Thursday, December 31, 2009

2010.

Is it tempting fate too much to tentatively set 2010 as the year when I'll be finished? Probably.

I need to be averaging about 1,000 words a week. I'm not at the moment. But I think I can do it. So what is that? My New Year's resolution?

What's your New Year's resolution?

In other news, this remix by DJ Earworm blew my muffin' mind:



Download here.

Goodbye, 2009. I didn't like you very much. But I'll miss you all the same.

Happy New Year!


P.S. Megan Phelps-Roper of Westboro Baptist Church fame recorded her own parody of "Poker Face" by Lady GaGa. It's oddly catchy. "You diss God! You diss God! Yeah, you just got your whoooorish face!"

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Hermaphrodite City!

By the way, all drabbles take place before the start of my book-in-progress. I was gonna call them "snapshots." But I didn't. This particular one takes place before Marcus becomes a Cap. 248 words.


Title: I'm Not Lyin', I'm Just Stunnin' With My Love-Glue-Gunnin'

Character(s): Marcus


---


Marcus turns the radio up. His favorite song is on.

"Can I be hermaphrodite pretty?" he sings. He looks in the mirror and shakes his butt. It's a good butt, so everyone tells him. "Am I an innie... O-OR AN OUTTIE?"

He's got a date in half-an-hour. He's had a date every day this week so far. Knock on wood.

Ripped bootcut jeans. Shirt one size too small. A dab of dollar store gel in his hair. Cologne slick like oil on the inside of his wrists and across his neck.

"Chasin' Hedwig's confusin' kitty! Suckin' cock erect'd by committee!"

Four dates, four different Johns. Although one was almost a threesome: A fat man sat at the foot of the bed, breathed slow and in control, and watched as Marcus fucked some woman with a jungle snake tattooed across her shoulders. The fat man's glasses were thick enough to be opaque, and the woman moaned beneath him. Her tattoo constricted with each thrust.

Marcus charged double for that one. He reckons he could've charged triple and gotten away with it.

He rubs his face now. It's sandpaper. He slides his thumb down the twin blades of his razor; it's clogged with old stubble, and he tosses it in the trash.

"Air out that botched vaginoplasty! GIM-GIM-GIMME HERMAPHRODITE CITY!"

Not a big deal. This John isn't interested in his face anyhow.

Marcus checks his reflection one last time and makes sure to lock the door on his way out.

Friday, December 25, 2009

Merry Christmas!

A little drabble. 267 words.


Title: Every Day is Exactly the Same

Character(s): Red


---


"I'm worried about Kallie. I think she needs to get laid."

Sheep barks. Wags her tail furiously.

Red squints. "Calm down, killer. I'm pretty sure she's not into that." He pats his pockets. "What did you do with the torch?"

Sheep cocks her head. Barks again. Then licks her chops.

"You four-pawed Judas." The bowl in his hand is warm and made of glass, and he fingers its smooth mouth absentmindedly. "You ate it."

He thinks. Forgets what he was thinking about. Thinks about something else.

"The joke's on you, if you think about it." Swallows hard, spit like talcum power. "You're a dog. You ate poop when you were young, you know. And now you eat butane. But look at these swanky thumbs I've got. I can pick shit up. Your shit mostly, Shits McGee. But also other things." He scratches his head with the back of his hand. "Thumbs up, I can do that. TWO thumbs up. And two toes that used to be thumbs if you factor in evolution. You can count 'em if you–oh, wait a fucking minute. YOU CAN'T–"

Sheep leaps onto the couch. Plows into Red and slathers his face with her tongue.

"Gerroff me!" He shoves her to the floor, and she lands with a dull thud. His shirt comes away moist and sticky after his wipes his face clean.

Sheep sniffs her butt.

"If you lick your poophole, I will fucking throw up on you."

She licks.

Red rises from the couch. "DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU."

Sheep yelps, scrambles for the bedroom.

"RAAAWR!" he growls.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Dear loyal/sexy reader(s).

My hatred of flight (Damn you, creatures of the air!) may have colored my last post. Possibly.

After we got through the whole security/plane/itchy blanket/making out part, Hawaii and California weren't so bad. In fact... You could say I enjoyed myself.


Or maybe I ate too many pennies and now I'm delirious.


I bought a lot of clothes in any case. Something about Hawaii compels you to spend money. Maybe it's all the heat Hawaiians pack. Didn't know that, did you? Can't walk five feet without being asked to hold/try out/stroke/fire some stranger's gun. Hmm. Something about that seems fishy to me now.


In other news, Nemo and Crush have been captured, killed, and conveniently packaged.


Happy Holidays!


P.S. Tiny relations apparently do not equate to tiny living spaces.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

I hate flying.

Tomorrow, me, my mom, and my dad are off to California and Hawaii. Sure, it sounds awesome, but it's a family thing; I will be surrounded by lots of Chinese folk who will insist on fattening me up. All the while inquiring about my relationship status. For two and a half weeks. My sister gets out of it because of her COLLEGE thing. Le sigh.

I dunno how much writing Imma gonna be able to get done during this furlough. I'm not taking my laptop with me because it is a BEAST OF HEAT AND DOOM.


Pretty sure I wouldn't be able to get it past security.


My dad said he'd let me borrow his netbook but still, we're not even getting a hotel room. Just stayin' with some tiny Chinese relations. In their tiny apartment. So we'll see how that works out writing-wise, but especially bathroom-wise.

Anyway. I probably won't have a stable internet connection either. So it'll be like the good ole days: Floppy disks and 8-track tapes.


P.S. I'm using Chrome now, instead of Safari, and I like it. I'm don't know if I'm ready to marry Chrome just yet, but it's streamlined, quick for the most part, and definitely big dicked.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

A virus.

My computer has been resurrected, but it basically got shot in the face a couple days ago. If you were wondering why the word count wasn't going up, that's why. I'm still missing a whole bunch of programs, but all my documents are okay. Even my porn.

We had to reinstall Windows. So I'm running with the basics here. I don't even have Word yet.

In other news... Happy Thanksgiving!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Word count.

You'll notice I added a little word county thing. It's to the right, if you can't find it or are stupid.

The weekly word count will cover Sunday to Saturday. Then I'll reset it when Sunday rolls around again.

You'll also notice I wrote a groundbreakingly large amount of words today. I'm right on track!

Friday, November 20, 2009

IT'S OFFICIAL.

This novel-in-progress is now the longest thing I have ever written.

Which, admittedly, isn't very long. But still. IT'S LONGER THAN MY THESIS, BITCHES.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

WHY.

Why did I give Marcus a southern accent? WHY DO I HATE MYSELF.

Any reference links and/or pointers and/or blowjobs would be appreciated. I've been scouring YouTube, and I'm thinking of picking up some William Faulkner. I CAN HAS HALP?




P.S. I may need to pick up some Lovecraft, too.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Poop.

Not a good writing day today. Can't focus.

Monday, November 9, 2009

The wall. (Not the Pink Floyd kind.)

It's hard when you hit that wall. I don't mean writer's block.

Let's say you've slaved over the first couple chapters of your novel. Mentally, at least. You know exactly what happens, exactly when it happens, and in what sequence. You write it down and it's fantastico. But then that fourth chapter looms, and you're not quite sure where your story is going.

You have scenes in mind, of course. Character P and Character V discussing birth control on a gondola at midnight. Character P's desperate race to discover who his father really is. (Hint: It's this dude.)

But what's the connective tissue? It's like thumbtacks on a corkboard. You need some red string to loop around each tack and link 'em all together. Or green, blue, purple string, whatever floats your boat. It's just a metaphor.

This is the time to step back. Review your characters. Analyze what should logically come next in the story. Fuck structure. Think about it from your characters' POV. What would you do in their place(s)? What comes next, organically? You could also do a little research. Are your characters breaking into a sperm bank? Look up some sperm banks. Are they drilling a tunnel to the center of the Earth to set off a series of nuclear explosions to restart the core's rotation? Well, if they're doing that, it sounds like you've got a summer blockbuster on your hands. I don't know what you're doing here. Go forth and rake in the five star reviews.

If you write something you are unhappy with, stop. Reassess. Is this really where you want Character A to be? Is this where Character A needs to be? Deep in space, on her space knees... praying to space Jesus? If you're writing Hannah Montana fanfiction, something has gone horribly wrong. Or horribly right, depending how you look at it.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Whatever.

I'm taking today off. It's nice being your own boss. Plus, a new DVD came in the mail. Ah, Sam and Dean, how I have missed you and your shenanigans.

Friday, November 6, 2009

FYI

In 1,644 words, this novel-in-progress will officially be the longest thing I have ever written.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Danny.

Danny is the other narrator. He's of Indian descent and a runaway. He's very decisively middle-class, and if you asked him why he ran away, he'd have no answer for you. Only this: If he hadn't become a Cap when he did, he'd probably have offed himself.

I made a Sim of him once.

Oh. Sorry. What is it with me and links? Here.

Anyway. He's involved with Marcus. While Marcus has his future-lookings and an eye of the tiger, Danny can walk through walls and blend into his surroundings like an octopus, but not both at the same time. Letting him do that seemed like a Game Breaker. How are you supposed to take someone like that down? He could just walk into your house and watch you shower. And crap. Watch you shower and crap ALL DAY. Whatchoo gonna do about it, punk?

Besides, Marcus is enough of a Game Breaker. I don't want to overpower everyone. So I let Danny exercise his right to bear arms.

Because very few Caps have any sort of regenerative abilities, guns still carry the same weight they would in our world. If Kallie gets shot in the head, she's not gonna pull a Wolverine.

Danny knows this better than anyone. He tends to be very liberal with his oxycodone. And he loves his Papal Ale.

All in all, Danny would say he's happier now than before. Yeah, Danny and Marcus are part of a drug cartel. But everyone's got to make a living. Yeah, his boyfriend recites poetry, and lives as much in the future as in the past. But everyone's got their quirks. Then Marcus decides to search for the source of their powers. And Danny finds that change is more difficult than he ever expected.

How ominous.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Kallie.

You may remember me mentioning that I took a couple American Sign Language (ASL) classes in high school. You may also remember that Eckerd College didn't count ASL as a foreign language and I had to take French. I'd knee Eckerd in the balls if, alas, it had any.

Pushing aside that deep resentment, one of my characters is deaf. The idea came to me in the shower, but you really shouldn't read anything into that. There were only two characters who could have been deaf, but after thinking about it for a moment, I realized I was wrong. There was only one character who could be deaf and, verily, she should have been deaf all along. It was Kallie.

I mentioned her in the first post. Her favorite color is yellow, but she also has a soft spot for army green. She feels a strong need to be independent but, for now, thinks that means being able to beat people up. She fought a Cap named John Doe about two years ago. She lost, and he cut off eight of her fingers.

Luckily for Kallie, she lives twenty minutes in the future. There's universal health care and some swanky new advances in prosthetics. Maybe something like this or this.

Oh, crap. I mean, like this or this.

Advanced now, but twenty minutes in the future? Bargain bin stuff. In the future, if you lose a limb and have enough money, you can replace it with Harry Potter's wang. Wand. I mean, wand. Fuck.

Not to say Kallie's new fingers are perfect. She can't feel detail, and I cannot tell you how many times she's dropped her toothbrush in the sink. Not to mention all the trouble she has signing. It's like talking with your lips numbed. Forever.

But she keeps at it. Kallie wants to help people. And if you have superpowers, why not be a superhero?

Monday, October 26, 2009

I plotted, bitches!

Romance literature and LGBT literature are similiar. So similiar in fact, that I dislike them equally.

Romance just isn't enough of a plot. Person P meets Person V. They fall in love. Something stupid and completely avoidable happens. They break up. But no! They find each other because true love prevails. Ah, so happy. So satisfying. So... so nauseating.

Coming out isn't a plot either. Maybe it was but not anymore. Yeah, yeah, yeah, acceptance, blah, blah, everyone has the same insides, whatever, I don't care, Care Bear Stare!

I don't care what your plot is. Write a western. Write about werewolves on Jupiter. Write an alternate history mystery where Benjamin Franklin travels back to the days of Egypt and Rome to save Cleopatra, only to find her dead from a laser blast to the heart.

If there's romance, it takes a backseat to the plot. Coming out? BACKSEAT. Or better yet, if your story takes place 20 minutes in the future, maybe homosexuality isn't such a big deal at all. Instead of a LGBT character, have a character who just happens to be LGBT. Those werewolves from Jupiter. They're lesbians. Does that make them more awesome? Yes. Should their hot and hairy she wolf-on-she wolf scissoring be part of the plot? No. Maybe. Well, not unless you're writing erotic fiction.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Caps.

Anyone with superpowers in my book is called a Cap. I didn't want to borrow any term already established, like Marvel's mutant or DC Comics' metahuman, because... Well, because.

Cap is short for capricious. Merriam-Webster defines that as "governed or charazterized by caprice: implusive, unpredictable." Which I thought was perfect since 1) No one knows what's causing it, and 2) The powers themselves are capricious.

When you take a peek at other superhero works, the two most general powers that almost everyone has are super strength and super resilience to injury. Spiderman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Wolverine, Martian Manhunter, Captain Hammer, Dr. Impossible, etc. The list is almost endless. Of course, there's nothing wrong with this, and it makes a lot of sense because this is the easiest way to get superheros super fightin'.

The third general power is exclusive to superheroines, and it's super large boobs.

In my book/universe/sandbox/whatever you want to call it, powers appear to be random. In the last post, I told you Marcus was an anthromorphic were-tiger but also had the completely unrelated power of future-lookings. I'm pretty sure that's the technical term for it.

There's also a woman who has the power to grow her hair really fast. And a man with dragonfly wings instead of arms. I assume those dragonfly wings have been scaled up in size.

So I call them Caps. Nice and short. Plus, it sounds vaguely reminiscent of word "Jap" which I thought gave it a slightly derogatory feeling.

Caps have to register. It's not some awful thing, but it classifies Caps into four groups. But before all that, there's the lowest classification, Green, which actually only applys to non-Caps. If you are a Cap, you can be a Blue, Yellow, Orange, or Red. If that sounds familiar, it's because I lifted it directly from the Terror Alert that Homeland Security set up. Green is low risk. Blue is general risk. Yellow is significant risk. Orange is high, and Red is severe.

That hair-growing woman would be a Blue. Marcus would be a Red. Lady GaGa would be a Orange, but only because she possesses the ability to shoot fire out of her breasts.

Let's say you were a Cap. And you were strong. So strong you could bench press Kevin Federline. With your nipple. You register, and you turn out to be a Yellow. Not bad, but you're gonna have to take muscle relaxants for the rest of your life. Not enough to take all your strength away, just enough to bring you back to the human realm. You wouldn't be the strongest person in the world anymore, just one of the strongest. As strong as a Green could be, without being superhuman. It's not an unreasonable policy.

It's a little different for Reds. If you had the power to turn brains into mashed bananas, and penises into hedgehogs, it'd be safe to say you would be unemployed. And locked up. Not a fair situation, but there's no anti-penisturnedhedgehog drug.

Lady GaGa would only have to wear a flame-retardant bra. That she could never take off.

So what if you just didn't register. Keep bench pressing K-Fed with your nipple. I'm sure he doesn't mind.

Well, I hope you like being labeled a terrorist. And you should probably put K-Fed down before the cops show up, arrest you, and send you on a nice one-way trip to Guantanamo Bay. Harsh, yes. But you're only a Yellow. You'll probably be able to get out of it. God forbid if you'd banana-fied K-Fed's brains.

But what is a Red to do? Most of them just live under the radar. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you must. But then again, not every Cap has the luxury of looking completely human.

Questions? Comments?

Saturday, October 24, 2009

A little clarification.

In my last post, I didn't mean to imply that doomsday scenarios were dumb. They're not dumb; they tap into some very real suspicions and worries people have about the world. Look at all the hype surrounding 2012. Hell, remember Y2K? For some reason, the end of the world is very real fear to people. And when a book or movie or YouTube video incorporates some kind of apocalyse, or threat of an apocalyse, into the fabric of the story, the stakes are instantly raised. The tension and drama dials get turned up. It's not an inherently cheap trick, and it can be done well.

However, I think exploring end of SOMEONE'S world is more powerful. And in this particular case, that's what I wanted to do. I wanted the focus to stay on the characters. I wanted realism. Or as much realism as you can get when one of your characters is an anthropomorphic were-tiger who can see the future.

I am walking a fine line here.

Also, I didn't want to imply that my characters' superpowers were superfluous. One of the driving points of the plot is Marcus's search for the cause of this superpower explosion.

Marcus is the aforementioned were-tiger.

If you find yourself wondering how the fuck that makes sense considering he knows the future, STOP IT.

Friday, October 23, 2009

I'm supposed to be writing right now.

And I am! Technically. Sometimes I get stuck working on my novel. I guess it's called writer's block. But it's mostly just laziness on my part.

Usually I try skipping around the story. Last time I got stuck, I skipped a chapter ahead and wrote a little scene with Kallie and her brother. I should probably stop and explain what exactly I'm writing before I throw character names at you. MARCUS! HUGO! RED! Muahahahahaha!

... I got inspired by superhero movies. So yeah, it's a book about superheroes. But what I wanted to do differently was create a world that didn't require saving. You see it all the time: Doctor Octavius decides to build a sun-making machine in a loft in downtown New York, never mind that SUNS ARE FUCKING DANGEROUS. Someone tricks Professor X into stabbing everyone's brains with a sharp stick. Or like in Heroes, the world is chronically five minutes away from exploding. But in real life, the world seems to be fine. I mean, it's messed up, don't get me wrong. But it's not going to crack into bite-sized pieces anytime soon. Delicious bite-sized pieces.

So I wanted to really, honestly, give superpowers to real individuals. Not people who cackled and monologued and had monocles, but the average guy next door. Like Heroes's first season, I suppose, but still, without the need to save the cheerleader and save the world.

"How droll," I can hear you say through the smacking of your gums as you force more and more chicken into your gaping mouth. "What are they going to use their superpowers for if not to save the world?" A scrap of fried chicken skin clings moistly to your bottom lip.

Well, what would you use your powers for? Maybe some of you would try to fight crime, or commit crimes. But the vast majority of you would use your telekinetic powers to get beer outta the fridge. Don't lie to me.

That doesn't mean that there isn't any action in my novel. Within the first twenty pages, there are two separate action scenes. I just want to write something realistic. No one wears a costume. No one uses an alias. The human race is not under threat of extinction. Everything's fine. We've just got people acting like people. So, obviously, something awful is on its way. BUT NOT THE END OF THE WORLD.

Ha. Anyway. That's it for now. In conclusion, I apparently have an intense grudge against any sort of doomsday scenario.