I’m putting this blog on hiatus. The purpose, for me, was to get me writing more. I’m not doing that so I’m going to pause this. If I only have a very narrow window of writing energy per day, I don’t want to spend it here.
The forest swallowed sound, spreading a rolling hush. Walking through the trees was like marching through an abandoned future.
When a car coughed up the trail, the hikers heard it coming for miles. The driver slowed beside them, asked how they’d ended up in this strange in between place.
“I’m from the village up the way,” the driver said in heavily accented English.
“We’re going past it, I think. Do you know A—?”
The driver nodded. “I’ll get you to my village.”
There was little more to lose, so the hikers got in the car. The doors and windows of the vehicle shut out the trees. The clock, the gas gauge, the radio – the ordinary flow of time returned, even with nothing but static coming from the speakers.
The driver passed the village and continued on to the hikers’ destination.
“Thank you,” one of the hikers said. “You didn’t have to…”
“What is good for you, is good for me,” the driver said with a shrug.
A giant wheel rolled down a hillside.
It would have gained speed, but a lone rock stood in its way. It was only a pebble, but a larger stone came to stand beside it. A tree joined to shade the bold rocks. A river cut across to water the tree. A mountain rose to feed the river.
The wheel should have gained speed, but it reached the rock and it stopped.
By: Gabriel Garcia Marquez
This book is weird. Like, super, super weird.
I read it years ago and some of it sticks out in my mind in incredibly vivid detail. Some is just a blur of… weirdness.
But it’s all the best type of weirdness. This book is seriously brilliant. Marquez tells the story of several generations of one family living in one house. It all seems pretty normal at first but… well… I can’t even adequately describe the strange, winding path this story and this family take. You wouldn’t think so much could fit into the story of one family in one house, but that is the least of the surprises you’ll discover here.
Experience this book for yourself, but don’t frustrate yourself taking it super seriously and searching for hidden codes and meanings. I think something this modernist and experimental and loose just needs to be taken as it is. Sit back and relax and let your time reading this book be whatever it wants to be. Daydream. Refocus. Be horrified. Be disgusted. Be delighted. And then… let it go.
Write something. Write anything. Smash the keyboard. Anything counts at this point, right?
I need you to be more on your game. A list of excuses I don’t give a fuck about: tired, busy, over it, fatigued.
Set goals. Meet them. Set more goals. Meet those too. No more bullshit.
Writing About Writing: A once-a-week post about some aspect of writing. I’m not an expert; I’m just some guy. Take it with a grain of salt.
I totally wrote a post yesterday and due to … internet troubles … I wasn’t able to post it. So here it is.
When I was a kid and teenager, I was obsessed with writing. I stayed up late to write; I woke up early to write. I wrote in school during classes. I wrote every second of every day during summer vacation. I threw a fit when I had to leave the house and go to a party or event or fun day at the beach because it took me away from writing.
It was all I wanted all day, every day.
As an adult, I often wonder what happened to that fire. It wasn’t fickle; it consumed a solid two decades with steady intensity.
So where’d it go? Maybe it’s because it became my job. Maybe I’m just old and distracted and busy. But I know the kid who worked that hard for that long on this one all-consuming thing – well, frankly, she’s pretty disappointed.
None. Go build your fires where you can.
I took a long break to get through a con and move. Things are still chaos, but I gotta force myself to get back to my routine, so here we go.
“Don’t be grandiose,” the technician said.
“I plan to be perfectly selfish,” I said.
“Good,” the woman in the lab coat said. Seriously, though, lab coast? We’ve had time tech for long enough that they don’t need to make it seem mysterious by sticking with the lab coats. What mess are they preventing? Will spare minutes splatter on them?
“…stick to something simple,” she was saying. “You get five minutes so keep it direct. Your past self will probably remember it as a weird dream.”
I tried to focus through the directions. Easier said than done. How many times can you be told not to kill your own grandfather?
Finally, though, I stepped into my childhood bedroom and woke the self sleeping in the bed.
“Listen up, kid,” I said. “I’ve only got five minutes…”