Writing and Reading

I see a lot of new faces here. Ready to get into a fight? Yeah. We’re at another meeting here–we’re ready to break some teeth, some noses–we’re bringin’ the blood. Remember, two to a fight. I’ve got another scene for you. This is, again, from THE CAIN LETTERS. We’re going consecutively here with the scenes. Here it goes, people. Clip your nails, rings off, shoes off. Bring it.

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“Stop, Mason!” she screamed. “Don’t make me stop you!”

She chased him down Vermont so long that her lungs burned. The congestion of people and cars diminished a little as they came across a freer street, cars driving faster down the road, less people. She had a better view of him. She vowed not to lose him.

Some pedestrians screamed at the chase, startled by it. Mason almost ran over a few innocents. The more she saw him throw that caution to the wind, the more she seethed. He had no respect for human life at all.

They came to a bridge.

Mason slid short halfway across, about to climb over—

“No!” she roared, picking up speed, getting another wind of energy. “Stop!”

He just perched atop the railing, about to dive.

Alexandra leaped forward, close to him—just a few feet away—

No escape—not if she could help it. Her lungs, about to burst, she screamed.

She gripped the railing and swung over it, defying gravity. Her muscles pulled and she gritted her teeth and her eyesight tightened at the sight of him looking as if he achieved victory in eluding her. She held her breath, tightened her legs.

One fierce kick into his chest sent him flailing backward into the street.

Innocents around realized what had happened and started to run, screaming. Drivers honked their horns, swerving out of the way as Mason brought himself to his feet.

Alexandra had swung back onto the sidewalk, eyes locked on him.

His fury burned—eyes like cold diamonds and teeth sharp enough to shred flesh.

Mason howled in anger, clenching his fists at his side.

Cars darted on both sides of him, hoping not to connect—

Only by a hair. And yet, Mason didn’t flinch.

She pounced out into the street with him—among the flashing cars and the wailing horns. He hissed hideously.

They fought in the middle of the street, cars racing around them, just barely grazing them off the pavement. She tried to grapple him but only met counters with his hands, gripping her wrists and thrusting a knee. She pulled her knee in and blocked, breaking free of his grip and snapping her fist into his face.

He grunted and shot back at her, nearly reeling her back into an oncoming car—

She felt it. She struggled hard to stay standing.

Mason threw a set of kicks at her—relentless and quick.

But Alexandra had resolve.

Her eyes focused, and the world…seemed to slow down for her. She felt her breath…she saw the slow-moving kicks come closer to her face…she closed her eyes.

She crossed her arms up left and right and felt the brunt of his attacks on her forearms. She grunted furiously.

She snatched his ankle in mid-strike and tried spinning him out.

He consolidated the switch of gravity…with a cat’s awareness…and swatted her in the face with one swift kick, landing safely, softly.

It stung her sharp, her skin screaming with pain as her sight got a little fuzzy for just a second—

She saw, however, Mason.

“You want answers? Ask your God!” he said, and fled.

Off the corner of her eye, she saw the Berith Lochem’s van screech and slide in—

Off the corner of her other eye, she saw a car—

Racing toward her.

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Feel the blood, warriors. Feel the pain. I know you do. There’s nothing better than a fight scene in the middle of the street with racing cars surrounding you. Get your blood boiling. Get your racing. Who’s next?

It’s late for me right now. I’m looking at the clock, and I see that it’s 4 AM. But I just had to write this post. This is a serious post, right here. It’s uncategorized. It has nothing to do with writing or reading.

But it has to be written.

Let me start off by expressing my anger…. (vents to the computer screen)

Thank you.

You’re all asking why. I know. I’ll tell you why.

Because, apparently, a certain someone has issues with me expressing some things that are dear to me. Like my son. My family.

If you hadn’t seen the post on that link in the above paragraph [things], you won’t notice the difference; but there used to be a YouTube video on it. A Christmas video of my family. Most notably, my son. For those who have already seen the post, November 21st, 2008, you’ll notice that I have had to edit the post, because someone expressed negativity toward my video, prompting YouTube to remove my video due to what has been stipulated as ‘inappropriate content’.

I reuploaded my video to YouTube. However, there’s a possibility that YouTube may still keep it off my account there. It’s the same exact WMA file. So I then uploaded the video to my Facebook. Only my friends can see it. Not the network. Not even the friends of friends. Just my friends. I then wrote a URL onto the blog post with a photo of my son as the link, sending any reader to the page where my video now remains. On Facebook.

I will say this: anyone has a problem, talk to me. Face me.

LOOK ME DEAD IN THE FACE.

If you have something to say to me, say it to my face. Don’t complain about things that might make you uncomfortable, or anger you, or shame you in any way. That’s not my problem. That’s your problem.

If any of you, my awesome readers, have seen the video I created as a Christmas present, you’d know I don’t have any child pornography on it, or obscene photographs, or bad language, or me beating my wife and son. Or anything like that. So I can’t, for the life of me, justify that the video has ‘inappropriate content’.

You, the strangely bitter person, whoever you are–you know who you are. You’ve got a problem? You’ve got my number, probably. Call me. We’ll talk. I’m all ears.

But no matter what, this video’s staying up.

This is my blog. These are my words. It’s my choice. It’s my life. I have the freedom to be. I have the freedom to FEEL whatever my heart says to feel. No one can touch it. No one can touch it but those friends of mine with true hearts. And I know who all of them are; they have every right to share the same joy that I have. You, whoever you are, even once go near my video again to badmouth it, complain about it, whatever–

I DO NOT CARE. Because there will be NOTHING you can do about it. I have the freedom to be.

Good night.

I now weigh an extra 50 pounds. I’m laying on this couch with most of my flesh sinking into the fabric. I look like I’m pregnant. I am boozed. Happily, I might add. I’m talking slower for some odd reason. I can’t move.

I am…the BEACHED WHALE of Grand Rapids. Hear me, uuhh…’wail’.

Aside from my current life situation, it’s inevitable that I have to be thankful for many things. Friends, dreams, family, work, health, God. Aidan. A lot to be thankful for.

What’s strange though is how much more intense the thanks are when you know there’s sadness and anger in the midst. I’ll be going to a friend’s house from church to have a Thanksgiving dinner. We’ll play games, too. It’s going to be a lot of fun. I’m really looking forward to it.

Where the sadness and anger lies–

Is that I won’t have my son with me.

It makes me that much more thankful that I still have people I love who I share this time with. Although I’ve been hurt for months–being around them can only give me strength. That’s the biggest thanks I give right now.

Happy Turkey Day, readers! I’ll see you when I see you.

As you may already know, I’m a big fan of wordplay and clever, quick, fluid dialogue. In many ways, mastery of the written word flows with this kind of wordage, droplets of juicy bits of busty letters forming funky words playing with each other in some wild literary orgy of magnificent mammoth proportions, tickling the tongue and spreading the proverbial sensory legs and revealing that succulent center of sweetness that gets us giddy with excitement, makes us smile and electrifies our brain with the wittiest of wit.

For those who sense a bit of sexual innuendo there, shame on you.

But really, if you’ve seen some of my earlier posts–Abbot and Costello’s “Who’s on First”, the “Airplane!” films, “Spaceballs”–you’d know how fond I am of words and how funny they can be. My last post tickled me with some of the comments, one notably about the Three Stooges.

It occured to me how much I adore them.

They were masters of sketch writing, even though they majored mostly in slapstick. Thank you, Hartley, for the comment. For a few hours here, I’ve been trying to find one particular small bit on one of their sketches that was golden, but I couldn’t find it.

I then was reminded of, you guessed it–

MONTY PYTHON

How could I have forgotten about them? Those fancy, funny, unimistakably witty-in-a-very-British-sort-of-way-which-brings-about-a-classic-humor-and-ingenuity pure class acts that make them completely classic in design, classic in writing. Just classic.

I’m still going to dedicate myself to finding that one Three Stooges clip. It involved a spoof on the Nazis and Hitler (seriously, Moe Howard was the spitting image of our lovable Adolf so long as Moe wore that tiny mustache). A sweet sketch. Classic writing.

For now, though, here’s one of the best sketches I had ever seen from Monty Python. Right up my alley. I loved it. I know you’ll love it, too. And we’ll love it together. So, yes, let’s have another literary orgy. I’ll grab the oil.

Courtroom scenes kick ass. That’s just a plain fact, people. There’s something about the mood, the air and the drama behind a good, thick, deep, dark courtroom scene. They can make you angry, they can make you cry, they can even make you smile.

Talk to any member of my family, and they’ll tell you: I’m a total ham, plus I have a memory for words. Big surprise. I used to perform courtroom scenes for the family, because I knew the screenplay by heart. In fact, some of the best dramatic words from films came out of courtroom scenes. So here’s my list of the very best. Enjoy.

“A Few Good Men”

“To Kill a Mockingbird”

“A Time to Kill”

“Disorder in the Court” (The Three Stooges)

Time to rage, baby. Like “hate metal”. Only without the racial overtones. Quincy don’t play that. Neither does the Wretched Writer.

But you know what I’m talkin’ about–that wrenching emo-style, angry revenge rock, the kind of stuff that gets under your skin and reminds you how much the world sucks, how much humanity really sucks!

Yeah, that’s how the Wretched Writer feels right now. So he made a request. And, quite frankly, I feel the same way!

He wanted to express to you one song in particular that he absolutely loves to listen to when dealing with particular scenes that have to do with vengeance, death, hate, fear, stuff like that. The kind of stuff that buries itself deep inside your guts and your brains and your bones, cutting away at the marrow. Makes it hurt. But you love the hurt, baby! YEAH!

That type of gut-wrenching emotion gets the words going, the anger, the fury. You got to hold onto that stuff–even if it hurts, even if it’s bad. Because when you get down to it, having all that hurt and anger inside and then letting it out on paper–well, it’s therapeutic, man! Have at it! Here’s a bit of real powerhouse, guitar-raging, screaming, guttural voices and demonic faces with their petty hate and fierce, freezing fires! Let the rock rip at your souls! May you rest in peace….

WHAT! YOU GOT A PROBLEM??

Okay. It’s Monday. It’s finally kicking in. It’s Monday. It’s the first day of the freakiest week in my professional life as a grocery store cashier–

THANKSGIVING WEEK

Oh, dear God…help me….

So, needless to say, I’m extra loopy right now. Kind of in that psychedelic way. Like, I’m seeing colors, baby…. I’m losin’ it. I just need the weekend to show up. Big time. Better, yet, I need to stop working like a dog. I need to get published, so I can live a normal sane life and not the life of a workhorse. Very soon, they’re going to put me down and turn me into glue. Good ol’ Elmer’s Glue. They’ll change my name to Elmer, actually. I’ll be Elmer Roustan. Instead of Pierre Roustan. Because I’ll be glue. I’ll be glue, which once was a workhorse. A workhorse gone mad.

So to feed my craziness, my wreckless, wretched insanity, I have a clip here, yet again, from the master of insanity himself, Jim Carrey. And it’s fitting, too. We have here “The Cable Guy”, and, like I said, I’m psychedelic, baby. Happy crazy Thanksgiving week. Happy, happy, joy, joy. Enjoy.

I’ve gotten questions before on when I find the time to write–

I mean, yes, I work part-time at a grocery store. Yes, I work a full-time day job as a caption editor. Yes, I take care of my son by myself three days in the week. Yes, as I’m writing this, I’m on break at the grocery store right now (I’m using my super-cool phone to write this post–in the bathroom, I might add).

Here’s my point–write whenever you can. Write for a few seconds. Write for a few minutes. Write, write, write. Establish a malleable routine. Wing it. Roll with the punches. Sometimes life can throw you curve balls, and you got to know when to bunt. Make it to first base first before trying to hit that home run (unless you got the arm strength, and you swing for the fences).

In case you’re not getting the metaphors, what I’m trying to say is don’t push to write those 11,000 words if you simply can’t (translation: shoot for first base). When you’re dealing with a hectic schedule, it’s nearly impossible. But if you don’t have that hectic schedule, by all means write until you fall asleep at the computer, dear God! (translation: swing for the fences!)

It may seem like such a long stretch, but the fact is this, people–I wrote THE CAIN LETTERS in about five months time. That includes time off for Christmas vacation, being with the fam, and things like that. I also wrote it mainly during my breaks at my day job. That should tell you something–I didn’t have a whole lot of time to myself to write the novel. The point is that when you hold to any routine–and I mean any routine–be it five minutes a day, ten minutes a day, thirty minutes a day, whatever–you’ll be surprised just how fast your novel comes together. And also the frequency at which you write your work will directly affect how you edit, too.

You may find that the shorter periods will require less editing–or more. It depends on who you are. Most likely, it’ll be less. But who knows. How you write will affect how passionate you are about your present work. Finishing it becomes a passion just as much as writing it. You develop a way of working. That’s the most important thing. And in no time, you will finish your work–no matter what kind of schedule you have. I guarantee it.

Since we’re on the subject, Happy Freakin’ Thanksgiving as I plunge into this week of work (grocery store’s scheduled me for Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday). It’ll be insanely busy. And I will have even less time to write on the blog, work on my projects and browse freelancing.

But, again, I’m game. Bring it.

Bello, I’m a balien brom banother blanet bere beverything books so bonderful and buscious in besign–the brees and bields are so burple bith beaves and blashing bights of bire in the blouds bevery bifteen binutes. Beople balk bround, balking in bigh-pitched boices and bearing baisy bukes bue to the bery bot beather. Be all bork out buite beavily, so be bave barge buscles, and be’re also buite bexy-looking. Be bave bale bagenta skin, though.

Bell be: what is the bame of our blanet?

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Remember, people. The answer is a literary device of some kind. Think hard. Think fast. The clock is ticking.

(tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock)