The World’s A Lotta Crazy

“I don’t mind being the neighborhood crazy. I just wish people wouldn’t think I’m the only one.”

– Bathrobe-clad lady drinking something from a water bottle while walking down the street

I chuckled at the first sentence but paused at the second. I think it’s actually a bit of drunken profundity.

I had just left the library after working on some short stories. I spent the afternoon trying to capture the Heisenberg-esque mind of a crazy person, and here it was delivered to me.

Her quiet remark to herself forced me to think about how people view themselves. We’re always evaluating ourselves, whether we want to or not, and comparing to the others around. Assessment of others can be seen as an instinct. Gotta know if someone’s a friend or foe, that kind of thing.

Naturally, we take notice of the people around us. For the most part in modern society, I’d say people are less keyed into the survival bit (highly dependent on your occupation… obviously). Anything thereafter can be considered character judgement. What kind of person is this? They look like they’d hate socks stuffed with pinto beans. I bet in high school, they could never compare oranges to apples in the cafeteria.

We’ll all come to our own conclusions about what Bathrobe lady really meant. There’s a lot going on in her words, much of it sad, truthful, and sincere.

The angles from which we consider one another are plentiful, and people would probably benefit from (at least momentarily) considering the angles of those around them.

A Farewell To Arms

“Did you do any heroic acts?”
“No, I was blown up while we were eating cheese.”

I must preface this by saying that I am a huge Hemingway fan. I enjoy not only his terse writing, but the narrative focus of his work. The notions and details that his characters notice are of the exact types I like to think and write about.

It’s all so simple, too. He doesn’t bog you down in dramatic words and complex syntax. He’s got some heavy stuff, and he dishes it out. You read at your own hazard.

A Farewell To Arms was his first best-seller, and there is a lot to like about it. He so neatly articulates the notion of war and its psychological impact. You’re among the ambulance drivers, in the hospitals, by the antiseptic beds, in the hotel bars, watching people in deep lounge chairs, in the park, on the lake. He takes you to all those places, and then further. He takes you into the mind of a war-shaken veteran. What are the things that matter? What are the things that don’t?

His protagonist never just sits down and tells you what he’s thinking. You gotta learn, gotta observe. You can imply things (that are meant to be implied) from the actions and mental remarks of the protagonist.

Despite the easy construction, if you rush through this book, you can miss lots of the finer points of Hemingway’s writing. That’s probably why I think so highly of his work. At least on a technical basis.

That being said, I detest most of his female characters. They’re poorly made figments of the selective imagination, often with no backbone or real personality. It’s a mark of Hemingway’s stories for women to either be unflinchingly cruel or humbly servile. There may be a little variation in the beginning, but by the middle of whatever book, a woman character is one of those two. It’s annoying and disgusting.

I haven’t read all of his work, and I’m hoping one of them proves me wrong. (Or maybe someone can tell me I’m wrong.) I won’t suppose any excuses for him. Only one part, however, stands out to me when Catherine is not in a Hemingway cookie-cutter. It’s her remarks on bravery. I wish I had the direct quote with me, but that segment alone nearly makes the book worth it for me. It’s so stark against the backdrop of her character that it becomes a stunning highlight. (In fact, I’m glad I don’t have the direct quote so that you’ll go through some day and read it yourself.)

Anyway, as much as I dislike how static his female characters are, I have a hard time disliking Hemingway’s work. Alive, he had his fair share of problems, and any reader will see it in his work.

For some reason, that’s what draws me to his writing.

(*Aside: I watched Silver Linings Playbook two days after this post and loved it when Cooper chucks A Farewell To Arms through a window. The coincidence may have made me enjoy that movie a lot more than I intended. I really like that movie.)

Also an update on the Amazon contest: I got cut in the first round!

For shame.

No success is easy. And someone must always fail where someone else succeeds. I don’t plan on revisiting the manuscript very soon. I have other projects I’d like to work on. If you stick around the blog, you’ll see them here!

A Hipster Bus Ride

It’s a typical evening on the limited-route bus back home. Everyone is tired from work, people are kinda smelly (especially the dirtbags who go to a gym after their desk job), and most of all, no one wants to deal with anyone else. So no one speaks to each other, you don’t make eye contact, and you try to breathe less of your cranky neighbors’ odors. These are the rules. They are unspoken.

Of course, leave it to the hipsters to blow this stately peace all to motley hell.

I get on the bus at its first available stop. Empty seats, dirty floors, and my pickings of the palace. The limited bus only hits two stops before it’s fully encumbered and whipping through the crammed and honking traffic corridors of the city. It’s crowded. I’m sandwiched between two old ladies with bulging handbags of concealed goodies. Everyone else is absorbed in their phone, Kindle, earphones, or leave-me-the-hell-alone face. It’s great; sublime even.

The next stop means a few people disembark and newcomers board. They shuffle for position among the mainstays, who grumble and fake their best efforts to make space. Hey, it’s a tough world.

Two very nice young ladies sigh and mumble until they’re positioned somewhere in the aisle ahead of me. Mind you, at this point, I’m completely oblivious to most of the bus and am privy to the one-of-a-kind seat with a spectacular crotch view of a man as closely sidled up to my seat as he could possibly discover.

So here I am, looking at my hands (because looking up isn’t a great option), and all I can hear are these young ladies talking to each other. I have, to the best of my ability, recovered their enlightened discourse here:

“Friend, you made it to me.” Her voice is a bit raspy and sardonic.

The other girl sighs, and with one last struggle, lands in a favorable resting position. “Yeah, I did.” Her voice is quiet and droll.

“Oh my God, I’m so fucking hungry,” Raspy says. “Let’s get something to eat. We should just jump off right now and go to Dixon’s Bar.”


“I’m just kidding. Obviously, we should just go home, but if you had said yes, I probably would have been like ‘OK’.”


Raspy seems like the one in control here. The one who dons the pants, as they say, but they obviously meant tights. “I just want to get home and eat and watch a movie. We should watch the Hunger Games, not only because of its title, which is hilarious, but because I’m fucking starving.”

I face palm.

Raspy cannot be stopped. “Could this bus go any slower? Fun fact: did you know Sandra Bullock earned a license to drive busses from Speed?”

Droll says, “What, no way.”

“Yeah, totally, she trained for the movie because she actually did drive a bus and had enough hours to earn her own license. Crazy.”

There’s a pause because what the hell does someone say to that?

“Anyway, we shouldn’t watch the Hunger Games because I’ve already seen it like three times this week. We should watch True Detective, oh my God, that’s what we should do. So good.”

Now I’m curious whether they look like the hipsters that I imagine. Raspy is wearing all black (essentially morphing her into a walking shadow), with tight leggings and a long-sleeve that is stretched to the max over her wide shoulders and obfuscated bosom and waist. Her hair is short, black, to her shoulders and looks very shiny. Also the bangs–in hipster fashion–are ruler straight just a bit above her eyebrows. And her hair isn’t sweaty shiny, but shiny shiny. You know, like the hood-of-a-freshly-washed-car shiny. She’s got those black, thick-framed hipster glasses,

yes, you know these well…

crimson lipstick, and a dainty little beauty mark above her lip as if she put it there on purpose. And of course, she’s got black fingernails.

Droll (and I kinda feel bad giving her this name now, but it totally fits) is the more subdued hipster, with brown boots and blue jeans and a white-with-horizontal-red-lines button shirt covered with a beige wool… thing. A shawl? I should know what the word is but it’s escaping me and dare I say it, I’m too lazy to look it up. But it’s not like a quaint shawl. I know that much. She looks woefully bored and thumbing her phone while halfway engaged with Raspy.

“Wow,” Raspy says, “I bet if we started yelling at these people, no one would look up. They’re all totally dead.”

Droll gives a scoff-laugh, the sharp exhalation. “Yeah.”

“It’s so ridiculous, like, if we were attacked, no one would notice. I bet we could steal something and no one would care or even do anything.”

I’m thinking, Okay, what the.. some kinda.. you’re…. Sigh. Hipsters.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been berated on a bus and no one said anything. God, it’s awful.”

Through the bodies, I can tell that at least two other people are also not wearing headphones or occupied with their phones. We’re all frowning. If space allowed, I like to think that we’d all have gotten up, stood over this whining young lady, and shouted at her. I don’t know what the hell we’d shout, but it’d be something maybe not fierce, but totally deserved.

Oh, you better watch yourself before I say something well deserved.

But not only are we bus veterans inured to this type of self-aware bus blathering (though usually from drunks and crackheads), we also can’t stand up because it’s too stupidly crowded.

Raspy continues on with her diatribe and Droll stokes the flames and thumbs her phone along.

So all this is relatively pointless ranting on my part, except I’m a writer, and if I ever meet Raspy and Droll again, I’ll say, “Hey, I don’t want to talk to you because I’m tired and don’t feel like entertaining your wildly bloated philosophical bus soliloquies, but here’s a short story I wrote that makes you sound like a total nincompoop.”

Excerpt #1

Now, I hate making promises, but I said I’d post an excerpt to my manuscript and so here it is (Aside: I suppose I could have edited my last post so that my promise never existed but that’s just shady). Obviously, I’m an insecure writer and will preface this entry by saying that this is a rough, rough draft. Haters gonna hate, but please, not too much. On a more serious note, if you have any feedback at all, please shoot me a message. I’d love to hear from you. On to the excerpt!


Wesley knocked on the thin door, stepped to the knob side, waited, and wondered if cats felt this way outside a mouse hole. A wood stool scraped against a wood floor, and hurried whispers came from inside the room. Heavy boots shuffled and approached the door. What did a cat do when a dog appeared instead of mouse?
A loud and unwavering voice said, “Who is it?”
The faint glimmer of light beneath the door did little for the dark hallway. Wesley closed one eye and placed himself in front of the door and said, “Arm of the State. Cardon Twins, open up.” He returned to the side of the door.
The whispering renewed.
A different voice spoke through the door, rushed and uncertain, “And how are we to know you’re an Arm? You could just be some common thug.”
Wesley grinned. “The only people suspicious of me are the ones I’m supposed to collect. Now, open the door. I’ll give you a moment to consult your twin.”
He placed his ear close to—but not over—the gap between the doorframe and the door. Two blades shivered as they left their leather sheaths. A loud gulp preceded quick breathing. A window inside shattered, followed by startled yells. Wesley hefted the short wood club in his hand, braced a foot against the wall, and yanked the door open. The flimsy door and worse lock flew off their bolts.
The room was small, and a flagging candle sat on a table by a single bed. A chair lay smashed in pieces on the floor. On the opposite side of the room, Brawtin danced. His leather boots slid amidst the shattered wood pieces. He deftly sidestepped the slashing daggers of two men in the room. He maneuvered until he was in front of Wesley, the bed between them and the Cardon Twins. Brawtin flipped the table over and onto the bed. The candle fell off, and the room went dark. Wesley opened the eye he’d shut from in the hallway and closed the other.
The Twins, in their matching skunk fur hats, attacked, only to fall over the bed frame and upturned table. Brawtin grabbed one Twin’s head and bashed it into the table. The man went limp. Ranter, the larger Twin, rose up and faced them but froze as his eyes struggled to focus. Wesley flanked left and as Ranter turned to him, Brawtin kicked the bed at Ranter’s knees. Ranter flailed back, and Wesley dashed forward and struck him upside the head. Wesley and Brawtin exchanged glances, looked at the unconscious men, and laughed silently.
Outside the inn, in the dark night with a slim moon and stars bright overhead, they loaded the unconscious Twins into the back of a prison wagon, slapped the railings, and watched as the horses drove off. They began to light their pipes.
The innkeeper ran out, wiping at his balding head with a dirty towel. “My room, have you seen the damage you’ve done to my room? A horse must have run through it the way everything was broken. I was given no word the Arms would tear apart my establishment!” He stood, panting and flustered.
“The Arms will pay you compensation, sir,” Wesley said. “The paperwork takes a while, but it goes through.” He lowered his pipe, as the innkeeper drew in a big breath. It usually happened like this.
“Compensation, compensation. I have heard of this. It is never enough,” the innkeeper said. “Other inns have had the same thing, and this compensation they get does nothing but pay for damages.”
“Maybe if you denied criminals a room at your inn, this wouldn’t be your problem. Besides, what more could the compensation possibly cover?” Wesley said. He glanced at Brawtin, who shrugged and lit his pipe. Typical Brawtin, helpful as always.
“What more? What of my guests? They flee like sheep from wolves when they hear you upstairs breaking,” and the innkeeper ground his swollen hands together, “and smashing my things! Then what? What then, Arms? I have no more guest money. It has run out my door!”
“Most sheep pens have latches,” Wesley said. “That’s the most I can offer you, sir.”
 The innkeeper squinted sharply as if he were imagining Wesley without his head. He bustled off, shaking his hands in the air and cursing. The inn door slammed shut, and the sign overhead rattled.
Brawtin pointed to a cluster of stars with his pipe and released smoke from his nostrils. “You handled him a bit roughly, Wes.”
Wesley frowned as he breathed life into his pipe. “Me, the rough one? He thinks a horse destroyed his room; but let’s just chalk it up to your lousy footwork.”
“Lousy? They’re the ones who broke the stool, Wes. The window… well, that was my fault, but I wouldn’t have had to do that if you didn’t take your time getting through the door, which—need I mention—you broke. I went through the window and nearly had the both of them before you even showed up. We can bill the Twins for the stool and tack on the window while we’re running the tally.”
“If only that was how it worked.”
They sat smoking by the inn. The streets were quiet an hour before dawn, the only time Wesley considered the middle quarters of the city a nice place. Not everyone felt that way. With the flood of Ash Wars refugees into Irisoth, the middle quarters became the safest spaces in the crowded capital of Strath. The landlords had boosted their prices and rubbed their ringed fingers together. Only the wealthy lived in the middle, where guards from the city’s inner keep patrolled.
Wesley, stood, tapped the ash from his pipe against his boot heel, stowed the pipe, and breathed into his hands. “Let’s head back.”
They sat in the Arms’ mess hall eating rice and meat porridge, large bread halves and spoons in their hands. Chatter in the hall died down as boots stomped through the aisles and the clattering of armor drew stares. A tall, stooped man, wearing a bright red smock, faded turquoise pantaloons, and a feathered cap cameto a stop at the table of Wesley and Brawtin, scroll in hand. A pair of Irisoth guards stood behind him. Brawtin covered a smirk, porridge dripping from the spoon still in his hand.
The messenger unfurled the scroll, raised it to the light of the late morning sun, and pronounced, “Arms of the State, Tander and Yasule, your presence is commanded by the Baron Tavinstromcask this noon and no later. Do you understand what I’ve told you?” He looked down his nose at them. They stared back and nodded. “Very well; good day,” he said. Quickly rolling up the scroll and tucking it under an arm, the messenger spun on his heels and left in the direction he came. The other Arms had already resumed their idle chatter, and the hall forgot the appearance.
Brawtin leaned back and picked at his teeth. “No later than noon he says? To the center of the city?” He let out a sigh of disgust. “We need to find some wolfish Arms to take our spots, Wes. I’m sure we could find some thirsty kippers willing to take our rotation. Just look at Kepler and Gideon. Those two morons have been drafting their own ale; they’re so bored. Let’s give up the spotlight for a little while.”
Wesley looked at Brawtin levelly, “And then do what?”
Brawtin frowned. “Then what? We live, Wes. These two-week rotations are killing me. We’re not old, but we’re not getting younger, if you know what I mean.” He raised his cup of ale to Wesley, downed it in two gulps and slammed it down on the table. Froth dripped from his unkempt beard. He rubbed his stomach, the other hand stroking against his square jaw.
“I can tell.”
“So, then? What do you say?”
“Let’s just hear what the Baron has to say.”
“Aw, come on, Wes.”
“We can talk it over on the ride.” Wesley stood from the bench, and Brawtin pursed his lips and followed.
Three sections divided the city, one large square surrounding the next: the lower quarters around the middle quarters and the city keep in the center. They climbed into an inbound city wagon that passed the Arms’ headquarters at the southern intersection of the lower and middle quarters.
On board, scraggly passengers from the lower quarters crowded together. Oozing sores covered their faces and limbs, and they could have been heading to the doctor, or maybe the morgue—in which case, they were headed the wrong direction. The government tried its best to keep death outside the city walls, but the Ash Wars had brought sickness and swarms of refugees. Despite the end of the wars, both remained rooted in the lower quarters.
Every person on the wagon, except the Arms, was coughing. A young woman next to Brawtin coughed into her threadbare mittens. He groaned and shifted away from her. “We couldn’t have ridden our own horses?”
“Get to the stables and make it to the keep before noon? I’d like to see you try.”
At the rim of the middle quarters, sewer outfalls gushed their contents, fetid runoff coursing down the cobbled streets, sometimes overflowing onto the wagon tracks. As they drove deeper into the city, the tracks cleared. The wagon sped inward.
“So, what I talked about earlier…” Brawtin said.
“I thought about it,” Wesley said.
“And?” Brawtin raised an eyebrow.
“Not a fan of it.”
“So if you won’t take reduced rotations for your own sake, what about Danai’s? When was the last time you saw your girl, Wes?”
“We need money to live, which means I need to work. I couldn’t really think of anything past that. You?”
Brawtin was silent.
The inner keep was the last sanctum for nobility in the city. A few privileged nobles resided by the wall and their servants attended the keep’s outer landscape. Short, manicured hedges surrounded gardens of roses and orchids. Wesley deflated at the sight of the beautiful flowers. Every spot of land should be dedicated to food when people in the lower quarters were starving. The glistening petals, in their colorful splendor, served as a noble slap in the face. Their wagon empty, they passed under the raised portcullises in the gatehouse, guards eyeing them as they disembarked in the bailey. The portcullises slammed down behind them.
Archers with nocked arrows stared down from the wall. Stable boys rushed forward to check the horses. Two guards inspected the wagon for several minutes.
One approached the Arms. “Weapons?”
Wesley and Brawtin showed they had none.
“Follow that boy.”
“Not much of a welcome,” Brawtin said.
“I wasn’t expecting one,” Wesley said.
“You nervous, Wes?”
“Meeting the Baron.”
“Only if we screw it up.”
They followed the boy into the Baron’s hall until he turned and flashed his hands for them to stop. He stepped toward the Baron’s dais and said in a high voice, “Arm Tander and Arm Yasule stand before the benevolent Overlord of Strath, The Golden Gryphon, Baron Tavinstromcask.” The boy scurried away.
Wesley and Brawtin knelt and looked at the floor, each planting a bare fist and palm against the floor, at the steps of the Baron’s dais. Plush red runners swept from every direction like rays from the sun. Drapes hung from the double hammerbeam rafters, embroidered with the Baron’s symbol of a gryphon. Empty pews faced the end of the hall, hemmed in by tables similarly empty.
Guards stood at attention on every runner, placing themselves between the pews and the dais. The Baron sat with his legs crossed. Neither touched the floor, one foot bobbing, and the other tapping against one of the legs of the wood throne. His hands fidgeted on his lap. Frayed, greasy, and long brown hair fell down his aquiline face. He stared down his large nose at them and flicked his hair to the side. He looked more like a resident of the lower quarters garbed in ridiculous finery rather than the Baron of Strath. Not that he was much of a politician. Wesley wondered if the Baron had ever done more than inherit a marginalized throne.
“Can you two tell me why you allowed the Twins to live?” The Baron’s voice was deeper than Wesley imagined, which wasn’t much.
Neither Wesley nor Brawtin spoke. This must be Brawtin’s way of getting back at me, Wesley thought.
“We didn’t deem the Twins to be a viable threat. Sir.”
“I see, and which Arm said that? Please stand.” They stood. “Much better. Regarding the Twins, of course they weren’t threats to two Arms. Especially a pair as well-reputed as yourselves.” The Baron spoke while twirling a single finger in the air as if a large ring spun on it.
“Your instructions for that mission were to eliminate the Twins, not to bring them back to prison. We don’t need more prisoners, as—I’m sure you are aware—they simply return to their criminal ways in less time than it takes for me to order a feast.” He sniffed. “Which is fast.”
“But the point is that you went against your orders and preserved the lives of these miserable cretins. Why?”
“We take pride in our ability to stop murders, not commit them.” Please, don’t be the wrong answer, Wesley thought.
“I see,” the Baron said, “and you carried your mission on during the night, with limited information, and decidedly non-lethal force.”
“Yes, sir. We felt that we could handle the mission, despite the circumstances. There was no need to leave the mission for others.”
“Would you have killed them if they were viable threats?”
“If Arm Yasule or my life was in danger, the mission takes precedence.”
“A diplomatic answer, Arm Tander, and a good one. I trust you’ll stick to this principle for your next assignment. I understand that you two are the best pairing that Mind Sarvant has seen since before the Ash Wars. He talked at length about my father’s era. I got bored, but he said you two were good and that’s what I need.” He paused.
“Anything for—” Wesley began.
“I wasn’t finished.” Wesley felt himself redden. Brawtin was going to have a ball with this one.
“My father’s Ash Wars are over, thank God, but there are still problems with my state. I need it in order. Do you understand?”
Neither Arm spoke.
“Good, you learn fast. Mind Sarvant hasn’t lost his edge yet, it would seem. Here’s the problem: towns are burning. Just yesterday, we received a hawk messenger from the Caroq Outpost near Fandlo. They were attacked, everything burned to the ground. The State Army regiment didn’t get there in time. They found no survivors. As far as we can tell, it was no act of war from Proxelos. I cannot have this nonsense happening in my state.” His voice rose. “Do you hear me?”
 “Several regiments of State soldiers deserted during the war. If it’s them, I want to know. The Liege believes remnant mages from the Ash Wars are responsible. It may be them; it may be them and the deserters. I don’t care who it is. Find those responsible, and if you can eliminate them. I don’t care for you to consider their viability as threats. Needless to say, be wary of whom you reveal your mission. The treachery may run deeper than mages and deserters.”
“But no matter who they are, they have murdered citizens of Strath. I will have order in my land.” The Baron breathed heavily, as if he had never expended that much breath or emotion before. Wesley certainly had not expected this. Rumors always spoke of how the Baron was aloof and uncaring for his subjects, but here, he sounded angry and authoritative.
“Without repercussions, this will happen again. You will not let that be. Find the reason and end it. Those are my orders.”
“I don’t like it,” Brawtin said.
“We don’t get much of a say.”
They sat on another empty wagon, heading back into the middle quarters. The wheels rolled smoothly down the slotted tracks. It was a few hours before dusk and well-dressed pedestrians strolled past one another on the sides of the street. Merchants, with their wares stacked and lined along the road, discussed prices with basket-laden shoppers. Silver coins passed between hands.
“We’ve never left the city, Wes. It’s not our area of expertise that the Baron is throwing us into.”
“It’s not? Seems like it is. We’re trackers. He needs us to find people.”
“Or not people. Mages, Wes. Might be we could have tracked them in Irisoth, but it’s different out there, and don’t act like it isn’t. It may be less violent than when our dads were Arms, but that doesn’t make it any better. And the world isn’t all made of people you can track.”
“I’m not worried about that right now. I need what the Baron’ll pay us.”
“And you don’t need to go dying on Danai, either.”
“What are you trying to get at, Brawtin? We can’t refuse this mission.”
“We can if we aren’t fit for it.”
“But we are, and none of the others can do it. Sarvant chose us. We owe it to him.”
Brawtin scowled. “You got a funny sense of debt, Wes.”
When they neared the lower quarters and the faint scent of putrid sewage, the wagon stopped. Brawtin got off. “See you in the morning,” he said.
“See you,” Wesley said.
The wagon continued pass the middle walls and into the lower quarters. It stopped a hundred yards from the city’s final walls, grimy and soot-stained, towering over the refugee campfires. Wesley looked back up the wagon tracks, at the walls of the middle quarters and the keep, tall on its motte, above it.
“You getting out, Tander?” the old driver called.
“Sharp as always, Bill. Take care of yourself. I won’t be around much starting tomorrow.”
“Sure, see you when I see you. Look after your own self, kid.”
Wesley hopped over the rails. Bill waved a hand overhead without looking, and the wagon—filled again with coughing passengers—sputtered for the refugee camps. The markets in the lower quarters, often resembling muddy hamlets, were crowded with refugees searching for a free morsel or a place to sleep. It hummed with conversation, bickering, and hawking. One false step could land you in a makeshift tent and its perturbed occupant. Wesley stopped at a shack, with broken boards and a ripped canvas covering, and picked up some bruised vegetables. He fished bronze coins from his meager pouch and handed them to the expectant vendor.
He was walking home when a woman yelled, “Wesley, hey, get over here!”
Wesley spotted Emma beside her butcher cart and enormous bull of a husband.
As he reached them, Emma threw a wrapped slab of meat at him. He caught it and looked up in surprise. “Emma, I can’t pay for this. Not even half of it.”
She glanced at his vegetables. “You’re feeding Danai those things? Take some meat, Wesley. You’ve more than helped us before.” Her husband turned for a moment to give a quick nod and grin.
“I can’t take this from you, Emma. You’ve got children, too.”
“And they get meat, Wesley. Give it all to Danai if you want, though even you’re looking leaner than usual.”
Wesley smiled. “You don’t like them lean anyway.”
“Off with you and trim that thin beard. It may as well match your hair. Go on; keep the meat. I won’t take no or money for an answer, but say hello to Danai and ma’am Tander for me.”
“Of course.” He waved goodbye, and Emma turned to shooing off beggar refugees and gathering customers with money.
Wesley climbed the creaking stairs to the landing of his flat. Damp spots stained the walls and dark curves in the ceiling sagged. Oily layers of dirt coated the banisters. Wesley avoided them. When he opened his flat’s door, a child’s scream shook the walls. He quickly—and gently—placed his groceries in a basket by the inside of the door and lowered himself, hands ready. Danai, with her bedtime clothes and huge tangle of black hair, rushed out of the back room and into his arms. Wesley took her up and swung her in the air and into a tight hug.
“Dad, you’re squeezing too hard,” she squeaked between laughs.
“You’re going to get the neighbors upset at me again with a scream like that,” he laughed. “How’s my girl? You behaved for Grandma today, right?” He set her down, and she saluted him sharply.
“Yes, sir!” She marched off, picked up the food, and hurried into the kitchen. “Yum! Meat!”
Miranda, with her cane and old magenta robe, came from the same back room. Her gray hairs looked grayer and her easy smile broke along the familiar wrinkles of her face.
“Somehow getting meat? You’re a magician, Wesley.”
Wesley laughed. “‘That’s about all magic is good for,’ Dad would have said.”
They both laughed.
“Though if there were still mages in the city, maybe then people wouldn’t be starving.”
“Nonsense,” Miranda said. “Mages never did a good thing, and your father and his men fought for the right reason. You should know better. Come on, let’s make some dinner.”
As they ate, Wesley said, “Mom, I got assigned to a long tracking mission. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but the money will be good. Sarvant will send it over to you while I’m gone.”
Miranda put down her spoon and clasped her knobby hands. “Wesley, what have I told you? It’s not about the money. You have got to make sure you can be here for Danai. She needs you more than a gob of money. Leaving won’t help, and money isn’t a good father. Your own father never learned that.”
“Dad, you’re leaving?” Danai said.
“Not for long, sweetheart. Mom, I’d rather we all get out of here. It’s worth the risk.”
“To where? The middle quarters?”
“No, somewhere else. I don’t know. Another town, Thysdeel, maybe.”
Miranda didn’t say a word, nodded, and looked at her food.
“I’ll see what it’s like out there, whether it’s safe or not, and we can finally live somewhere in peace. We could grow our own food instead of…” He pushed at their thin stew with his spoon.
“You’re going to go no matter what I say?” Miranda said.
“I think so.”
“You had better know if you’re going to leave your young daughter here with her aging grandmother. She can’t go and lose both parents. You’re the last person I should need to remind.”
Wesley sighed and rubbed his eyes. They felt swollen, irritated, and tired. “Let’s not get into that. Please.” He stood and gave his bowl to Danai. “Here you go, sweetheart. Dad’s not hungry anymore. Eat it all, I know you like Grandma’s stew. After that, it’s time for bed.”
“Thanks, Dad! Grandma, I love your stew.”
Miranda smiled wistfully as Wesley left into the backroom. In the dark, he lay on his sleeping mat, listening to the squeals of Danai, the bickering flats below and above, and the skittering mice inside the walls. How often did the cat wind up with the mice?
Outside the city, Brawtin met Wesley at the stables in the morning. They shared a knowing glance.
“How’d Mama Tander take it?” Brawtin said.
“About as well as I bet Helen took it,” Wesley said.
“You got that right. I’m hoping we can wrap this whole mess up quick, Wes.”
“You and me both.”
They rubbed the horses and prepared the saddles and gear. Brawtin nudged Wesley and nodded toward the gates, where a pair of men separated from the stream of traffic and headed in their direction.
“Can you tell who they are?” Wesley said, squinting.
“Looks like Gill and Pommel,” Brawtin said. “You think they’re coming with us?”
“That doesn’t make much sense. They’re terrible trackers.”
“Serviceable. You think everyone is a terrible tracker compared to you.”
Wesley smiled. Tracking was the only gift and remembrance from his father.
Arms Gyller and Pommenisk were one of the stranger couplings. Most Arm pairs were similar in everything except for skills, when opposites complemented one another. In looks, however, Gyller was average sized, with a flat face and nose, hairy hands, and a black braided beard that extended to his round stomach, while Pommenisk was near a foot taller than Gyller, even with his slouch. Pommenisk’s stubble chin, baggy eyes, heavy brow and pockmarked cheeks gave him a haggard face. They both wore the standard brown leathers of the Arms, with the Arm crest: a red fist over a white hand. It reminded Wesley of the sun burning through a drifting cloud.
Arm Gyller waved a hand in greeting. “You two get the same orders from the Baron?” Arm Pommenisk stood stiffly with his arms crossed.
“I guess so,” Brawtin said. “Depends what yours are.”
“Fair enough,” Gyller said.
They continued talking, but Wesley stopped listening. Among the Arms, there were good pairs and bad pairs. Gyller and Pommenisk, while capable enough to have passed the entry and subsequent qualification tests, were notoriously bad. It hardly made any sense for their pairs to be joined on the same mission. Unless they didn’t have the same orders.
“Wes? Wes, you ready to go or what?” Brawtin was peering down at Wesley from his horse. Gyller and Pommenisk were horseback as well.
Wesley blinked a few times. “Sorry, let’s go.”
As they rode from the city’s walls, with Gyller and Pommenisk ahead, Wesley sidled closer to Brawtin. “Did you find out their orders?”
“Gill was about as secretive as I was. Pommel didn’t say a word.”
“No kidding.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“They must have different orders than us.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense, Wes. The only reason for them to be tagging along is because they have…”

“Right. It’s going to be an interesting trip to Fandlo.”

ABNA Completion!

I’ve finished and now recovered from the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award (ABNA) contest. The contest ended March 2, but I needed every night since then to catch up on sleep!

My last post was a month ago when the contest first started and it has been an arduous trek.
It was pretty often that I’d wake up, glance at the clock blinking a neon green 3am, wipe the sleep from my face, nudge my sleeping computer awake, tap in my password, and then promptly fall back asleep. Five hours later, I’d be on the bus headed back to work. Thems were long days.
Thankfully, it’s over now, but as grueling as it was, I’m super happy that I pushed myself to produce a submittable (though unlikely winning) manuscript. 
I wrote a first draft of my story for NaNoWriMo. The resulting 65k words were a mishmash of awful words and unruly plot lines. I made a few changes, hacked some excess, and found myself with 3k worth of material. The rest had to go. 
ABNA helped me get the rest of the manuscript’s structure in place. It’s nothing to behold, as there are still many, many areas in need of repair, but it got me back to the 51k area. 
So while it may feel great having that first draft done, keep an open mind about it. Because like a trite character, it may get the cut. 
Throwing out 62k words felt bad. Did I just waste all my time?! Well, yes and no. The first draft left me with a great understanding of my characters, world, and story direction. None of it was right in the first draft, but the correction for draft two was immense, and I’m happy with that. 
Coming soon, I’ll post an excerpt of my manuscript. 

Energetic Writing

Last night, I wrote about 3000 words after work. It took me 5 hours. And I was exhausted almost the entire time. Of course, the only reason I’m pushing myself to these limits is because of the Amazon contest (ABNA). From the get-go, I didn’t feel like writing. A long day at work and a long commute meant that the last thing I wanted was slogging out three thousand words. But I needed to find a way to do it.

I’m a flow writer usually. I do normal things and ruminate on the things I noticed throughout my day. Then I write about it. It’s hard for me to manufacture material without thinking about it thoroughly, but I also don’t take very many notes.

That’s not really possible when you’ve got a deadline to hit. So for those writers trying to hit a word count, here are some things that I do.

1. Spreadsheets
Anyone who hasn’t used a spreadsheet, probably has avoided it for personal reasons, but there are many good reasons why spreadsheets are your best friend. They:

  • list characters and their traits
  • map timelines and events
  • easily modify according to your new ideas (read: move huge chunks of text)
  • provide multiple sheets within a single document
    • less mouse clicking means more typing time
  • track word counts
You get it. I love spreadsheets. I think they’re a good way of consolidating all your information in one place so you can assess it quickly. With word docs, you’ve got less space. Just try it. 

Also, by setting word count goals on the spreadsheet, it’s easier to visualize your target than when you look at the count tracker at the bottom of the word doc.

2. Words Per Hour (WPH)
Just how fast can you type? Well, that doesn’t really matter. It only matters if your typing can keep up with and correctly interpret the weird things your brain wants. I can’t type that fast, but my speed as adjusted to what I’m thinking and expressing. It’s hard to keep that consistent over five hours.

It gets tiring, but if you set a goal every hour (or whatever preferable interval) you’ll find it markedly easier to push yourself. I set a modest goal of 600 WPH, or 100 words per 10 minutes.

100 words isn’t that much. A set of dialogue lines. A paragraph or two of setting or action. The segmenting keeps your foot to the gas pedal. Maybe you wrote that last 100 quickly? You reread it, make some adjustments, OH SNAP, the next interval just started, now I only have 8.5 minutes to write 100 words. And it goes and it goes.

3. Allow for breaks
You gotta keep fresh. As much as everyone loves hitting an inspired spurt of writing, giving yourself some breathing time will ensure that you don’t burn out. If you think you need a break, you probably do. Don’t bonk your head for inspiration when it’s run dry. Your head might explode.

Get some water, play with your pet, or in my case, watch some soap operas with my grandma. With a steady diet of breaks, you’ll find that when you sit back down, you’re ready to go again, and that is the type of groove you want.

– – –

And that’s my super short list for staying energized (not necessarily inspired). While they may not be needed by those of us writing without deadlines, these can be helpful for maintaining a writing routine that lacks deadlines.

Just remember, set yourself straight, and the writing will come.

Creating characters (the process)

It’s a hard thing: making a memorable and honest character. Strong writers are determined, no matter what, to get their characters right. And it’s no overnight process. 

When I first started writing, I thought that putting my character through tough battles and emotional trauma would turn them into a real character, a spirit that would manifest in the mind of the reader. Of course, after many years of writing and hundreds of stories later, you get to understand that characters aren’t made in whatever you decide. 

You’ve got to really know your characters, and once that process is complete, they start doing not what you decide but what they decide to do. 

I have never experienced a first draft that earned me a character’s trust. It’s only been in the revisions when they’ll speak up. 

“No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I’d do this.” 
“That doesn’t make sense. I’d do this.” 
“I don’t talk like that. Can’t you hear me?”

Slowly, their ideas and tendencies will come to you. So, if you think your characters aren’t solid, aren’t real, then spend more time with them. The more you write about something (really, anything), the more you understand it and the soul of it. 

And that’s really what writers are chasing after.

Stomping on Writer’s Block

No one said it’d be easy. I know that and never expected revising my manuscript to be anything but difficult. But revising under deadlines are not to be messed with. I have about three weeks left to revise my manuscript into something fashionable for submission. I crunched the numbers for the minimum word count of 50,000.

I’d need to get through about 2500 words a day.

Let’s just say that one more time for comedic effect:


Good. I think that was good for both of us to get out of our systems.

And well, when I ran the numbers, my head spun for a little bit. I paced around my cold room, blew into my hands, and slapped my face. Then I sat down and started. It’s been like that for a week now.
And, of course, the sleep is dropping off.

There may be a problem when I wake up and my computer is sleeping beside me on the bed like a faithful pet.

Sometimes, I laugh at myself as I wake it up from hibernation. “Yo, who told you you could sleep on the job? What do you mean I fell asleep first? Don’t talk back to me!”

But always, I keep going. Late at night, early in the morning, after you’ve finished work. These are the times when night-writers have to get their work in. Let’s be honest: we’re hardly in the mood when we think about it, but when we sit down, it’s glorious. Usually.

Sometimes, the mood isn’t there, manifesting its ugly head as “writer’s block.” But that stuff is just hearsay and scuttlebutt and boogeyman speak. I don’t buy it. You can get past any of your desires and false-gods pretending that you don’t have the chance to write. It’ll take some creativity, but luckily for you, that just happens to be up your alley.

Here’s a small list of things I do to jog myself into writing:
1. I get up and breathe deeply.

This kind of gets at why you feel sleepy at some parts of the day. Subconsciously, when we’re a little bored, we only take in shallow breaths. Something like running in energy-conservation mode. And your body, with less oxygen, feels more tired. So, get up, breathe a lot. Walk fast in tight two meter circles. I dunno. But breathe. Then, when you sit down, maintain good posture to keep the air flowing. I dare you to try it.

2. I find other ways to engage in my created world.

Are you writing a fantasy book? Do you have a map of all the crazy places your characters are going?  Why not? DRAW THAT RIGHT NOW. For me, it feels amazing drawing maps. It gets me involved with the world and I get down into the world itself, imagining the hills, mountain ridges, glades, rivers, plains, and run-down villages. You gotta do something that gets you back into the world.

3. Read out loud.

This serves two purposes. First, it lets you know that, yes your accents are truly as horrible as everyone says they are. I recommend doing this in public for truly pressured writing. Second, it manifests your characters in a totally different way for your mind. Some people can imagine the voices of their characters really well. That’s awesome, but for the rest of us, it can be helpful and comforting to have that character’s voice (even if it is yours) in the room with you.

4. Write your characters in a different setting.

I rarely do this, as the other methods are more effective for me, but I do think that putting your characters out of setting can help you gain a better feel for them. You get to know them better, and they’ll drive your (or their) story for you. It’s a little something like magic. I think you know what I mean.

Anyway, every writer is different but hopefully, some of you are kinda like me and these tips are helpful.

The Glazed Wall

So in my “About jey” page, I say that I don’t mind people texting while on the bus. And I don’t. But I do think it’s a hilarious new norm.

I’m a suburban kid. If I had grown up in the city, I’d have seen what riders would have done without phones and Kindles and headphones worth $5. It may have looked sorta like what I saw today, but I’ll never know.

Just about every single person’s face is glued to a phone screen. Almost literally (I wish though, because that’d be hilarious).

And if they aren’t looking at it, they’re listening to something through headphones that suck their minds out their eardrums. They just stare listlessly into space.

To be clear, even if they weren’t doing these things, I wouldn’t want to talk to any of them. That’s just not my jam, talking to strangers on a bus after work. So I understand the reasoning behind it. The dude sitting behind me just wants to relax and watch slasher films on his iPad, screams busting out his headphones, while the girl next to me shifts uncomfortably and continues cooing into the phone with whomever on some other bus (Oh, so her face was totally glued to the screen, HAH).

I get it. They have other things to do.

Me. I bet they’re making all kinda wayward judgements of me too. I’m sitting there, super awkward, because those chairs can never be comfortable, and I sometimes scribble in a notebook, or I’m struggling to stay awake and my face keeps zigzagging across my chest like I’m trying to draw a figure eight with a pen in my mouth. To each her own.

I do, however, enjoy the off-chance that someone wants to strike up a conversation with me. It’s a rare thing but enjoyable; perhaps because of its spontaneity and scarcity.

I wonder how consistent this aspect of nature is, though. I hardly think it’s a phenomenon of technology. I mean, if everyone were just sitting there, I wouldn’t try and talk to any of them. I like to daydream and that doesn’t require teamwork. There’s a lot of hubbub (here is where I cite evidence that you believe) that technology is killing people’s ability to actual communicate with one another.

Well, maybe for some people, but my mouth isn’t in a constant state of motion anyway, which leads me to believe people weren’t made to always talk to each other. They pick and choose. It just so happens that now they’re choosing to do more entertaining things because they can. I think that’s fair. No need to force it.

So, there’s my spiel on human disconnectedness. It is what it is. If you want it, you can try for it, but you may get shot down. Oddly, I think that happened even before people had phones.

My Theory Behind Why Worknight Is Not A Word But Workday Is

It’s not natural. That’s what it is. A worknight—or, the terrible thing I have dubbed writing after dinner hours—is so dastardly, unpolished, and turdlike that the dictionaries have refused it. But it exists.

(And let me say, I understand that work night is a thing, y’know, a composition of English words. BUT, worknight is not a thing.)

I got up about half a hour ago to stretch my legs and think about the bad and awful writing I had just written. What the hell am I doing? I AM WRITING, SHUT UP. I took a few deep breaths, some push ups (gave up), climbed on some things around the house, and looked in a mirror and HOLY CRAP, I LOOK LIKE GARBAGE. That’s what a worknight is. A lot of shouting, and you have so little energy, that your body quits trying to make your face and complexion like a creature that deserves food and sunlight.

I remember stuff like this. It was called college. But it’s not quite like this. There are no classes that last for 8 hours, are sandwiched between commutes, and are every single weekday. Sure, you had some class, strolled between places, chatted with bumped-into homeys, went to a lab, left early because you felt like it, ate something, went home, napped, and then did your diligent studying and homework. Then you got to go out. Hey, not bad.

But this… this workday into a worknight thing. Totally unreal. Let me break it down into the multi-variable equations that haunt my sleep cycle.
1.5 commute hours
8 workDAY hours
1.5 commute hours
0.5 hours dinner
5 workNIGHT hours
= – 800 hours of sleep


But hey, I’m not a needy guy. I’m just a dude, blarging about my totally normal and generally complacent life. Phew. Good, thanks for listening to that. The whining has ended and now I can officially get back to writing.

Seriously though, not sure how many of you out there are fighting the good fight on these worknights, but let us band together and tell all those people struggling at 3pm on a workday to SACK UP.

PS. I totally wish blarging were a viable thing at work. But, as we can all see, it’s not very conducive to me writing my novel! Now which work am I talking about?