My failed attempts at fiction
just finished writing his first book, which takes its title from The Hellbound Train
. I'm sending a lot of empathy, joy and jealousy his way. One thing that he wrote that really struck home: writing makes you insufferable
, and yet you need stability and support while you are wandering around inside your mind
- and on another planet.
I've been there while writing, too - I try to reassure people that the real me will be back soon - when I remember - weeks later - that maybe I was being a bastard....
Tom also penned some good tips while his ordeal was still fresh in his mind
He actually *read* Steven King's book "On writing". I didn't. I thought the audiobook was much better. I could listen to it while NOT writing, in the car, or on the beach, mixed in with some prog-rock. To this day I still hear King's voice and the Moody Blues at the same time, in a combination much like that of Stephen Hawking and Juno Reactor on "Transmissions".
These days I can toss off a decent 1000-1200 word essay in half a day. 3000 words takes me a month. 9,000 words takes me somewhere between a year and forever. It's frustrating as hell, and that doesn't even count my sorry attempts at fiction like the below:
After the anniversary...
The next morning she got up early and made tea for herself, and coffee for me. I woke with the breath of her kiss on my forehead, and the taste of a biscuit in my mouth. Her smile illuminated the whole world.
As the real sun rose, we sat in chairs by the window.
A prism dangled against the light - it was a figure, a Michaelangelo figure, five pointed, arms and legs spread, stretched out, reaching in to the room, and at the same time, trying to fly, like Daedalus.
The light illuminated dust motes in the air and glimmered, here and there, against the carpet.
Later on, we went for a walk. There was still a slight winter chill in the air, but the spring flowers were blooming, and we walked hand in hand down to... well, nowhere really, we just walked, and laughed, and chatted, and the day passed like thousands of days before them, and ultimately, became night.
There's nowhere to go from there. It's all cliches from there on out.The Casablanca version:
"Same time next year?" - she said. "Maybe", said he. "Paris, perhaps." The pathological serial murderer version
They found him, later, by the lake where his first gf had vanished long before. Over an open fire, he'd roasted the breasts of the 22 year old he'd picked up that night. Her blood stained the sand, her brown hair pooled deep in the drinking mug he'd made of her smashed skull, and he was drinking coffee mixed in with her brains for breakfast."Or the poisoner
"Mmmm... almond cream... where'd you find that? Thanks... um... urgh.. agggggggh." The ghost story:
She said that she'd always haunt him, and she did. Most mornings he woke up with a aching head and a sour mouth, but two or three times a year she showed up in some form and the chemical and physical memories kept him going through the day. There were times, even, when she appeared just above the covers, at night, and if he kept his eyes closed he could feel her ghostly body against his....The hard techno-pR0n version
"She slammed his porgan repeatedly down her throat, gripping his vutt with both hands. The Zapp-erMaster embedded in her gagima turned at an ever faster rate. He jabbed the remote control and changed the setting to "swallow-it-all" and she started circular breathing through her nose and around his thing in a technique she'd learned at the Zen Monastery...And let's not forget the zombie story!
...That night, the zombies returned as they always did - around the house, they howled and beat at the barred windows. "Do you think they will ever stop?" - he asked. She crouched by the gun-slot, with her trusty Remington rifle, methodically picking off the ones that seemed to have some intelligence. "Who cares?", she said, grinning madly as she squeezed off another shot - 'There's no one left but you and me and them - and every time I get an urge to shoot you, I remember we're out of batteries for the vibrator. "
"Reload this for me, will ya?"
I kind of like the last one, actually.
Labels: science fiction, writing, zombies