyzing a tingle through the rest of his body. He was almost there, he knew. Once he’d fulfilled the prophecy, he could go home and change into looser pants.
I am considering making it a collection of short comic strips instead/as well. I think it would be cute. I just don't know what the stories are like yet.
In other news...
Keres -- I've made a little progress on this lately. It was a nice day, so I went outside and just started writing some of it. The first go was in first person, even though I know that it will end up in third person. I started over, changed the scene, and switched to third person. Neither chapter will end up in the final, I'm sure, but I'm working through characters and ending up with a few golden lines here and there. Still trying to fight the urge to be witty. It's a horror book. I can't let it be funny.
Calendar -- I've finished January through April now.
Free-write:
Like shadows of giant birds, the inhabitants of the house flickered in and out of their dinner table seats with the unsteady light of the candle at the center of the room. The candle, in actuality, was not lit by flame, but despair—a sort of black tar that wisped through the room on the breeze, causing creatures to fade in and out of reality. The breeze, in actuality, was not the gentle gale of the morning, but the motion of sadness, lapping up remnants of souls with uneven waves.
Such was the never ending state of the gloom.
Outside, someone had stapled a sign, which read “Welcometohell” in tacky orange marker, to a shrubbery. The shrubbery had no leaves, but grew little buds of melancholy, which could be mistaken for decaying bird feet, talons and all. The building itself was nothing pleasant to look at unless it was pleasing to stare at a hut made of fecal matter whilst getting your eyes probed through with an ice pick.
A chimpanzee-like thing guarded the entrance. If one could get close enough, they would see that it was not an ape of any kind, but a demonic gargoyle covered in mossy flesh that grew hair perhaps as a result of poor hygiene. If one could get close enough to tell that the moss-covered gargoyle was no ape, they would see why no one had ever returned with a description. In the creature’s left hand, it clutched a truncheon with a large spike rammed through one end. The creature had yet to utilize its stick – tree limb – for the rippling muscle beneath that moss-covered surface always provided enough force to crack stony knuckles against squishy faces.
Dark forest surrounded the hut. The canopy covered the sky so densely, night remained the local constant. Misty apparitions lurked between trees, never daring to venture near the guarded abode of the abandoned. If the inhabitants of Welcometohell ever had a family, they’d been long since forgotten, for hope no longer remained, as the candle had snuffed it out.
Eirie. Five feet tall. Would they have called him a hero then?
Eirie with six toes on each foot. Would they have feared him if they knew what was to come?
Eirie, taste buds in all his ears. Would the ape still have torn him apart?
Death is not so limiting in the gloom. In fact, it is practically a requirement. The average inhabitant of the hut had squandered four point three lives by the time Eirie showed his fleshy self up on the doorstep.
Eirie’s nose hurt. It was so small, he couldn’t quite scratch at it with his clunky fingers. He tucked whatever excess chin he had up into his neck to preserve the strong-jawed hero appearance. Death’s Cake, he’d been told, sat on the dining table inside the hut, and he was to have a piece. Eirie was not a boy of sugary indulgences and didn’t know why he must eat any of Death’s Cake, but he was a firm believer in prophecy. If the parchment lying at the bottom of the creek whispered his fate, as it had, then he’d be damned before he’d let opportunity slip him by.
Eirie ripped a twig from a tree with a loud snap, the wick gone. He pressed it against the side of his smooth nostril and scraped it up and down until the pain subsided. He gave the stick a flick away and continued his march through the forest. He let out a gentle belch, causing the smell of boiled dandelion to hang in the air. Eirie couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten, but judging by the ever fading scent of his own breath, he was due one soon. Cake should quench is craving.
Oh, that pain in his stomach, though. Was it the hunger or something else? The constipation, probably. Every full breath in, his belt buckle threatened to give way, and that jab below his navel stirred his guts into a frenzy, catalyzing a tingle through the rest of his body. He was almost there, he knew. Once he’d fulfilled the prophecy, he could go home and change into looser pants.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
rat spider
This little guy is on my desk board now, my 7th drawing. Yeah, I stole the idea from Spaced. So Simon and Edgar, don't eat my face.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Introduction to this blog
Yes. No. Here we go.
"Creativity, it has been said, consists largely of re-arranging what we know in
order to find out what we do not know." George Keller
order to find out what we do not know." George Keller
Basically, I'm going to log my creative thought process through each of my projects. It is entirely possible that I will mention the beginning of a project and then it will disappear, for it is only the ideas that last a certain amount of time in Limbo (between first thought and first action) that actually get started. I do promise, though, that 90% or more of what actually gets STARTED get finished.
Let us begin.
Current projects. (Sorry, this will be a dry description)
1) Haven -- this is my third novel that I have finished. I haven't been working on it lately because I've been trying to find an agent. Now that I have just (as of yesterday) been rejected by the one angent I was really relying on, perhaps I will go back to it and revise. I was also considering writing a sequel or two sometime. That still might happen. For now, not much is going on in the Haven realm, except I found out that there is a movie coming out with this title and it doesn't look to be any good.
2) Calendar -- I've been collecting quotes for years and years. I finally have enough to make a quote calendar -- one quote per day. They have pictures along with them. Problems: somehow I managed to skip from 345 to 356. Also, there is a handful that I don't want anymore. Right now, I have done January, February, and half of March. I am also adding some as I go if they fit. I'm trying not to make them up, but have been unsuccessful in that once:
-- I'm opposed to justice.
--You mean you're opposed to justice or judice?
--What the hell is judice?
--It's that bit before prejudice. It's a little worse.
3) Desk board -- not too much to say. I'm drawing on my desk board when I get board or inspired. AKA when I'm procrastinating. Right now I've got a scorpion, fuzzy thing, Frisket (my dog), a two-headed ibex, an ouroboros, and a crazy little city college--very Dr. Seuss. I want to draw a rat spider like in Spaced.
4) Keres -- This is a horror book that I've been meaning to write for several years. I've gone to Utah and researched Anasazi. I never feel I know enough about them to write a book. That's why I want to get into a class where we learn about them, but that class is always full. HOWEVER, the other week I was looking through my research and finally feel I am ready to write the story. Problem: my style over the last few years has taken a sharp turn toward comical satire (too much Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett). Horror will be a challenge and a half, but I've read The Return by Bentley Little and am reading The Anasazi Mysteries. Those are not only of a horror genre that I wish to mimic somewhat, but are on the same topic.
5) International movie -- I may or may not being going to London for all of next semester. I know my fellow filmmaker friend is spending that time in France. We want to do some sort of movie together. Whether we just do establishing shots (ES) in the European countries or actually get some main footage, I don't know. Are we doing a plot-guided story? A mocumentary? A reenactment? A documentary? I don't know. Suggestions are welcome.
6) One Unknown -- This is another book I've been wanting to write, except I didn't realize until last summer that I want it to be a book. I thought it was going to be a screenplay, but I think a novel will work out better. Problem: finding a voice for this story. It's in third person, but I don't want it to sound too dry. Usually my third persons are comedy. This is a dramatic political satire. I think it will appeal to all sorts of audiences because it's aimed at the patriots, anti-patriots, and comic book hero obsessees. That's all I'm giving away at this point.
That's all for now. I will write here next time there is any progress (even mental) on any of these or other (new or old) projects.
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