florida bound

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Let’s start with a vacation. Standard issue, as they say.

Florida. Not Disney World this time, although we are flying into Orlando. No, we’ll go to Cocoa Beach and Cape Canaveral, then hope on a big ol’ boat and head off to Nassau.

Lunching with the Kennedys, probably, right?

Sadly, no. We do okay, and we can travel a couple of times a year, but that’s about it.

Most of it is local; we do try somewhere tropical at least once a year.

But… and this is a big one. We aren’t getting paid any more. The price of everything is going up.

Suddenly, it’s not cheap to fly to Jamaica or Cuba. It’s not cheap to drive the I-75.

I get that it’s all greed and short term thinking these days, but how can anyone, anywhere, in politics or business, think this is sustainable? Are they just trying to squeeze us dry and then walk away laughing as everything burns?

I mean, the stupidity and disdain for fellow humanity in such a mindset is appalling.

These are the true criminals; the ones who ought to be ousted from society.

Target: 400 words
Written: 2344 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 100 Selected Poems, e.e. cummings
Comics: Hunter Killer 8-11 (good concept, in desperate need of a longer development period and a competent editor.  Wasn't Mark Waid an editor?  He should know how to keep things straight.)
Music: Judgment Night, Cypress Hill et al

workload

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It’s an irony that the only thing I want to do is getting somewhat squashed by the thing I have to do.

I set my writing targets intentionally low, because I know, until I’m actually supporting myself full-time with the whole storytelling thing, I have a job to do. Family to support, all that stuff.

If you see me not hitting my target each day, know that there’s actually a bigger target, an overall target, that I’m exceeding.

For example, this year, if you were to count up the number of words I set as target each day, it’s not quite eleven thousand words. That sounds like a lot, but come on? Over a month and a half?

It’s nothing.

In reality, I’ve actually written closer to thirty-five thousand words, which while still kind of low, is more respectable over that period. Some established authors only do five hundred words a day; I’m averaging somewhere between seven and eight hundred.

Of course, some of those five hundred a day-ers are agonizing over each sentence, spending an hour on a paragraph, an afternoon on a page, and they’re coming out brilliant.

Me? I’ll fix it in post. A first draft is nothing more than an overwrought outline, as far as I’m concerned; an extended method of finding out how the characters want the story to go, and where your plot holes make themselves known (although some sneakier plot holes will slither their way into your second, third or even sixth drafts, crafty buggers).

Some plot holes you’ll never see.

I certainly didn’t.

Target: 400 words
Written: 215 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Hunter Killer 4-7
Music: The Joshua Tree, U2 (yeah, Bono might be a self-important shit, but this is still one hell of a fucking album - next to Kick and Out Of Time, one of my earliest exposures to truly great alternatives to the garbage on the radio).

yay, futbals

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Rather, yay, it’s over?

I guess that guy whose girlfriend everyone likes won, while simultaneously showing that he’s willing to physically assault an old man when he’s frustrated on the sidelines.

Red flag, girl. When shit gets bad, is he going to try to intimidate you physically?

Things to watch out for.

Assholes be assholes, y’all.

Target: 400 words
Written: 250 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Hunter Killer 0-3
Music: Joni Mitchell Essentials, Joni Mitchell (fuck you, I'm Canadian, and despite how saccharine it can be at times, and at odds with my punk roots, it's got its own je-ne-sais-quoi, and its own ethos of anti-authoritarianism.  She's low key anarchist, like most hippies).

superb-whogivesafuck

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Honestly. I’m a sports guy and I can appreciate a good story told in any medium, but football?

Ugh.

Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stand around. Sixty minutes on the clock, four hours on TV, about fifteen minutes of action.

Why do Americans love such boring sports?

This is why I hate Gary Bettman – he’s spent decades taking all the excitement out of hockey, so it’s as fucking milquetoast as the big three American sports.

Dude needs to be fired and someone who understands fucking impact needs to come back in.

Anyway, long story short. Who gives a shit about the Superbowl? Why do we care if Taylor Swift is there?

Puppy Bowl me, thank you very much.

Target: 300 words
Written: 267 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 29-30, Sex Criminals: Sexual Gary Special, Sex Criminals 69 (I get it, but the whole ending felt rushed and incomplete.  Sorry, Chip and Matt, but it was.  It felt like you lost the plot a bit.  Disappointing ending.)
Music: Join Together, The Who

wait, blowdryers cause cancer?

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This is a new one on me, that I just heard today.

How? Too much… air?

Heat?

Do your hair release dangerous radioactive particles under pressure of wind and fire?

Is there some kind of magnetic field like a microwave?

Are people that blowdry their hair more likely to smoke and eat fish filled with mercury?

How is this possible?

Jesus, this world is the shits.

Target: 300 words
Written: 733 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 25-28
Music: John Henry, They Might Be Giants

end of training

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And I’m on my own.

Spreading my wings. Still learning, taking tentative steps, shaky in the knees, and all that.

But luckily, I have a headache and exhaustion to go with it.

Target: 300 words
Written: 146 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 21-24
Music: Jimmy James - Single EP, Beastie Boys

spent

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It’s 7:34AM and I feel like I’m already spent.

Granted, my day starts typically at 4:50AM, so I’ve been up almost three hours.

I’ve written a bit, did some yoga and some meditation, thought about the state of world, wondered why the hell so many of these insane right wingers continue to get away with shit that is clearly illegal and no one appears to be even considering charges, wondered if I’m capable of writing humanity changing works, but it won’t matter because climate change and divisive, authoritarian politics will kill us all before it can make an impact, wondered if aliens would find these pages years later and not be able to understand a damn word, showered, maybe thought about sex a little (because I do so roughly every three minutes) and then peed, ate breakfast, made coffee, fed the dogs, let the dogs out, gave the dogs their joint medication, fed the cats, unloaded/loaded the dishwasher, played Wordle and Worldle, a game of Go on a 9×9 board with a 8 stone handicap (because I need it, apparently), then sat down and went over my to-do list, what’s left of it.

And I’ve a whole workday ahead of me.

Shit.

Target: 300 words
Written: 227 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 17-20
Music: Jimmy Buffett Essentials, Jimmy Buffett (fuck you, Jimmy rocks)

post scene one

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I was really hoping, thirty-seven days into this new year, that the first draft of the first novel (well, novella) I wrote in the canon of me would be a real banger.

Instead, it’s a steaming pile of dog feces.

I suppose we must walk before we run, crawl before we walk, and lay around screaming incoherently before that.

Weirdly, we end that way as well, most of us. We come in screaming, and go out spent, withered husks.

Hump day positivity, folks.

Target: 300 words
Written: 193 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: Sex Criminals 13-16
Music: Jesus Of Suburbia, Green Day (like 3 separate singles)

draftin’

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It’s one of the funnest parts of being a writer – the first draft.

Just freeform flow, letting your mind go wild as you pour out whatever it is you’re trying to get across onto the page.

It’s the act of creation, in one of its purest forms.

It also produces utter shit. Sure, there will be a few gems in there, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the first draft is little more than a really, really detailed outline, which then is ripped apart and reconfigured to get rid of all its inconsistencies and mistakes.

It’s a flabby slob getting liposuction and a makeover.

It’s the raw body before the nose job and the tummy tuck. The trick is adjusting only just enough to enhance one’s appearance and not turn it into one of those plastic surgery freakshows that show up on the television far past their prime, more Elephant Man than aging beauty.

Natural beauty has its place, and natural solutions to look better are always better than going under the knife or injecting chemicals into your face.

That’s how you lose the capacity for emotion, after all.

I think I’ve lost the plot, and this metaphor, first draft that it is, has gone into the toxic waste pile, with the rest of the fat.

Target: 300 words
Written: 524 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: Sex Criminals 9-12
Music: The Jerky Boys, L7 (what can I say?  I've been busy.)

in training

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Back into it. I guess I must be doing okay at work, since they’re offering me extra work most people don’t get (or want, perhaps).

It’s not the greatest job, but as I learn more about who does what in the government and our division, I’m beginning to see that there may be other options.

I mean, as long as this writing thing isn’t paying the bills, which it’s not.

I’ve made exactly zero dollars thus far.

Of course, I don’t expect to make anything off poetry and short stories. Maybe comics. Maybe the hip little ditties if I compile them into a larger volume.

A book of short stories or poetry might work, but I’m a long way from that, and let’s face it – it’s not going to land me on the moon.

That’s the novel prerogative, and even then, it’s dicey. You gotta be good to be great and great to make any cash, which is bullshit.

We massively undervalue art in this world, always have. The absolute cream can make a living; the rest of us are scraping by.

And I don’t believe in the starving artist. I do believe that too much wealth corrupts.

But making a living?

That shouldn’t be something we have to fight for.

Target: 300 words
Written: 176 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: Sex Criminals 5-8
Music: Jeremy - EP, Pearl Jam (have we deciphered the actual words to Yellow Ledbetter yet?)