Not expecting much (if anything) but managed a near 5K article while musing about today's course and completed a flash of 1151 words
Day 22 (Day 18 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
016 000,660 Words Flash
017 001,342 Words Article
018 004,931 Words Article
019 001,151 Words Story
020 004,955 Words Article
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 050,652 Words TOTAL
999 002,980 Words Daily Average for Writing Days
999 002,302 Words Daily Average Including Blank Days
999 002,814 Words Daily Average (Year count, "freebie" pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
--
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Teaching...
Teaching today through Sunday. Doubt there'll be much fresh writing.
Here are some prompts
A boy from Sparta
A cool small evening. Somewhere a car starts up.
A long, slow walk, slightly uphill
And will the flowers die?
Basically, he was a cunt
But in Sumatra they are thinking "Palm Oil! Palm Oil!"
Even cooking is a war with you
Every discarded foetus, every one, is marching
First, having read the book of myths
Free prescriptions
Further and further into the deep parts
I am silver. Exact
I had thought so little of her
I have decide to go crazy
I point to where the pain is, the ache
If I ate peanut butter I wouldn't like it
I'm in trouble, she said. We are.
It turns out mud will burn
It was June, 1962. Or May 1969.
It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants
John, George
Moonlight, horses rush
My father got up early
My father has to touch a page to fully understand
My mother says I am a negro
My shoes were polished.
My true love and I lay without touching
Not a prayer for the dying
Nothing unpleasant getting in, nothing of value out.
Nothing, nothing, can hold back the giggle
Roast a pig and follow the smell
Sluices. Ditches. Drains.
Somebody who knew him
Telling my son about the crash
The air was soft, the ground cold, dull
The anxious way you close the door
The back seat of my mother's car
The lunch-box by the body
The old tractor, a black pool under
The road was not deserted any more
The sexual advantages of loving a monkey
The truth is a crude instrument, fiction the scalpel
Twenty years before, thirty years after
What we were like then. What we will be like
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
When he got out of bed the world had changed
When I was eight, I knew nothing
When they come for you
With a girl who doesn't speak English
Women stripped to the waist
Here are some prompts
A boy from Sparta
A cool small evening. Somewhere a car starts up.
A long, slow walk, slightly uphill
And will the flowers die?
Basically, he was a cunt
But in Sumatra they are thinking "Palm Oil! Palm Oil!"
Even cooking is a war with you
Every discarded foetus, every one, is marching
First, having read the book of myths
Free prescriptions
Further and further into the deep parts
I am silver. Exact
I had thought so little of her
I have decide to go crazy
I point to where the pain is, the ache
If I ate peanut butter I wouldn't like it
I'm in trouble, she said. We are.
It turns out mud will burn
It was June, 1962. Or May 1969.
It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants
John, George
Moonlight, horses rush
My father got up early
My father has to touch a page to fully understand
My mother says I am a negro
My shoes were polished.
My true love and I lay without touching
Not a prayer for the dying
Nothing unpleasant getting in, nothing of value out.
Nothing, nothing, can hold back the giggle
Roast a pig and follow the smell
Sluices. Ditches. Drains.
Somebody who knew him
Telling my son about the crash
The air was soft, the ground cold, dull
The anxious way you close the door
The back seat of my mother's car
The lunch-box by the body
The old tractor, a black pool under
The road was not deserted any more
The sexual advantages of loving a monkey
The truth is a crude instrument, fiction the scalpel
Twenty years before, thirty years after
What we were like then. What we will be like
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
When he got out of bed the world had changed
When I was eight, I knew nothing
When they come for you
With a girl who doesn't speak English
Women stripped to the waist
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
SOME PROMPTS
I have two very busy days and fresh fiction-writing is going to be tough
But here are some prompts
A fat alarm clock
A fire is lit
A hedge
A hotel room in New York City
About to sit down with my half-pint of Guinness
And always tucked his daughter up at night
And the flesh of each other
Blue-backed, silver-bellied, half-imagined things
Brought back to me that September evening
Chanting, chanting
Drawn like a moth to the darkened black room
Dumb as a cloud
Her parents love her eyes, how hard she works
His donkey-jacket on the kitchen chair
I am sailing the world
I cannot speak to you.
I died first, I think
I thought we were sitting in the sky
I took myself on for the hell of it
I'm trying to remember as best as I can
Irish Daisies, Yorkshire Nightingales
It begins as a house
It's almost impossible to be here, you kneel
Later he moved quietly to deeper sleep
Light through trees
Like a dwarf on stilts
Men hurrying back across the river
My father decoded the world
My father, drawing the fire
My fellow inmates praise him
Nothing has turned the wood
Our baby's heart, fluttering
People stop me in the street
Right into the mountain
Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finisterre
She moved him to the hospital
Sometimes in autumn
That other country? Where was it?
The boat chugged up to the little stone jetty
The doors between the days fall open
The past fades like newsprint in the sun
The Unit
The village gossiped
The voices carry from everywhere
Then dusk, and someone calls
Then I gave myself a fright
We were joined at the hip.
When all this is over, I mean to travel north
With ten minutes to kill and the whole place deserted
You do not scorch the sheets or wake your wife
You wonder if it's lovers
But here are some prompts
A fat alarm clock
A fire is lit
A hedge
A hotel room in New York City
About to sit down with my half-pint of Guinness
And always tucked his daughter up at night
And the flesh of each other
Blue-backed, silver-bellied, half-imagined things
Brought back to me that September evening
Chanting, chanting
Drawn like a moth to the darkened black room
Dumb as a cloud
Her parents love her eyes, how hard she works
His donkey-jacket on the kitchen chair
I am sailing the world
I cannot speak to you.
I died first, I think
I thought we were sitting in the sky
I took myself on for the hell of it
I'm trying to remember as best as I can
Irish Daisies, Yorkshire Nightingales
It begins as a house
It's almost impossible to be here, you kneel
Later he moved quietly to deeper sleep
Light through trees
Like a dwarf on stilts
Men hurrying back across the river
My father decoded the world
My father, drawing the fire
My fellow inmates praise him
Nothing has turned the wood
Our baby's heart, fluttering
People stop me in the street
Right into the mountain
Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finisterre
She moved him to the hospital
Sometimes in autumn
That other country? Where was it?
The boat chugged up to the little stone jetty
The doors between the days fall open
The past fades like newsprint in the sun
The Unit
The village gossiped
The voices carry from everywhere
Then dusk, and someone calls
Then I gave myself a fright
We were joined at the hip.
When all this is over, I mean to travel north
With ten minutes to kill and the whole place deserted
You do not scorch the sheets or wake your wife
You wonder if it's lovers
Monday, 29 October 2007
Writing Stuff: A Recent Boot Camp Thread
Recently a Boot Camper asked, "Does anyone else get scared?"
He was asking about writing from the deepest parts, how scary it could be.
My first answer was: it's a straight choice. How honest do we want to be? How true? I am only happy when I feel my work is lifting a rug (5% of the time, tops)
Later said:
It ISN'T necessary to directly use your own experience, however painful, however true, or deep or "drama-worthy"
And if you DO directly use something, it's IRRELEVANT whether it's therapeutic, makes you happier or sadder
What matters is the TEXT and what it brings to others
It doesn't matter AT ALL whether 100% of Ballistics is factual, only that it's TRUE. It can be true even if it's 100% fiction.
When you use "your past", your own pain, your own memories, really, the THINGS aren't all that important. What's important is the feelings, and what the events whether directly or indirectly used, SAY, make us feel.
If I use a personal experience directly and try to stay "accurate" I will lose truth. The world and exact accuracy usually kills message.
And later:
Lots of these things are hard to prove, but think like this.
When "a little brown dog" starts glowing, some memory or link to memory, either some maturing part of you thinks it's ready to discover, or some older part of you maybe wants to relieve an internal pressure, BUT THAT IS JUST ONE THING (presume for simplicity)
I suppose it's possible that the conscious and unconscious brain between them choose one single item. one discrete memory, but is it likely?
My belief is that the more we right, the more we try to unfuzz our history, the more we "go there" (I mean in that drifting, available, state) the more things might start to emerge.
The idea that I might isolate ONE and one only (one that might "REFUSE" to ever come out) seems crazy.
When memories and ideas come make sure that at least the emerging tip is not lost. RECORD THEM ALL.
many things may happen her
Example you are imagining/believing that this memory of a squashed cat REALLY MEANS SOMETHING but last week you remembered a
snippet of a song, or an image of an old radio, or someone's shoes, or a car. I have no idea. MIGHT IT NOT BE THAT THE CAT WAS A WAY IN BUT NOT THE KEY? Might it not be that one of you "lesser" ideas/memories will, in the end be more important?
RECORD THEM ALL. LET THEM INTERACT
And later still:
I NEED TO EXPLAIN SOMETHING, WARN YOU
Do NOT presume that all this "must be" an unearthing of your specific past.
It does not have to be YOU or something that happened to you.
Example. Imagine that once you saw, as a kid, a kid getting bullied. You vaguely noted it. It was "gone." Years later you also vaguely note that the kid committed a heinous crime or suicide, or became famous or rich (it doesn't matter). MAYBE you realised the two were the same. Maybe you didn't. Maybe you connected the two bits, connected the relationship, the cause-effect, maybe you didn't.
When these things are pointed out to us we can make a CONSCIOUS, intellectual cause-effect/wondering link. BUT WHEN THEY ARE NOT POINTED OUT TO US, ARE THE LINKS THERE UNDERNEATH SHAPING OUR FEELINGS, OUR EMOTIONS, WHAT WE CARE ABOUT, WHAT AROUSES OUR ANGER OR SYMPATHY.
so a thing might be part of our personal history, first hand
a thing may be part of our history second-hand, ie seen and heard in others
a thing may be part of our psyche THIRD hand, a news report of the above, a book, a play
a thing may, arguably be part of us FOURTH hand, cultural, like "paedophilia" and peadophiles loom so much larger in consciousness these days than they did when I was a kid... or "save-the-planet" or back in the sixties-seventies the fact that most of us went round half expecting a nuclear holocaust.
So memories do not HAVE TO relate to bad or good things you did or had done to you
Now whether or not you have a Hannibal Lecter past or lived with Jesus and ate honey and ambrosia every morning and your shit came out in perfumed bags, you conscious and unconscious pick up EVERY DAY the subliminal links to millions, billions of incidents.
When you read Alex Keegan you read (somewhere in there) HIS past, some of his sensibilities. How much of Dickens' psyche lurks in the bowels of his books... so the more we read and write the more we slowly accumulate "pressures"
if you read a current-vogue book about someone being abused, read absorb, "forget" how do you know, even if your life has been perfect, that this little nugget won't be eating away at you colouring your view of possibly EVERYTHING until you die?
We have many lives now. We absorb from news, poetry, shorts, novels, plays, films, video, TV, the web, in a way people never dreamt of even fifty years ago
but note this... what tweaks you, what sticks with YOU, does so because you are particularly susceptible, receptive to that image or idea
THERE'S A REASON FOR THAT and that's why you have to take an instant snapshot of the "thing" put it on a whiteboard and keep it alive.
If not, if for example, your psychic guardians 'don't want you to know" it will be gone, probably forever in 24 hours.
Think of it as a little fall of mud outside a cave. Mark the spot before mud covers it up.
But remember that it is not "inevitable" that the event or memory or feeling energising this connection is SPECIFICALLY something that happened (physically to you). It might be a combination of things. You might never have been touched by the creepy paedophile from next-door who hung himself when you were thirteen, but maybe you heard his name once when you were out drinking with the office-girls and a childhood friend went white, you FELT.... but the group were playing X and now when you hear X you feel torn, twisted.
It could be anything (or nothing, just an accumulation of juxtapositions and pressures from images, words, ideas from your reading/watching.
If demons made someone write Silence of the Lambs, The Exorcist, Apocalypse Now and hundreds of others, what happens to US when we watch them (even if we laugh)? IF those writers were exorcising their demons (if) what do we absorb?
And
So... I access a feeling, a hurt. a memory and I write about something else.
Yes, that's one way. Often directly writing about something merely energises the defences and we get shut down, anyway. But if we can sense the ache-pressure-fear-disgust (or exquisite pleasure) and find some literary outlet that seems to reflect the feeling, it may well be that what we write will be suffused with the "power" of the partly-unearthed memory.
Say I had walked in on my mother fucking the neighbour and not only that but she looked horrible, told me to fuck off (and then extrapolate)
Yes it may be possible to one day unearth the actual memories and write about them as fictional or actual autobiography but often these writings fai because the memories are bitty and we obsess on the missing parts "wanting to tell the truth"
But if, from the feeling we write about a parent betraying a child, a FICTION, we then can use the pain we felt.
Later someone asked, about these recorded "cues", should they keep one warmed up, ticking over, or should they have many?
Of one I said:
No
IT IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST THING YOU COULD DO
I have many things on the go so the one that wants to can begin to fester and expand. Second two things or more may choose to interact.
Note the verbs. the thing wants to, the thing chooses
NOT the author
One CCer posted this:
It might be worth reading this article which Alex posted on the BC blog.
It came from the notes from a Kingfisher Barn course a couple of years ago, and talks about using half-memories:
http://thebootcampkeegandiaries.blogspot.com/2007/04/little-brown-dog-in-rain.html
and then
http://thebootcampkeegandiaries.blogspot.com/2007/04/theme-truth.html
Note, I am not trying to write (or post) "perfect" articles. I believe that we don't learn so well from the perfectly-formed, but learn better from bits-and-pieces, spontaneous responses which generate questions and then, hopefully, answers.
He was asking about writing from the deepest parts, how scary it could be.
My first answer was: it's a straight choice. How honest do we want to be? How true? I am only happy when I feel my work is lifting a rug (5% of the time, tops)
Later said:
It ISN'T necessary to directly use your own experience, however painful, however true, or deep or "drama-worthy"
And if you DO directly use something, it's IRRELEVANT whether it's therapeutic, makes you happier or sadder
What matters is the TEXT and what it brings to others
It doesn't matter AT ALL whether 100% of Ballistics is factual, only that it's TRUE. It can be true even if it's 100% fiction.
When you use "your past", your own pain, your own memories, really, the THINGS aren't all that important. What's important is the feelings, and what the events whether directly or indirectly used, SAY, make us feel.
If I use a personal experience directly and try to stay "accurate" I will lose truth. The world and exact accuracy usually kills message.
And later:
Lots of these things are hard to prove, but think like this.
When "a little brown dog" starts glowing, some memory or link to memory, either some maturing part of you thinks it's ready to discover, or some older part of you maybe wants to relieve an internal pressure, BUT THAT IS JUST ONE THING (presume for simplicity)
I suppose it's possible that the conscious and unconscious brain between them choose one single item. one discrete memory, but is it likely?
My belief is that the more we right, the more we try to unfuzz our history, the more we "go there" (I mean in that drifting, available, state) the more things might start to emerge.
The idea that I might isolate ONE and one only (one that might "REFUSE" to ever come out) seems crazy.
When memories and ideas come make sure that at least the emerging tip is not lost. RECORD THEM ALL.
many things may happen her
Example you are imagining/believing that this memory of a squashed cat REALLY MEANS SOMETHING but last week you remembered a
snippet of a song, or an image of an old radio, or someone's shoes, or a car. I have no idea. MIGHT IT NOT BE THAT THE CAT WAS A WAY IN BUT NOT THE KEY? Might it not be that one of you "lesser" ideas/memories will, in the end be more important?
RECORD THEM ALL. LET THEM INTERACT
And later still:
I NEED TO EXPLAIN SOMETHING, WARN YOU
Do NOT presume that all this "must be" an unearthing of your specific past.
It does not have to be YOU or something that happened to you.
Example. Imagine that once you saw, as a kid, a kid getting bullied. You vaguely noted it. It was "gone." Years later you also vaguely note that the kid committed a heinous crime or suicide, or became famous or rich (it doesn't matter). MAYBE you realised the two were the same. Maybe you didn't. Maybe you connected the two bits, connected the relationship, the cause-effect, maybe you didn't.
When these things are pointed out to us we can make a CONSCIOUS, intellectual cause-effect/wondering link. BUT WHEN THEY ARE NOT POINTED OUT TO US, ARE THE LINKS THERE UNDERNEATH SHAPING OUR FEELINGS, OUR EMOTIONS, WHAT WE CARE ABOUT, WHAT AROUSES OUR ANGER OR SYMPATHY.
so a thing might be part of our personal history, first hand
a thing may be part of our history second-hand, ie seen and heard in others
a thing may be part of our psyche THIRD hand, a news report of the above, a book, a play
a thing may, arguably be part of us FOURTH hand, cultural, like "paedophilia" and peadophiles loom so much larger in consciousness these days than they did when I was a kid... or "save-the-planet" or back in the sixties-seventies the fact that most of us went round half expecting a nuclear holocaust.
So memories do not HAVE TO relate to bad or good things you did or had done to you
Now whether or not you have a Hannibal Lecter past or lived with Jesus and ate honey and ambrosia every morning and your shit came out in perfumed bags, you conscious and unconscious pick up EVERY DAY the subliminal links to millions, billions of incidents.
When you read Alex Keegan you read (somewhere in there) HIS past, some of his sensibilities. How much of Dickens' psyche lurks in the bowels of his books... so the more we read and write the more we slowly accumulate "pressures"
if you read a current-vogue book about someone being abused, read absorb, "forget" how do you know, even if your life has been perfect, that this little nugget won't be eating away at you colouring your view of possibly EVERYTHING until you die?
We have many lives now. We absorb from news, poetry, shorts, novels, plays, films, video, TV, the web, in a way people never dreamt of even fifty years ago
but note this... what tweaks you, what sticks with YOU, does so because you are particularly susceptible, receptive to that image or idea
THERE'S A REASON FOR THAT and that's why you have to take an instant snapshot of the "thing" put it on a whiteboard and keep it alive.
If not, if for example, your psychic guardians 'don't want you to know" it will be gone, probably forever in 24 hours.
Think of it as a little fall of mud outside a cave. Mark the spot before mud covers it up.
But remember that it is not "inevitable" that the event or memory or feeling energising this connection is SPECIFICALLY something that happened (physically to you). It might be a combination of things. You might never have been touched by the creepy paedophile from next-door who hung himself when you were thirteen, but maybe you heard his name once when you were out drinking with the office-girls and a childhood friend went white, you FELT.... but the group were playing X and now when you hear X you feel torn, twisted.
It could be anything (or nothing, just an accumulation of juxtapositions and pressures from images, words, ideas from your reading/watching.
If demons made someone write Silence of the Lambs, The Exorcist, Apocalypse Now and hundreds of others, what happens to US when we watch them (even if we laugh)? IF those writers were exorcising their demons (if) what do we absorb?
And
So... I access a feeling, a hurt. a memory and I write about something else.
Yes, that's one way. Often directly writing about something merely energises the defences and we get shut down, anyway. But if we can sense the ache-pressure-fear-disgust (or exquisite pleasure) and find some literary outlet that seems to reflect the feeling, it may well be that what we write will be suffused with the "power" of the partly-unearthed memory.
Say I had walked in on my mother fucking the neighbour and not only that but she looked horrible, told me to fuck off (and then extrapolate)
Yes it may be possible to one day unearth the actual memories and write about them as fictional or actual autobiography but often these writings fai because the memories are bitty and we obsess on the missing parts "wanting to tell the truth"
But if, from the feeling we write about a parent betraying a child, a FICTION, we then can use the pain we felt.
Later someone asked, about these recorded "cues", should they keep one warmed up, ticking over, or should they have many?
Of one I said:
No
IT IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST THING YOU COULD DO
I have many things on the go so the one that wants to can begin to fester and expand. Second two things or more may choose to interact.
Note the verbs. the thing wants to, the thing chooses
NOT the author
One CCer posted this:
It might be worth reading this article which Alex posted on the BC blog.
It came from the notes from a Kingfisher Barn course a couple of years ago, and talks about using half-memories:
http://thebootcampkeegandiaries.blogspot.com/2007/04/little-brown-dog-in-rain.html
and then
http://thebootcampkeegandiaries.blogspot.com/2007/04/theme-truth.html
Note, I am not trying to write (or post) "perfect" articles. I believe that we don't learn so well from the perfectly-formed, but learn better from bits-and-pieces, spontaneous responses which generate questions and then, hopefully, answers.
Blanks, but Catching Up
Had a strange few days. Computer troubles, then bought new apple software which was "distracting", then it was the weekend and the soccer. Watched reading 2-1 Newcastle live and Liverpool 1-1 Arsenal on TV
NOT in the mood for writing and feeling empty but Boot Camp critiques (problems with 3 stories) gave me an article which I finished this morning so the word-count had a big boost.
If I get a story out today (if) then I should be getting close to my 2.5K a day target
Day 20 (Day 16 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
016 000,660 Words Flash
017 001,342 Words Article
018 004,931 Words Article
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 044,546 Words TOTAL
999 002,779 Words Daily Average for Writing Days
999 002,223 Words Daily Average Including Blank Days
999 002,779 Words Daily Average (Year count, "freebie" pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
NOT in the mood for writing and feeling empty but Boot Camp critiques (problems with 3 stories) gave me an article which I finished this morning so the word-count had a big boost.
If I get a story out today (if) then I should be getting close to my 2.5K a day target
Day 20 (Day 16 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
016 000,660 Words Flash
017 001,342 Words Article
018 004,931 Words Article
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 044,546 Words TOTAL
999 002,779 Words Daily Average for Writing Days
999 002,223 Words Daily Average Including Blank Days
999 002,779 Words Daily Average (Year count, "freebie" pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Friday, 26 October 2007
And then of course, Kingfisher Barn
In the first few days of November I have three Boot-Campers for two days, then a fourth and five on the last day, all at Kingfisher Barn for a face-to-face course. These are utterly DRAINING, for me (and the delegates) but they really do seem to make a difference.
There are some things that are damn hard to transmit over the web, no matter how many stories are written and critiqued. Bring some people together for a few days (with evening wine) and anything is possible, including tears.
A lot of BC 1-2-1 (Kingfisher Barn) is about finding stories, and finding the right way into them. They deal a lot with voice, tone, language, "colour" theme and character, and always focussing on that first page because if the first page is right, the rest follows. This time we have a day on editing, too.
The hardest thing to teach writers is how to let go and let the unconscious produce ideas while the fingers work on automatic.
Of course, for the latter to happen "without thought" you need to write so much, so often that the physical act of writing is automatic.
Alex
There are some things that are damn hard to transmit over the web, no matter how many stories are written and critiqued. Bring some people together for a few days (with evening wine) and anything is possible, including tears.
A lot of BC 1-2-1 (Kingfisher Barn) is about finding stories, and finding the right way into them. They deal a lot with voice, tone, language, "colour" theme and character, and always focussing on that first page because if the first page is right, the rest follows. This time we have a day on editing, too.
The hardest thing to teach writers is how to let go and let the unconscious produce ideas while the fingers work on automatic.
Of course, for the latter to happen "without thought" you need to write so much, so often that the physical act of writing is automatic.
Alex
Struggling a Bit!
Lots to do today, family-wise (it's half-term) and woke later than normal feeling none-too-good, tired, hungry and "empty" for writing.
Have forced out a story (I daren't look at it for a while) - a flash-length thing, but at least it's not a blank day.
I have "nothing in there" so need to break now, eat, maybe go to the gym, break the depression cycle...
Day 17 (Day 13 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Argh!)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
016 000,660 Words Flash
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 038,273 Words TOTAL
999 002,734 Words Daily Average for Writing Days
999 002,251 Words Daily Average Including Blank Days
999 002,944 Words Daily Average (Year count, "freebie" pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Have forced out a story (I daren't look at it for a while) - a flash-length thing, but at least it's not a blank day.
I have "nothing in there" so need to break now, eat, maybe go to the gym, break the depression cycle...
Day 17 (Day 13 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Argh!)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
016 000,660 Words Flash
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 038,273 Words TOTAL
999 002,734 Words Daily Average for Writing Days
999 002,251 Words Daily Average Including Blank Days
999 002,944 Words Daily Average (Year count, "freebie" pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Prompt Posted Early for Friday
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
All day, all night, all weathers
April is the cruellest month
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks
Everyone suddenly burst out singing
Footworn and hollowed and thin
For I have known them all already, known them all
Groping along the tunnel, step by step
Had we been lovers
I believe there were no flowers then
I have come from the borders of sleep
I lay with my young bride in my arms
I lent upon a coppice gate
I love it as a child might love it
I see the image of a naked man
I thought we were sitting in the sky
I was much further out than you thought
It was after the war
Let us go and make our visit
Love without hope
Move him into the sun
No one is twisting her arm but there it is
Nothing but wild rain
Now it is autumn, falling fruit
Once we had toys, pretty toys
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me
Ten minutes to kill
The darkness crumbles
The fascination of what's difficult
The flood subsides, and the body
The staggering girl
The trees are in their autumn beauty
The troubled midnight
The voices carry from everywhere
The whitewashed wall
The words we have for things that die
There is one story and one story only
There will be time, there will be time
They sing the dearest songs
This is my first time here, a stranger
Turning. And turning and turning
We are at the races now
We drank coffee, talked for an hour
We hired a private nurse
We shall pick his bones, whisper
When she rises in the morning
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Why have you made this life so intolerable?
You did not walk with me
You would not know him now
All day, all night, all weathers
April is the cruellest month
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks
Everyone suddenly burst out singing
Footworn and hollowed and thin
For I have known them all already, known them all
Groping along the tunnel, step by step
Had we been lovers
I believe there were no flowers then
I have come from the borders of sleep
I lay with my young bride in my arms
I lent upon a coppice gate
I love it as a child might love it
I see the image of a naked man
I thought we were sitting in the sky
I was much further out than you thought
It was after the war
Let us go and make our visit
Love without hope
Move him into the sun
No one is twisting her arm but there it is
Nothing but wild rain
Now it is autumn, falling fruit
Once we had toys, pretty toys
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me
Ten minutes to kill
The darkness crumbles
The fascination of what's difficult
The flood subsides, and the body
The staggering girl
The trees are in their autumn beauty
The troubled midnight
The voices carry from everywhere
The whitewashed wall
The words we have for things that die
There is one story and one story only
There will be time, there will be time
They sing the dearest songs
This is my first time here, a stranger
Turning. And turning and turning
We are at the races now
We drank coffee, talked for an hour
We hired a private nurse
We shall pick his bones, whisper
When she rises in the morning
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Why have you made this life so intolerable?
You did not walk with me
You would not know him now
The Finished Article
Day 16 (Day 12 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 037,613 Words TOTAL
999 002,351 Words Daily Average
999 003,086 Words Daily Average (Year count, pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 009,095 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 037,613 Words TOTAL
999 002,351 Words Daily Average
999 003,086 Words Daily Average (Year count, pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Grinding Away
2.2K so far today (10:05)
At least "OK, so far..."
Day 16 (Day 12 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 008,502 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
TOTALS INCLUDE THREE BLANK DAYS
999 037,026 Words TOTAL
999 002,314 Words Daily Average Overall
999 002,468 Words Daily Average for Actual Writing Days
999 003,086 Words Daily Average for Year (using pre-year warm-ups as bonus words.)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
At least "OK, so far..."
Day 16 (Day 12 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 008,502 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
TOTALS INCLUDE THREE BLANK DAYS
999 037,026 Words TOTAL
999 002,314 Words Daily Average Overall
999 002,468 Words Daily Average for Actual Writing Days
999 003,086 Words Daily Average for Year (using pre-year warm-ups as bonus words.)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Up Early, but
Was up an hour ago but a few bits of BC admin, sort out some prompts (below) and it's 07:16
That should remind me that when you have a word-count to meet, DO IT FIRST.
I should KNOW that. I wrote and published an article saying so!
Ah, well, I've read the starts of twenty stories, listned to half a dozen MP3s, put the kettle on, talked to the dogs...
Isn't that what life's about?
Answer NO.
Not if I'm a writer.
That can all come, AFTER I've broken the back of the day's work.
Here are some prompts
This version of the story is in English. In Milan.
Sadness, that's normal, it goes with the territory.
Squinting against the late-afternoon sun as it cut through the birch trees
In the afternoons before the holidays Trish had started frequenting a restaurant a few blocks west of the apartment.
I loved a girl once. Every story starts that way, right?
There she goes. Who? That girl. What girl? You know. What's-her-name.
Florence Melnick went to the library every day.
They're married, but not to each other.
On the way home from hospital, Ava tells Charlotte that after her first husband was killed during a German air attack on Bari in 1943, she cried without pause for weeks, only to emerge from her stunning grief temporarily blind.
Once upon a time two men lived down the bottom of a nuclear missile silo.
Years before my sister Allie became the champion you know and love – winner of the International Matzo-Eating Contest, title-holder of the Conch Fritter Invitational, the girl who down nine sticks of butter in five minutes – she binged her way through a dinner dare that became her finest hour (and my longest).
Dolly's first big idea was the hat.
When I started out volunteering on Monday nights at New Day House, it was just me, Karen, and a rotating cast of eight or ten kids who, with their sticky marker-covered hands and mysteriously damp clothes, would greet us by lunging into our arms and leading us into the basement playroom.
From Wanda Farrelly-Johnson. Are we God's Children of Ham? And other Dilemmas of Black Historical Research (Pilot, N.C.: Lizard Ladies Press, 1983):
Tommy's cousin Gabe. Tommy's distant cousin Gabe from Stillwater, Minnesota. Tommy's cousin Gabe, related to my husband through divorce and remarriage, in lieu of actual blood, who arrives on my front porch at dinnertime with a duffel bag and fanny-pack. Industrial-sized.
Dear Doctor X, if I may call you that. Perhaps I should introduce myself.
I met Adam at the bookstore. He was in the section marked Biography/History.
You thought everybody in America had a car and a gun, your uncles and aunts thought so too.
That should remind me that when you have a word-count to meet, DO IT FIRST.
I should KNOW that. I wrote and published an article saying so!
Ah, well, I've read the starts of twenty stories, listned to half a dozen MP3s, put the kettle on, talked to the dogs...
Isn't that what life's about?
Answer NO.
Not if I'm a writer.
That can all come, AFTER I've broken the back of the day's work.
Here are some prompts
This version of the story is in English. In Milan.
Sadness, that's normal, it goes with the territory.
Squinting against the late-afternoon sun as it cut through the birch trees
In the afternoons before the holidays Trish had started frequenting a restaurant a few blocks west of the apartment.
I loved a girl once. Every story starts that way, right?
There she goes. Who? That girl. What girl? You know. What's-her-name.
Florence Melnick went to the library every day.
They're married, but not to each other.
On the way home from hospital, Ava tells Charlotte that after her first husband was killed during a German air attack on Bari in 1943, she cried without pause for weeks, only to emerge from her stunning grief temporarily blind.
Once upon a time two men lived down the bottom of a nuclear missile silo.
Years before my sister Allie became the champion you know and love – winner of the International Matzo-Eating Contest, title-holder of the Conch Fritter Invitational, the girl who down nine sticks of butter in five minutes – she binged her way through a dinner dare that became her finest hour (and my longest).
Dolly's first big idea was the hat.
When I started out volunteering on Monday nights at New Day House, it was just me, Karen, and a rotating cast of eight or ten kids who, with their sticky marker-covered hands and mysteriously damp clothes, would greet us by lunging into our arms and leading us into the basement playroom.
From Wanda Farrelly-Johnson. Are we God's Children of Ham? And other Dilemmas of Black Historical Research (Pilot, N.C.: Lizard Ladies Press, 1983):
Tommy's cousin Gabe. Tommy's distant cousin Gabe from Stillwater, Minnesota. Tommy's cousin Gabe, related to my husband through divorce and remarriage, in lieu of actual blood, who arrives on my front porch at dinnertime with a duffel bag and fanny-pack. Industrial-sized.
Dear Doctor X, if I may call you that. Perhaps I should introduce myself.
I met Adam at the bookstore. He was in the section marked Biography/History.
You thought everybody in America had a car and a gun, your uncles and aunts thought so too.
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Not Yet Midnight
More on Writing, not yet done...
A good day to partially compensate for three days out
7,389 Words (incl previous 1K story)
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 006,380 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 034,904 Words TOTAL
999 002,327 Words Daily Average
999 003,173 Words Daily Average (Pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
A good day to partially compensate for three days out
7,389 Words (incl previous 1K story)
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 006,380 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 034,904 Words TOTAL
999 002,327 Words Daily Average
999 003,173 Words Daily Average (Pre-year warm-ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Words Who Can Stop This man?
6,244 Words (a 1K story)
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 005,239 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 033,763 Words TOTAL
999 002,250 Words Daily Average
999 003,070 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 005,239 Words Article (part)
015 001,005 Words Story
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 033,763 Words TOTAL
999 002,250 Words Daily Average
999 003,070 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
01 Rejections
5,239
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 005,239 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 032,758 Words TOTAL
999 002,184 Words Daily Average
999 002,978 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 005,239 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 032,758 Words TOTAL
999 002,184 Words Daily Average
999 002,978 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
4,617 But No Shower
Took a break to beat the dogs, then
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 004,617 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 032,136 Words TOTAL
999 002,142 Words Daily Average
999 002,920 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 004,617 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 032,136 Words TOTAL
999 002,142 Words Daily Average
999 002,920 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
3,598
Another thousand words. I can get shower now and get dressed!
10:58
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 003,598 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 031,117 Words TOTAL
999 002,075 Words Daily Average
999 002,829 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
10:58
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 003,598 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 031,117 Words TOTAL
999 002,075 Words Daily Average
999 002,829 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
Good Start!
Up about six and well into a long article (2,568 words) by 08:57, my day's target achieved. Good! Good! Good!
Now the rest of the day is a bonys (and I've fed the dogs)
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 002,568 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 030,087 Words TOTAL
999 002,006 Words Daily Average
999 002,314 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
Now the rest of the day is a bonys (and I've fed the dogs)
Day 15 (Day 11 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
014 002,568 Words Article (part)
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 030,087 Words TOTAL
999 002,006 Words Daily Average
999 002,314 Words Daily Average (Warm ups used)
01 Submissions
SOOOOO glad I managed 2.5K on Saturday because Sunday and Monday AND today were blanks.
Came back from overseeing some work on the Chapel (we have stairs and a first floor now), feeling a bit unwell.
Today rose and my computer decided to take a day off.
That makes me 7,500 words down on my daily targets (but I was 10K in front as I had four warm up days! But think now it will probably take me a month to get back in front.
Here are some prompts (00:30 Hrs) and hopefully, tummy and computer permitting, I'll start the long haul
A broken flower-stem, a broken vase
A man riding horseback raises dust
A thousand mountains without a bird
At last his guilt became apparent
Autumn in California, mild, anonymous
Before the end they chatted with friends over a glass
Careless for an instant How we edge away
Clean, white, starched sheets
Flung across a room An old man, black face
Four or five years ago Romance never returns
From the scrotum of the Yak
He doesn't care he looks strange
He let tears fall and wandered off alone
He speaks from the corner of his eyes
Hours are a small thing A lighthouse
I am a man with few ambitions and no friends
I can stare at him, ashamed, shameless
I have a standing order called "surrender" in case of war
I have surrounded you, I was as cold as stone
I must go back to her, to her embrace
If only we could throw you away
It is impossible to see anything
It is your loneliness, not mine
My head, my shoulders, my arms
Night came and they became more anxious
Nobody knows what love is any more
Pedro has the shoes
She poured the tea. Vaguely I watched her hands
She's big, and big, and full of love
So whisk me off out of here and down some road
Sympathy comes between shit and syphilis
The day before he died Rising from the toilet seat
The ebb run and the flood flow
The isolation hospital Suicide isn't always easy
The morning changed grew chilly and transparent
The nervous hum of danger
Then stand, say nothing; nothing you believe
Then the lights went out Unpacking
This was once an innocent country
This was the end of a man who also died
Twice daily, maybe thrice. It depends on luck
Under a winter streetlamp near a bus-stop
We banged on the pipes, but no-one knew the code
We beat it shitless
We know what's funny and unfunny
We look for communion A wind is blowing
We slept naked, on top of the covers
When I grow up I want to be connected
When she was still alive, we often walked
Came back from overseeing some work on the Chapel (we have stairs and a first floor now), feeling a bit unwell.
Today rose and my computer decided to take a day off.
That makes me 7,500 words down on my daily targets (but I was 10K in front as I had four warm up days! But think now it will probably take me a month to get back in front.
Here are some prompts (00:30 Hrs) and hopefully, tummy and computer permitting, I'll start the long haul
A broken flower-stem, a broken vase
A man riding horseback raises dust
A thousand mountains without a bird
At last his guilt became apparent
Autumn in California, mild, anonymous
Before the end they chatted with friends over a glass
Careless for an instant How we edge away
Clean, white, starched sheets
Flung across a room An old man, black face
Four or five years ago Romance never returns
From the scrotum of the Yak
He doesn't care he looks strange
He let tears fall and wandered off alone
He speaks from the corner of his eyes
Hours are a small thing A lighthouse
I am a man with few ambitions and no friends
I can stare at him, ashamed, shameless
I have a standing order called "surrender" in case of war
I have surrounded you, I was as cold as stone
I must go back to her, to her embrace
If only we could throw you away
It is impossible to see anything
It is your loneliness, not mine
My head, my shoulders, my arms
Night came and they became more anxious
Nobody knows what love is any more
Pedro has the shoes
She poured the tea. Vaguely I watched her hands
She's big, and big, and full of love
So whisk me off out of here and down some road
Sympathy comes between shit and syphilis
The day before he died Rising from the toilet seat
The ebb run and the flood flow
The isolation hospital Suicide isn't always easy
The morning changed grew chilly and transparent
The nervous hum of danger
Then stand, say nothing; nothing you believe
Then the lights went out Unpacking
This was once an innocent country
This was the end of a man who also died
Twice daily, maybe thrice. It depends on luck
Under a winter streetlamp near a bus-stop
We banged on the pipes, but no-one knew the code
We beat it shitless
We know what's funny and unfunny
We look for communion A wind is blowing
We slept naked, on top of the covers
When I grow up I want to be connected
When she was still alive, we often walked
Saturday, 20 October 2007
Words
Had to put the alarm on for five as we leave at nine, but...
2,500 words, Not bad for a blank day
Sunday will be near impossible though, Monday Tough,
Blanks will put me 5,000 words behind schedule
Day 11 (Day 7 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 027,519 Words TOTAL
999 002,502 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
2,500 words, Not bad for a blank day
Sunday will be near impossible though, Monday Tough,
Blanks will put me 5,000 words behind schedule
Day 11 (Day 7 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
013 002,000 Words Article
888 012,325 Words Other Writings
999 027,519 Words TOTAL
999 002,502 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
About Prompts. Finding Stories
Some of my best work, most of my best in the last three years has come from randomness, a chance remark overheard, an odd image seen, but most typically from a Boot Camp flash prompt, or from a response to a poem.
Poems, by the way, a very good ways into a fresh idea. Reading a poem does not mean that when you respond you will write a prose version of the poem, or steal the idea, or "answer it."
Poems have that way of breaking through the skin, getting round your defences, slipping past the guardians of the (boring, up-front) psyche. Meat and life and joy (and pain) but always living is back there in the darkness, the unconscious. Find a way to get access.
When I want to come at my life at a tangent, find a different way in, see afresh, break the shackles, I read a poem, read smatterings of stories, look at pictures, or listen to random music. Even simply reading titles of books, looking at the spines, the colours, sensing what is within can rekindle deeply-set ideas, slowly awaken the unusual, the freshly-connected.
I believe that the more obviously we think, the more conventionally, consciously, logically, the more left-brained, the less interesting our work will become. I dislike carefully plotted, highly-researched work. I dislike the mechanical and perfectly-formed. What I want and need is surprise, shock, difference, the unexpected, the words or view that shake the tree make us see the world in another way.
If we read of a racist he's a bigot or a Nazi. Is he or she usually a beautiful, sensitive, loving person (who just hates a race or a colour)? What if we juxtapose these unusual combinations? Remember in Schindler's List (I think) where the vicious commandant listened to Mozart? The music heightened the horror, made us think, "It is not impossible, I could be like that."
Beginners paint things in black and white, they write stock characters, stereotypes and clichés. It's when we break away from these that we begin to see anew, to threaten to disturb the reader. Clichés wash over us. We "know" they don't matter too much. We don't need to pay attention. After all, we know what this means, right? We've seen it all before.
Even when we are intermediate writers or well-published, "established" writers, it's so easy to drift into obvious, overdone plots, easy to have characters everybody expects. One reason I use prompts is to randomly-associate, to make my mind leap about, to force connections which would NOT come conventionally, "typically" or in an everyday way.
I grab a few poetry collections and pinch lines. Sometimes these are direct takes, often I change a word or embellish on the fly. The point is the line is near random (but it has caught my eye or ear so perhaps not TOTALLY random, and of course I bought the book, so again, there's something deeply wanted…)
A fat, furry bluebottle.
And of course the passengers were right…
Dear Doctor X, if I may call you that
Do you want to know a secret?
These few are this morning's list, not even posted (and somehow I know not as good a list as usual as I'm off for the weekend and rushing.) I've already forgotten where they've come from (some of them.) I think the first three there are from a new paperback "This is Not Chick Lit" the next (I know) is a song title.
Everything is Too Loud
Fuck off Noah, fucking Doom Merchant
He was flicking through Gay & Lesbian Literature.
Hours and days and weeks and months, I worked on my persona
Top one here is a song title, the next was prompted by a song but is a spontaneous original. Strong, more definite prompts like this are actually a bit too "channelling" for my tastes. They tend, if used to force the writer towards a specific story. The gay line was prompted by the start of a story in TINCL but wasn't there. I made it up. The fourth is a stretched version of a line from a short-story in Seventh Quark
How can you expect to be taken seriously?
How you remind me
I am so cold. My bones are cold.
I met Adam in a bookstore.
Song, song, 7Q short, TINCL, the one that gave me the gay line.
I might have been a potter
I volunteered for Monday Nights.
I was saying how unusual your case is.
It was a very unlucky way to get dead
Random, set off by something, a distorted view from TINCL, random, random. By random I mean that as I copy others' words I often get a line "pop up"
It's been well-researched. It's guaranteed.
It's just a story. It doesn't have to be true.
It's not the end of the world
Max always shrugged off the idea of marriage
Random, random, song-title, extracted from a story by Lois Peterson
Michael Jackson's Dick
My second cousin's friend's step-father
Not for all of it, not for nothing
Outside McDonalds
The title of a Steve Almond story (was in 7Q), random, random, random. I should say here that the percentage of "randoms" is way, WAY higher than an average day's prompts.
Passing Through Smoke
Peaches
Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am an attorney for…
Save the life of my child, cried the desperate mother
Title of a 7Q story, song, a spam email, words from a Simon & Garfunkel song.
Seagulls fling themselves against the shifting winds
She is whirling, whirling.
She rummages in her purse
Some people thought you were from Jamaica
Excerpt from "Baby Beluga" by Lois Peterson, excerpt from a 7Q flash by Hazera Forth, ditto, excerpt from a story by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
Spotted East of
The carousel is old.
The Night Has a Thousand Eyes
The thing about making love to an alien is –
Half the title of a 7Q introduction, snippet of a 7Q story, song title, random.
The voices of old people
There are so many people, all tired and hunched over.
There was a terrorist on the plane, but
There's someone at the door
Prompted by Simon & Garfunkels "Old Friends", extract from a 7Q prize-winning story called "Sugar-Sticks" by Nancy Saunders, a random memory, random.
To all the girls I loved before
Today her brother rang
Walk Don't Run
We said we'd meet in Santa Monica
Song, random, song, from a chicklit story.
Who wants to live forever?
You could buy me a burger
You smiled lightly when they asked you those questions
You thought everybody in America had a car and a gun
Song. Play that Queen song on repeat, turn off your screen and write-write-write! Random, extract from Adichie, ditto.
Usually, definitely, around a third of my prompts will be poetry. Usually I will have opening lines from famous stories or novels (sometimes altered so as not to instantly make us think "Macomber", or whatever) sometimes not.
I also use letters. These are great. Simply copy a paragraph of a letter then use a carriage return to break it up, cut away a few words so the lines stand alone…
Then when I have all these prompts (plus once the wording of a snotty email, once my electricity bill) I sort them alphabetically. This "breaks the connections". Sometimes I will cut and past half a dozen prompts from the beginning to the middle. Just randomise, stop the brain making conscious choices.
Now how to get the story?
I read the whole thing top to bottom read bottom to top, read top to bottom. I am trying hard NOT to want to grab that prompt and go. What I am trying to do is allow all the prompts individually to "talk to me", prompts in pairs and triplets to "whisper". I am also hoping that the back-stories from those prompts are building connections, pressures deep in me.
Maybe that song title reminds me of a night. But that line from that story WITH the memory makes me think of a new way of connecting the world, a less obvious way. And these two with the drumming of that line of poetry there, and vague thoughts about Nigerian widows wanting to give me money, and and and…
I hold off as long as I can but now what I'm feeling for, waiting for is SOUND. I and trying to tune in to the musical and aural sense of an opening which just feels and sounds right. Am I going to write something sad, poignant, aggressive, lyrical? What does my soul want to do? (If I can get my BRAIN out of the way!)
I read through, mutter, wander, trying to be "struck" by a line, a juxtaposition. Usually 1-2-3-4 phrases will begin to glow. One might be from an ending I have no idea about, one from the middle, two (together) with a memory might be ready to form my story's start.
When you find a feeling, a voice:
After the service, some time well into the wake, I stepped outside.
They are queuing for their pensions when love strikes. It comes out of nowhere.
Dear, let me explain how it happens. There is clarity, but the moment of absolute clarity is brief, the world that was, the world that is to be, is mostly dark confusion.
I am eating a breakfast egg and listening to Otis Redding. When Otis sings "My Girl" I feel sorry for myself. I think about Kathy.
I would like to pretend this is a dream. I am in a country of bright, perfect light. I am with ALL my family, my brother, four sisters, Pat, Jenny, Barbara, Angela, my mother, my father. It's summer, the kind that as a child you thought belonged to you, was made for you. We even have a dog.
We are in a dim, hot, airless room with the blinds all closed, me and Albert Typo and Albert is making tea. He has already put out precisely seven chocolate biscuits, and one is wrapped in gold foil.
This is a story in which nothing need happen particularly, but it does. This story had a happy ending but it changed. It was going to be too long. It is about suffering.
Evelyn, dear, I thank you most kindly for your wonderful letter. I am sorry to see that it is still tough going out there, (I am sending you this little cheque) but at least you have good weather and open spaces. But Evelyn, when you write, "Oh, to be in England!" I am horrified, and I must speak to you both candidly and most urgently.
On October 14th 1998 I bought a fishing rod, some bait, a licence, a small fisherman's stool, and a keep-net.
A keep net is to keep a fish, in a net (in the water) so either you let the fish go at the end of the fishing day, or finally you kill it and take it home to your wife who will open it up, gut it, cook it, and then say it tastes of mud.
All of these are recent Boot Camp openings (first drafts) (not necessarily mine) but what matters is that they surprise the writer a little, take him or her on a journey that is not typical or expected. What matters is (I think) that just that opening carries the message, the story's "feel" its intent, the direction. It's a combination of seemingly random prompts that have interacted with the author's life, his/her psyche, his/her future, his/her needs, his/her education., religion, love-life to produce something NEW.
(Rushed not yet edited. Apologies.)
Poems, by the way, a very good ways into a fresh idea. Reading a poem does not mean that when you respond you will write a prose version of the poem, or steal the idea, or "answer it."
Poems have that way of breaking through the skin, getting round your defences, slipping past the guardians of the (boring, up-front) psyche. Meat and life and joy (and pain) but always living is back there in the darkness, the unconscious. Find a way to get access.
When I want to come at my life at a tangent, find a different way in, see afresh, break the shackles, I read a poem, read smatterings of stories, look at pictures, or listen to random music. Even simply reading titles of books, looking at the spines, the colours, sensing what is within can rekindle deeply-set ideas, slowly awaken the unusual, the freshly-connected.
I believe that the more obviously we think, the more conventionally, consciously, logically, the more left-brained, the less interesting our work will become. I dislike carefully plotted, highly-researched work. I dislike the mechanical and perfectly-formed. What I want and need is surprise, shock, difference, the unexpected, the words or view that shake the tree make us see the world in another way.
If we read of a racist he's a bigot or a Nazi. Is he or she usually a beautiful, sensitive, loving person (who just hates a race or a colour)? What if we juxtapose these unusual combinations? Remember in Schindler's List (I think) where the vicious commandant listened to Mozart? The music heightened the horror, made us think, "It is not impossible, I could be like that."
Beginners paint things in black and white, they write stock characters, stereotypes and clichés. It's when we break away from these that we begin to see anew, to threaten to disturb the reader. Clichés wash over us. We "know" they don't matter too much. We don't need to pay attention. After all, we know what this means, right? We've seen it all before.
Even when we are intermediate writers or well-published, "established" writers, it's so easy to drift into obvious, overdone plots, easy to have characters everybody expects. One reason I use prompts is to randomly-associate, to make my mind leap about, to force connections which would NOT come conventionally, "typically" or in an everyday way.
I grab a few poetry collections and pinch lines. Sometimes these are direct takes, often I change a word or embellish on the fly. The point is the line is near random (but it has caught my eye or ear so perhaps not TOTALLY random, and of course I bought the book, so again, there's something deeply wanted…)
A fat, furry bluebottle.
And of course the passengers were right…
Dear Doctor X, if I may call you that
Do you want to know a secret?
These few are this morning's list, not even posted (and somehow I know not as good a list as usual as I'm off for the weekend and rushing.) I've already forgotten where they've come from (some of them.) I think the first three there are from a new paperback "This is Not Chick Lit" the next (I know) is a song title.
Everything is Too Loud
Fuck off Noah, fucking Doom Merchant
He was flicking through Gay & Lesbian Literature.
Hours and days and weeks and months, I worked on my persona
Top one here is a song title, the next was prompted by a song but is a spontaneous original. Strong, more definite prompts like this are actually a bit too "channelling" for my tastes. They tend, if used to force the writer towards a specific story. The gay line was prompted by the start of a story in TINCL but wasn't there. I made it up. The fourth is a stretched version of a line from a short-story in Seventh Quark
How can you expect to be taken seriously?
How you remind me
I am so cold. My bones are cold.
I met Adam in a bookstore.
Song, song, 7Q short, TINCL, the one that gave me the gay line.
I might have been a potter
I volunteered for Monday Nights.
I was saying how unusual your case is.
It was a very unlucky way to get dead
Random, set off by something, a distorted view from TINCL, random, random. By random I mean that as I copy others' words I often get a line "pop up"
It's been well-researched. It's guaranteed.
It's just a story. It doesn't have to be true.
It's not the end of the world
Max always shrugged off the idea of marriage
Random, random, song-title, extracted from a story by Lois Peterson
Michael Jackson's Dick
My second cousin's friend's step-father
Not for all of it, not for nothing
Outside McDonalds
The title of a Steve Almond story (was in 7Q), random, random, random. I should say here that the percentage of "randoms" is way, WAY higher than an average day's prompts.
Passing Through Smoke
Peaches
Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am an attorney for…
Save the life of my child, cried the desperate mother
Title of a 7Q story, song, a spam email, words from a Simon & Garfunkel song.
Seagulls fling themselves against the shifting winds
She is whirling, whirling.
She rummages in her purse
Some people thought you were from Jamaica
Excerpt from "Baby Beluga" by Lois Peterson, excerpt from a 7Q flash by Hazera Forth, ditto, excerpt from a story by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
Spotted East of
The carousel is old.
The Night Has a Thousand Eyes
The thing about making love to an alien is –
Half the title of a 7Q introduction, snippet of a 7Q story, song title, random.
The voices of old people
There are so many people, all tired and hunched over.
There was a terrorist on the plane, but
There's someone at the door
Prompted by Simon & Garfunkels "Old Friends", extract from a 7Q prize-winning story called "Sugar-Sticks" by Nancy Saunders, a random memory, random.
To all the girls I loved before
Today her brother rang
Walk Don't Run
We said we'd meet in Santa Monica
Song, random, song, from a chicklit story.
Who wants to live forever?
You could buy me a burger
You smiled lightly when they asked you those questions
You thought everybody in America had a car and a gun
Song. Play that Queen song on repeat, turn off your screen and write-write-write! Random, extract from Adichie, ditto.
Usually, definitely, around a third of my prompts will be poetry. Usually I will have opening lines from famous stories or novels (sometimes altered so as not to instantly make us think "Macomber", or whatever) sometimes not.
I also use letters. These are great. Simply copy a paragraph of a letter then use a carriage return to break it up, cut away a few words so the lines stand alone…
Then when I have all these prompts (plus once the wording of a snotty email, once my electricity bill) I sort them alphabetically. This "breaks the connections". Sometimes I will cut and past half a dozen prompts from the beginning to the middle. Just randomise, stop the brain making conscious choices.
Now how to get the story?
I read the whole thing top to bottom read bottom to top, read top to bottom. I am trying hard NOT to want to grab that prompt and go. What I am trying to do is allow all the prompts individually to "talk to me", prompts in pairs and triplets to "whisper". I am also hoping that the back-stories from those prompts are building connections, pressures deep in me.
Maybe that song title reminds me of a night. But that line from that story WITH the memory makes me think of a new way of connecting the world, a less obvious way. And these two with the drumming of that line of poetry there, and vague thoughts about Nigerian widows wanting to give me money, and and and…
I hold off as long as I can but now what I'm feeling for, waiting for is SOUND. I and trying to tune in to the musical and aural sense of an opening which just feels and sounds right. Am I going to write something sad, poignant, aggressive, lyrical? What does my soul want to do? (If I can get my BRAIN out of the way!)
I read through, mutter, wander, trying to be "struck" by a line, a juxtaposition. Usually 1-2-3-4 phrases will begin to glow. One might be from an ending I have no idea about, one from the middle, two (together) with a memory might be ready to form my story's start.
When you find a feeling, a voice:
After the service, some time well into the wake, I stepped outside.
They are queuing for their pensions when love strikes. It comes out of nowhere.
Dear, let me explain how it happens. There is clarity, but the moment of absolute clarity is brief, the world that was, the world that is to be, is mostly dark confusion.
I am eating a breakfast egg and listening to Otis Redding. When Otis sings "My Girl" I feel sorry for myself. I think about Kathy.
I would like to pretend this is a dream. I am in a country of bright, perfect light. I am with ALL my family, my brother, four sisters, Pat, Jenny, Barbara, Angela, my mother, my father. It's summer, the kind that as a child you thought belonged to you, was made for you. We even have a dog.
We are in a dim, hot, airless room with the blinds all closed, me and Albert Typo and Albert is making tea. He has already put out precisely seven chocolate biscuits, and one is wrapped in gold foil.
This is a story in which nothing need happen particularly, but it does. This story had a happy ending but it changed. It was going to be too long. It is about suffering.
Evelyn, dear, I thank you most kindly for your wonderful letter. I am sorry to see that it is still tough going out there, (I am sending you this little cheque) but at least you have good weather and open spaces. But Evelyn, when you write, "Oh, to be in England!" I am horrified, and I must speak to you both candidly and most urgently.
On October 14th 1998 I bought a fishing rod, some bait, a licence, a small fisherman's stool, and a keep-net.
A keep net is to keep a fish, in a net (in the water) so either you let the fish go at the end of the fishing day, or finally you kill it and take it home to your wife who will open it up, gut it, cook it, and then say it tastes of mud.
All of these are recent Boot Camp openings (first drafts) (not necessarily mine) but what matters is that they surprise the writer a little, take him or her on a journey that is not typical or expected. What matters is (I think) that just that opening carries the message, the story's "feel" its intent, the direction. It's a combination of seemingly random prompts that have interacted with the author's life, his/her psyche, his/her future, his/her needs, his/her education., religion, love-life to produce something NEW.
(Rushed not yet edited. Apologies.)
Friday, 19 October 2007
Counting
Day 10 (Day 6 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
888 011,825 Words Other Writings
999 025,419 Words TOTAL
999 002,542 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story Part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
012 001,300 Words Story
888 011,825 Words Other Writings
999 025,419 Words TOTAL
999 002,542 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
More on Critiquing
Further to this BC philosophy/explanation members should remember that just because a critique it 3,000 words, doesn't make it a good critique. For example I can quote the whole of your story back para by para, comment on each paragraph, point out typos, mention other stories your story reminds me of, include generalised comments like, "A common error with dialogue is.." then list ten errors and note you make error 4 and 7. That's padding out a crit to make it seem more worthy.
I also know how to write 3000 words on a story where, in fact, you can't tell what I think of it. That's easy. That's a common "crit" at XXXXXXX, for example:
I sat down with Shiela, my ever-loving, we were going to watch a repeat of The West Wing, but I said I had this story written by an Englishman about swimming the English channel. I'm a good standard college swimmer and my wife once swam across Chesepeake Bay so our interest was aroused. We left The West Wing on "record" (there are elements of dialogue in TWW that made me think of the character Hank, BTW).. so Sheila and I opened a nice bottle of Ernst & Gallo Cabernet Sauvignon and read your story together.
Reading "Swimming to Calais" made me think of all that training I did in college. It made me think about how if you want anything worthwhile you have to work damn hard (like I did for my degree in aeronautics and like Sheila did for her damn-tough MBA from Harvard (she's in municipal stocks these days, good basic, health care etc but can turn in a million bucks in commissions... so when it's time to say "let's have a baby" it's going to be tough to trade in the Porsche, right?")
CONTINUE THUS.
WHEN IN DOUBT DO A LINE EDIT. POINT OUT EVERY TYPO, EVERY MISPLACED COMMA. NOTE EVERY REPETITION OF A WORD.
WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT COMMENT ON THE ACTUAL STORY'S STORYNESS
Our critiques are not always long (but see a debate elsewhere).
THE PURPOSE OF THE CRITIQUE IS NOT FOR WORKSHOPPING.
THE PURPOSE OF THE CRITIQUE IS NOT TO GET TO AN ASSSESSMENT OF THE STORY'S "WORTH"
THE PURPOSE OF THE CRITIQUE IS NOT TO FIND EIGHT READER RESPONSES.
The purpose of the critique is to make the CRITIQUER make his statement, clearly, unambiguously.
"I think this could win a first prize as it is."
"I think this is already publishable on paper, eg in Cadenza"
"This might make it into an ezine, but it needs work."
"This has serious weaknesses and needs a lot of work."
"This is very ordinary, dry, telly, and drags."
"This is beginnerish."
"This is total junk and the author should be tortured to death."
WHY do I ask for Colin to stand and be counted, say what he thinks? Why do I want Tom to give a mark, make his view clear?
Because:
Going naked, making your statement forces you to decide, to clarify your opinion.
Without that public decision it's far too easy to "roll" and go along with the majority view. Without being forced you might think "Oh, it's probably above 90 and I doubt it's over 105, but it might only be an 87 and it could, I guess, stretch to 109..."
Vague, vague, vague.
So if you've not been forced to look, see, think, decide, if eight critters say 107-110, yeah you can go with that. If they say 89, yeah you can go with that too!
So in Boot Camp we don't allow members to discuss a story unless they have posted a formal critique. Argument after the fact without a crit is a way of cheating. With your crit up there you either argue your points and show you're right, or learn why differing marks have pegged the story better than you did.
By BEING WRONG you learn. By conforming you stand still or go backwards.
In BC the critique is not any individual critique but the whole thread, the GROUP of critiques, the summary grids (show weaknesses) and then the discussion.
It's the argument that counts. Stories that score 94-94-95-95-95-96-96-97 teach us nothing. If we all agree and give a bland middling score what it there to discuss, where are the learning points?
I have got into a habit, along with the longer part of the crit to quickly summarise each mark
Like this
11 Opening… Only just, very cold mechanical feel
10 Character… AUTHOR pulling strings, sometimes painfully
10 DV… Cold, telly, mechanical, forced. Much dialogue hammy and unreal
09 Plot … Structure killed story, melodramatic and very forced second half
08 Theme... Very confused thematically. Words forced in line. Yuck.
10 Show… Author aware always, forced dialogue, telly bits, planted showoffy words
10 Language... Ability to essay and dictionarise does not mean good language. No SOUL
10 Pace… Seriously slow, dragged out, made worse by total lack of real emotion
10 Ending… Like drama written by local rep. IDEA might be good but horrid execution.
00 Bonus…
88 Total…
This is to represent what it's like as a judge or an editor. We have little time. Our decisions are often fast (at least to narrow the field) and only when we are down to a handful of stories can we have time to STUDY them.
So in Boot Camp I ask for quicker critiques and longer discussions later. We need to be able to "see" stories fast because (a) that's how it is in the real world, and (b) seeing others teaches us to see our own. When we self-crit and adjust, the decisions need to be mostly automatic and instantaneous so we don't engage our left, analytical brain. This auto-edit-as-you-go should not be confused with serious editing and rewriting after the story has been set aside a while.
I also know how to write 3000 words on a story where, in fact, you can't tell what I think of it. That's easy. That's a common "crit" at XXXXXXX, for example:
I sat down with Shiela, my ever-loving, we were going to watch a repeat of The West Wing, but I said I had this story written by an Englishman about swimming the English channel. I'm a good standard college swimmer and my wife once swam across Chesepeake Bay so our interest was aroused. We left The West Wing on "record" (there are elements of dialogue in TWW that made me think of the character Hank, BTW).. so Sheila and I opened a nice bottle of Ernst & Gallo Cabernet Sauvignon and read your story together.
Reading "Swimming to Calais" made me think of all that training I did in college. It made me think about how if you want anything worthwhile you have to work damn hard (like I did for my degree in aeronautics and like Sheila did for her damn-tough MBA from Harvard (she's in municipal stocks these days, good basic, health care etc but can turn in a million bucks in commissions... so when it's time to say "let's have a baby" it's going to be tough to trade in the Porsche, right?")
CONTINUE THUS.
WHEN IN DOUBT DO A LINE EDIT. POINT OUT EVERY TYPO, EVERY MISPLACED COMMA. NOTE EVERY REPETITION OF A WORD.
WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT COMMENT ON THE ACTUAL STORY'S STORYNESS
Our critiques are not always long (but see a debate elsewhere).
THE PURPOSE OF THE CRITIQUE IS NOT FOR WORKSHOPPING.
THE PURPOSE OF THE CRITIQUE IS NOT TO GET TO AN ASSSESSMENT OF THE STORY'S "WORTH"
THE PURPOSE OF THE CRITIQUE IS NOT TO FIND EIGHT READER RESPONSES.
The purpose of the critique is to make the CRITIQUER make his statement, clearly, unambiguously.
"I think this could win a first prize as it is."
"I think this is already publishable on paper, eg in Cadenza"
"This might make it into an ezine, but it needs work."
"This has serious weaknesses and needs a lot of work."
"This is very ordinary, dry, telly, and drags."
"This is beginnerish."
"This is total junk and the author should be tortured to death."
WHY do I ask for Colin to stand and be counted, say what he thinks? Why do I want Tom to give a mark, make his view clear?
Because:
Going naked, making your statement forces you to decide, to clarify your opinion.
Without that public decision it's far too easy to "roll" and go along with the majority view. Without being forced you might think "Oh, it's probably above 90 and I doubt it's over 105, but it might only be an 87 and it could, I guess, stretch to 109..."
Vague, vague, vague.
So if you've not been forced to look, see, think, decide, if eight critters say 107-110, yeah you can go with that. If they say 89, yeah you can go with that too!
So in Boot Camp we don't allow members to discuss a story unless they have posted a formal critique. Argument after the fact without a crit is a way of cheating. With your crit up there you either argue your points and show you're right, or learn why differing marks have pegged the story better than you did.
By BEING WRONG you learn. By conforming you stand still or go backwards.
In BC the critique is not any individual critique but the whole thread, the GROUP of critiques, the summary grids (show weaknesses) and then the discussion.
It's the argument that counts. Stories that score 94-94-95-95-95-96-96-97 teach us nothing. If we all agree and give a bland middling score what it there to discuss, where are the learning points?
I have got into a habit, along with the longer part of the crit to quickly summarise each mark
Like this
11 Opening… Only just, very cold mechanical feel
10 Character… AUTHOR pulling strings, sometimes painfully
10 DV… Cold, telly, mechanical, forced. Much dialogue hammy and unreal
09 Plot … Structure killed story, melodramatic and very forced second half
08 Theme... Very confused thematically. Words forced in line. Yuck.
10 Show… Author aware always, forced dialogue, telly bits, planted showoffy words
10 Language... Ability to essay and dictionarise does not mean good language. No SOUL
10 Pace… Seriously slow, dragged out, made worse by total lack of real emotion
10 Ending… Like drama written by local rep. IDEA might be good but horrid execution.
00 Bonus…
88 Total…
This is to represent what it's like as a judge or an editor. We have little time. Our decisions are often fast (at least to narrow the field) and only when we are down to a handful of stories can we have time to STUDY them.
So in Boot Camp I ask for quicker critiques and longer discussions later. We need to be able to "see" stories fast because (a) that's how it is in the real world, and (b) seeing others teaches us to see our own. When we self-crit and adjust, the decisions need to be mostly automatic and instantaneous so we don't engage our left, analytical brain. This auto-edit-as-you-go should not be confused with serious editing and rewriting after the story has been set aside a while.
Loadsa Prompts
There's some of yesterdays here and some openings to novels.
If there's not something for you here, you're DEAD
At sunrise, the small expedition meets beneath a giant fig tree.
During the war years when I was still in school,
Fear presides over these memories, perpetual fear.
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream.
I am a white man and never forgot it, but I was brought up by the Cheyenne Indians from the age of ten.
In order to pay off an old debt that someone else had contracted, King said yes when he knew he should have said no.
It was in the summer of 1988 that my neighbour, 71, confided in me that he was having an affair with a 34-year old cleaning woman
Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
My name is William Warlick House, residing at Chokoloskee Island, in Lee County, Florida
On the went, singing "Eternal Memory", and whenever they stopped, the sound of their feet, the horses and the gusts of wind seemed to carry on their singing.
Sea birds are aloft again, a tattered few.
She was deeply embedded in my consciousness.
The day didn't begin well.
A stag, proud as a screaming penis
Aardvarks
Abracadabra
After all, he was Welsh
An itch
Avocado
Between you and me
But you, of all people, should not
Cats are contradictions
Chestnuts, Chestnut hair
Cold marble
Crawling
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
He was lost in thought as he steered his Sierra through the quiet streets
Hobson's Choice
Horses, snorting, sensing deaths in the field
Human ash is a fine fertiliser
I am considering becoming an astronaut
I count on you naturally I remember, I remember
I dream of gas chambers
I thought my youth would last forever
It's not my vault Let her finish as calmly as possible
Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner
Moira was in the computer room
My astrologer told me Saturn has been flopped over me like a giant cosmic fried egg
My five senses
No financial disasters
On the whole toads are more interesting than frogs
Of those at the table in the café
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
One for sorrow She must not be anxious
Richmond was a good hour's drive
She could smell it!
Steam spitting from stainless steel pipes
Sybille is in the hands of monstrous crooks
That sweet, watch-baking angel
The air electric The tiny fish enjoy themselves
The buggy lurches in frost-stuck ruts
The first movement is singing
There was a small maiden named Maggie
They get her as little as possible as late as possible
This is a secret final letter This is glorious news
Trees grow like insults
Visiting the poet
Which must absolutely be kept from that angel
Who will honour the city now?
Why soffits are brown, black, white and never pink
You without beginning, you always in between
Your official membership is enclosed
Your sweetness and patience and kindness
If there's not something for you here, you're DEAD
At sunrise, the small expedition meets beneath a giant fig tree.
During the war years when I was still in school,
Fear presides over these memories, perpetual fear.
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream.
I am a white man and never forgot it, but I was brought up by the Cheyenne Indians from the age of ten.
In order to pay off an old debt that someone else had contracted, King said yes when he knew he should have said no.
It was in the summer of 1988 that my neighbour, 71, confided in me that he was having an affair with a 34-year old cleaning woman
Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
My name is William Warlick House, residing at Chokoloskee Island, in Lee County, Florida
On the went, singing "Eternal Memory", and whenever they stopped, the sound of their feet, the horses and the gusts of wind seemed to carry on their singing.
Sea birds are aloft again, a tattered few.
She was deeply embedded in my consciousness.
The day didn't begin well.
A stag, proud as a screaming penis
Aardvarks
Abracadabra
After all, he was Welsh
An itch
Avocado
Between you and me
But you, of all people, should not
Cats are contradictions
Chestnuts, Chestnut hair
Cold marble
Crawling
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
He was lost in thought as he steered his Sierra through the quiet streets
Hobson's Choice
Horses, snorting, sensing deaths in the field
Human ash is a fine fertiliser
I am considering becoming an astronaut
I count on you naturally I remember, I remember
I dream of gas chambers
I thought my youth would last forever
It's not my vault Let her finish as calmly as possible
Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner
Moira was in the computer room
My astrologer told me Saturn has been flopped over me like a giant cosmic fried egg
My five senses
No financial disasters
On the whole toads are more interesting than frogs
Of those at the table in the café
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
One for sorrow She must not be anxious
Richmond was a good hour's drive
She could smell it!
Steam spitting from stainless steel pipes
Sybille is in the hands of monstrous crooks
That sweet, watch-baking angel
The air electric The tiny fish enjoy themselves
The buggy lurches in frost-stuck ruts
The first movement is singing
There was a small maiden named Maggie
They get her as little as possible as late as possible
This is a secret final letter This is glorious news
Trees grow like insults
Visiting the poet
Which must absolutely be kept from that angel
Who will honour the city now?
Why soffits are brown, black, white and never pink
You without beginning, you always in between
Your official membership is enclosed
Your sweetness and patience and kindness
A BC Thing
I posted this post this morning
A large part of Boot Camp is about getting you to write fresh work, work that you can see is written here, under the umbrella of BC. You may put a story a week up, more if that's how it works out, but they should be NEW and your unaided work. Posting old work, whether it be rough stuff from the drawer or the best that you've ever done is pointless.
The BC process is one of immersement and a LOT of stuff flying backwards and frwards. Some things you will "get" like you might "finally" understand a technical explanation at work, but very much comes from an osmotic effect, (soak it up, baby) and possibly a shotgun effect!!!
IF that is allied to FRESH work, then we might see changes, you might see changes. But post OLD work and you are screwing yourself and BC
If you have older work that you want comments on you can us AKLS and pay for a detailed crit and blue-pencil job OR you can post here openly and beg the favour.
But REMEMBER (and this is the hardest thing to understand about Boot Camp)
WE ARE NOT A WORKSHOP. WE DON'T TRY TO FIX STORIES HERE.
Instead of worrying about ONE STORY or trying to make say, Lexie's "Dominion" become a better story (directly with editorial suggestions, typical workshopping) we try to improve LEXIE, partly by allowing her to see the errors in that particular story (10%) but mainly in the general arguments OVER her story (10-20%) and ALL the arguments and critiques over ALL the stories.
I say almost every month, THIS STORY IS IRRELEVANT, fix the writer.
Stories are fodder for learning.
Sales and prizes are side-effects, bonuses.
YES, we can fix "this story". I could suggest changes or edit the damn thing myself and the story would jump 5/10 points in a blink, up to 40 points with more considered effort.
And if we were VERY lucky, and I mean VERY, the author might have permanently improved a tenth of one point.
You see, she had her story fixed for her, or a master stood over her while she fixed it. 1-2-1 this is a very good way of teaching because we can repeat, repeat, pass questions back and forth. But get a student to point out the error in her own work and that's worth twenty stories' worth of ME pointing to the errors.
But what should be happening, to say, Russell, is he reads a Tom story, with say, an inconsistent voice. It makes him wonder about voice, about consistency, about his own stories. Then he reads, say,one of Colin's, a story which in its core values has a deep, painful poignancy, but (say) the opening is so blokey-lightweight, that we don't get to fully feel and get that poignancy. The theme music is wrong.
So he wonders about theme music and how to get it right in his own work.
Or he finds a story that blows him away and energises the thread by continually asking, HOW DID THE AUTHOR DO THAT, WHY THIS? Maybe he discovers, aided by me or not, that the key is that opening voice, how the character is placed, how the theme music suggests pain. Maybe it's a Napalm effect when the secret instead of being withheld is stuck in plain view at the beginning. Maybe it's language, maybe it's literary allusion or metaphor. Maybe the author makes things clear by not talking about them.
But 5-10 crits every week, a fresh story every week or fortnight, a flash at least once a week, and argument, argument, argument, that's what changes BCers and it takes three months to show a real change.
Along the way, if you don't bleed, you're not human
A large part of Boot Camp is about getting you to write fresh work, work that you can see is written here, under the umbrella of BC. You may put a story a week up, more if that's how it works out, but they should be NEW and your unaided work. Posting old work, whether it be rough stuff from the drawer or the best that you've ever done is pointless.
The BC process is one of immersement and a LOT of stuff flying backwards and frwards. Some things you will "get" like you might "finally" understand a technical explanation at work, but very much comes from an osmotic effect, (soak it up, baby) and possibly a shotgun effect!!!
IF that is allied to FRESH work, then we might see changes, you might see changes. But post OLD work and you are screwing yourself and BC
If you have older work that you want comments on you can us AKLS and pay for a detailed crit and blue-pencil job OR you can post here openly and beg the favour.
But REMEMBER (and this is the hardest thing to understand about Boot Camp)
WE ARE NOT A WORKSHOP. WE DON'T TRY TO FIX STORIES HERE.
Instead of worrying about ONE STORY or trying to make say, Lexie's "Dominion" become a better story (directly with editorial suggestions, typical workshopping) we try to improve LEXIE, partly by allowing her to see the errors in that particular story (10%) but mainly in the general arguments OVER her story (10-20%) and ALL the arguments and critiques over ALL the stories.
I say almost every month, THIS STORY IS IRRELEVANT, fix the writer.
Stories are fodder for learning.
Sales and prizes are side-effects, bonuses.
YES, we can fix "this story". I could suggest changes or edit the damn thing myself and the story would jump 5/10 points in a blink, up to 40 points with more considered effort.
And if we were VERY lucky, and I mean VERY, the author might have permanently improved a tenth of one point.
You see, she had her story fixed for her, or a master stood over her while she fixed it. 1-2-1 this is a very good way of teaching because we can repeat, repeat, pass questions back and forth. But get a student to point out the error in her own work and that's worth twenty stories' worth of ME pointing to the errors.
But what should be happening, to say, Russell, is he reads a Tom story, with say, an inconsistent voice. It makes him wonder about voice, about consistency, about his own stories. Then he reads, say,one of Colin's, a story which in its core values has a deep, painful poignancy, but (say) the opening is so blokey-lightweight, that we don't get to fully feel and get that poignancy. The theme music is wrong.
So he wonders about theme music and how to get it right in his own work.
Or he finds a story that blows him away and energises the thread by continually asking, HOW DID THE AUTHOR DO THAT, WHY THIS? Maybe he discovers, aided by me or not, that the key is that opening voice, how the character is placed, how the theme music suggests pain. Maybe it's a Napalm effect when the secret instead of being withheld is stuck in plain view at the beginning. Maybe it's language, maybe it's literary allusion or metaphor. Maybe the author makes things clear by not talking about them.
But 5-10 crits every week, a fresh story every week or fortnight, a flash at least once a week, and argument, argument, argument, that's what changes BCers and it takes three months to show a real change.
Along the way, if you don't bleed, you're not human
But..
A relatively poor writing day yesterday (1,500 words and I don't much like the story) but I did a huge pile of work sorting out my hard disk and managed to critique 7 Boot Camp stories (DELIVERY deadline is 8PM tonight so I'm well ahead!)
But getting something written, avoiding blank days, is the best way to energise the mind, keep the soul awake etc. Miss a day and it is so easily, 2-3 a week.
And then there are days when you can't get to a PC. You're hanging off a mountain or whatever. eg Sat-Sun-Mon I'm away doing all sorts and unlikely to be able to get 1-2 hours on my own. Three blank days at -2.5K a day. If I manage 3K a day after that (and no blanks), if I recover PERFECTLY it will be 15 more days before I am back on track.
So if we want to average 2.5K we must aim for 3K and hope for 2.6, 2.7, 2.8, 2.9
In the dark hours all that previous work will save you.
Alex
But getting something written, avoiding blank days, is the best way to energise the mind, keep the soul awake etc. Miss a day and it is so easily, 2-3 a week.
And then there are days when you can't get to a PC. You're hanging off a mountain or whatever. eg Sat-Sun-Mon I'm away doing all sorts and unlikely to be able to get 1-2 hours on my own. Three blank days at -2.5K a day. If I manage 3K a day after that (and no blanks), if I recover PERFECTLY it will be 15 more days before I am back on track.
So if we want to average 2.5K we must aim for 3K and hope for 2.6, 2.7, 2.8, 2.9
In the dark hours all that previous work will save you.
Alex
Thursday, 18 October 2007
Word Count Redux
Day 9 (Day 5 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
888 009,825 Words Other Writings
999 023,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,539 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
011 001,145 Words Story
888 009,825 Words Other Writings
999 023,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,539 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
Update 2
I am now 1,700 words further n.
Meanwhile her are the 9PM Prompts
A stag, proud as a screaming penis
Aardvarks
Abracadabra
After all, he was Welsh
An itch
Avocado
Between you and me
But you, of all people, should not
Cats are contradictions
Chestnuts, Chestnut hair
Cold marble
Crawling
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
He was lost in thought as he steered his Sierra through the quiet streets
Hobson's Choice
Horses, snorting, sensing deaths in the field
Human ash is a fine fertiliser
I am considering becoming an astronaut
I count on you naturally I remember, I remember
I dream of gas chambers
I thought my youth would last forever
It's not my vault Let her finish as calmly as possible
Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner
Moira was in the computer room
My astrologer told me Saturn has been flopped over me like a giant cosmic fried egg
My five senses
No financial disasters
On the whole toads are more interesting than frogs
Of those at the table in the café
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
One for sorrow She must not be anxious
Richmond was a good hour's drive
She could smell it!
Steam spitting from stainless steel pipes
Sybille is in the hands of monstrous crooks
That sweet, watch-baking angel
The air electric The tiny fish enjoy themselves
The buggy lurches in frost-stuck ruts
The first movement is singing
There was a small maiden named Maggie
They get her as little as possible as late as possible
This is a secret final letter This is glorious news
Trees grow like insults
Visiting the poet
Which must absolutely be kept from that angel
Who will honour the city now?
Why soffits are brown, black, white and never pink
You without beginning, you always in between
Your official membership is enclosed
Your sweetness and patience and kindness
Meanwhile her are the 9PM Prompts
A stag, proud as a screaming penis
Aardvarks
Abracadabra
After all, he was Welsh
An itch
Avocado
Between you and me
But you, of all people, should not
Cats are contradictions
Chestnuts, Chestnut hair
Cold marble
Crawling
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
He was lost in thought as he steered his Sierra through the quiet streets
Hobson's Choice
Horses, snorting, sensing deaths in the field
Human ash is a fine fertiliser
I am considering becoming an astronaut
I count on you naturally I remember, I remember
I dream of gas chambers
I thought my youth would last forever
It's not my vault Let her finish as calmly as possible
Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner
Moira was in the computer room
My astrologer told me Saturn has been flopped over me like a giant cosmic fried egg
My five senses
No financial disasters
On the whole toads are more interesting than frogs
Of those at the table in the café
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
One for sorrow She must not be anxious
Richmond was a good hour's drive
She could smell it!
Steam spitting from stainless steel pipes
Sybille is in the hands of monstrous crooks
That sweet, watch-baking angel
The air electric The tiny fish enjoy themselves
The buggy lurches in frost-stuck ruts
The first movement is singing
There was a small maiden named Maggie
They get her as little as possible as late as possible
This is a secret final letter This is glorious news
Trees grow like insults
Visiting the poet
Which must absolutely be kept from that angel
Who will honour the city now?
Why soffits are brown, black, white and never pink
You without beginning, you always in between
Your official membership is enclosed
Your sweetness and patience and kindness
Update.
No fresh fiction today (so far!) but flash prompts tonight for three sessions.
The day taken up with various domestic issues and started trying t drag together all my unpublished work
Anyway, it will NOT be a blank day.
Here are the first set of prompts.
A brief sickness, a need to get to Paris
A cruising milk-float, the clink of crates
A gap between money coming in and money going out
An itch
As I know with my whole heart
Between you and me
Cats are contradictions
Crawling
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
Evelyn, dear
First there was silence
Heroes
I always have plenty of month left at the end of the money
I am a nice, affable woman
I am bored now, with the condescension of my inferiors
I am sending you this little cheque
I cannot ever thank you enough for your generosity
I count on you naturally
I do not want to leave
I gloat and also mourn
I remember, I remember
I thought the Nile was blue, and sane bright yellow
I wanna be a star, I wanna go far
It dripped off though on Octover 22.
It's not my vault
Let her finish as calmly as possible
Let me know if anything grave happens
My astrologer told me Saturn has been flopped over me like a giant cosmic fried egg
No financial disasters
Oh to be in England
On the whole toads are more interesting than frogs
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
One for sorrow
Saris hang on the washing line
She must not be anxious
Sybille is in the hands of monstrous crooks
That sweet, watch-baking angel
The air electric
The small things can ruin one's nerves
The tiny fish enjoy themselves
There was a small maiden named Maggie
They get her as little as possible as late as possible
This is a secret final letter
This is glorious news
Unless I am sure you two are OK
Which must absolutely be kept from that angel
Your sweetness and patience and kindness
The day taken up with various domestic issues and started trying t drag together all my unpublished work
Anyway, it will NOT be a blank day.
Here are the first set of prompts.
A brief sickness, a need to get to Paris
A cruising milk-float, the clink of crates
A gap between money coming in and money going out
An itch
As I know with my whole heart
Between you and me
Cats are contradictions
Crawling
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
Evelyn, dear
First there was silence
Heroes
I always have plenty of month left at the end of the money
I am a nice, affable woman
I am bored now, with the condescension of my inferiors
I am sending you this little cheque
I cannot ever thank you enough for your generosity
I count on you naturally
I do not want to leave
I gloat and also mourn
I remember, I remember
I thought the Nile was blue, and sane bright yellow
I wanna be a star, I wanna go far
It dripped off though on Octover 22.
It's not my vault
Let her finish as calmly as possible
Let me know if anything grave happens
My astrologer told me Saturn has been flopped over me like a giant cosmic fried egg
No financial disasters
Oh to be in England
On the whole toads are more interesting than frogs
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
One for sorrow
Saris hang on the washing line
She must not be anxious
Sybille is in the hands of monstrous crooks
That sweet, watch-baking angel
The air electric
The small things can ruin one's nerves
The tiny fish enjoy themselves
There was a small maiden named Maggie
They get her as little as possible as late as possible
This is a secret final letter
This is glorious news
Unless I am sure you two are OK
Which must absolutely be kept from that angel
Your sweetness and patience and kindness
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
More Prompts (for 8PM)
All these years and I still don't understand
Acorns
Black handprints
But let that wait.
Consider the escaped leopard
Dogs etc
Eggs, unfertilised
Fuck You
Great Britain
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me.
Hassocks.
I marinated it in soy sauce and champagne
Jesus Smith, Traffic Warden
King Fred
Lose it before you use it.
May a good wind blow him to hell.
Names so silly they must be made up
Oh for a muse of fire!
Pissing on the flames
Queen Anne
Roasted Hedgehog
Someone tossed a condom into it
He used a lot of vowels
UP
VERILY, verily
XXX Love Hilary
Yanks
ZZZZZZZ
Here I am on the Brighton Line
He's an excellent cook, especially of people
I felt like a quartered chicken
A year ago, I stood at the window, crying
I remember him best with my skin
An unfortunate accident with a circular saw
If they piss you off, shoot the fuckers
I think this is psychologically acute advice
If music be the food of love, what's a boy band?
My suffering left me sad and gloomy
So, while the light fails
The children are exploring by the stream
The naming of cats is a difficult matter
The ship sank
The sorrow will pass but not the conviction
The voices of dead children singing
This book was born because I was hungry
We do not die
To the Indians who died in Africa
Travel is a contrary thing.
We are an old and wise organisation
Well, romance is not unknown here
What we call the beginning is often the end
When I tell you a cat must have three different names
You have proved nothing
You may think, at first, I'm as mad as a hatter
Now that the year has come full circle
Acorns
Black handprints
But let that wait.
Consider the escaped leopard
Dogs etc
Eggs, unfertilised
Fuck You
Great Britain
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me.
Hassocks.
I marinated it in soy sauce and champagne
Jesus Smith, Traffic Warden
King Fred
Lose it before you use it.
May a good wind blow him to hell.
Names so silly they must be made up
Oh for a muse of fire!
Pissing on the flames
Queen Anne
Roasted Hedgehog
Someone tossed a condom into it
He used a lot of vowels
UP
VERILY, verily
XXX Love Hilary
Yanks
ZZZZZZZ
Here I am on the Brighton Line
He's an excellent cook, especially of people
I felt like a quartered chicken
A year ago, I stood at the window, crying
I remember him best with my skin
An unfortunate accident with a circular saw
If they piss you off, shoot the fuckers
I think this is psychologically acute advice
If music be the food of love, what's a boy band?
My suffering left me sad and gloomy
So, while the light fails
The children are exploring by the stream
The naming of cats is a difficult matter
The ship sank
The sorrow will pass but not the conviction
The voices of dead children singing
This book was born because I was hungry
We do not die
To the Indians who died in Africa
Travel is a contrary thing.
We are an old and wise organisation
Well, romance is not unknown here
What we call the beginning is often the end
When I tell you a cat must have three different names
You have proved nothing
You may think, at first, I'm as mad as a hatter
Now that the year has come full circle
Another!!
Day 8 (Day 4 of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
888 009,1270 Words Other Writings
999 021,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,640 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
010 000,850 Words Story VG!
888 009,1270 Words Other Writings
999 021,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,640 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
SOME PROMPTS 1800
NO WORK YET TODAY. I MEAN NO FICTION
HERE ARE THE FIRST OF THREE SETS OF PROMPTS
In my craft and sullen art
In the undergrowth, a woman's clothing
In which nothing need happen particularly
It can't be October already?
It is the road now, but I know not where it goes
It isn't just one of your holiday games
Later, bikes leaning against an old tree
Lay your head upon my pillow
Let's go, knock on a good woman's door
A deer, trapped, the dogs loose
A sherbert fizz
About suffering…
After that it was a little easier
Alone, the last legionnaire, afraid
Apples, rotten every one
As the door closes, as the dark envelopes
Before, before there were souls, what then?
Black handprints
Brass Band
Bright and early, fine in his intent
But let that wait.
Consider the escaped leopard
Cycling for bluebells near St Mellons
Duct Tape
Hassocks.
He used a lot of vowels
Here I am on the Brighton Line
He's an excellent cook, especially of people
His was the first corpse I ever saw
I am not respectable or industrious
I felt like a quartered chicken
I had somewhere to get to
I had to move
I have been walking, walking
I have heard that freedom exists
I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by MFI
I'll come, no matter where you're going
In an effort to keep day and night together
Marrakesh
May a good wind blow him to hell.
Midgets demand their cake.
Miss Beatty's Moustache
Mr Justice Gray
My dad just left it by the shed
My mother waits too long
My suffering left me sad and gloomy
Names so silly they must be made up
Not everybody's childhood sucks
Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other
Passing strangers on underground escalators
HERE ARE THE FIRST OF THREE SETS OF PROMPTS
In my craft and sullen art
In the undergrowth, a woman's clothing
In which nothing need happen particularly
It can't be October already?
It is the road now, but I know not where it goes
It isn't just one of your holiday games
Later, bikes leaning against an old tree
Lay your head upon my pillow
Let's go, knock on a good woman's door
A deer, trapped, the dogs loose
A sherbert fizz
About suffering…
After that it was a little easier
Alone, the last legionnaire, afraid
Apples, rotten every one
As the door closes, as the dark envelopes
Before, before there were souls, what then?
Black handprints
Brass Band
Bright and early, fine in his intent
But let that wait.
Consider the escaped leopard
Cycling for bluebells near St Mellons
Duct Tape
Hassocks.
He used a lot of vowels
Here I am on the Brighton Line
He's an excellent cook, especially of people
His was the first corpse I ever saw
I am not respectable or industrious
I felt like a quartered chicken
I had somewhere to get to
I had to move
I have been walking, walking
I have heard that freedom exists
I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by MFI
I'll come, no matter where you're going
In an effort to keep day and night together
Marrakesh
May a good wind blow him to hell.
Midgets demand their cake.
Miss Beatty's Moustache
Mr Justice Gray
My dad just left it by the shed
My mother waits too long
My suffering left me sad and gloomy
Names so silly they must be made up
Not everybody's childhood sucks
Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other
Passing strangers on underground escalators
07:46
Strange start to the day. The Mrs has a very early meeting cos everyone wants to get home to watch Russia v England, so she's clumping around at 05:30 and I wake up.
I'm up before six, thinking I'll have a story done BEFORE the school-run but I get waylaid by a story in Boot Camp and it gets me chomping. Then I generate a list of prompts for here, BC etc feed the dogs, wake the kids. Now in ten minutes it's the school run and I ache. I know I need a brief workout to get my body right so my head will follow.
And I need to clean my office.
This I do maybe 2-3 times a year.
It's a TIP (I'll take a photo for before and after shots)
In the end, yesterday turned out OK writing-wise. I have almost 2K of an unfinished story (95% of the time that means it'll NEVER be finished) but I compensated with a 1,550 word flash written by about 11 PM.
Today's a big decision, but I think it's admin and cleaning (and the soccer at 4PM)
I can do this because I've already booked an 8PM and 10PM Flash session.
I would like though, to break past 2,500 words again and keep the run going as long as possible.
Alex
I'm up before six, thinking I'll have a story done BEFORE the school-run but I get waylaid by a story in Boot Camp and it gets me chomping. Then I generate a list of prompts for here, BC etc feed the dogs, wake the kids. Now in ten minutes it's the school run and I ache. I know I need a brief workout to get my body right so my head will follow.
And I need to clean my office.
This I do maybe 2-3 times a year.
It's a TIP (I'll take a photo for before and after shots)
In the end, yesterday turned out OK writing-wise. I have almost 2K of an unfinished story (95% of the time that means it'll NEVER be finished) but I compensated with a 1,550 word flash written by about 11 PM.
Today's a big decision, but I think it's admin and cleaning (and the soccer at 4PM)
I can do this because I've already booked an 8PM and 10PM Flash session.
I would like though, to break past 2,500 words again and keep the run going as long as possible.
Alex
A Blast!
I decided to wind up Boot Camp at very short notice and just three of us managed a flash, starting at ten o'clock
But I scored the three stories 117-113-107 meaning they can probably all place as they are.
Amazing stuff
My story was 1,550 words in 65 minutes
Today has been TORTURE, not very typical of my writing emotions.
Since starting this blog I've become far too aware of process and now I feel it's stopping me writing fresh stuff
Day Seven (Day Three of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
888 008,120 Words Other Writings
999 019,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,731 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
But I scored the three stories 117-113-107 meaning they can probably all place as they are.
Amazing stuff
My story was 1,550 words in 65 minutes
Today has been TORTURE, not very typical of my writing emotions.
Since starting this blog I've become far too aware of process and now I feel it's stopping me writing fresh stuff
Day Seven (Day Three of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
009 001,550 Words Story OK to good
888 008,120 Words Other Writings
999 019,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,731 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
OOPS!
This was posted in error on the Boot Camp Blog
Today has been TORTURE, not very typical of my writing emotions.
Since starting this blog I've become far too aware of process and now I feel it's stopping me writing fresh stuff
Day Seven (Day Three of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
888 007,670 Words Other Writings
999 017,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,445 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
Today has been TORTURE, not very typical of my writing emotions.
Since starting this blog I've become far too aware of process and now I feel it's stopping me writing fresh stuff
Day Seven (Day Three of Year)
001 001,350 Words Story OK
002 001,095 Words Story OK
003 001,025 Words Story OK
004 001,158 Words Story OK
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<< GOOD!
006 001,480 Words Story OK
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<< GOOD!
008 001,491 Words Story part-Done (Torturous Writing)
888 007,670 Words Other Writings
999 017,119 Words TOTAL
999 002,445 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
Tail Between Legs, Head Lowered
Been an odd couple of days. Yesterday was distracted by Boot Camp stuff and trying to fit a shelf in the back of a pick-up truck.
There's a lesson here somewhere. I measured VERY carefully... (measure twice, cut once) and had these excellent shelves, but there was no way I could actually get them INTO the cab where they'd lie perfectly. No amount of corner cutting sufficed and I gave up in disgust after three hours and forty quid.
Then I had a brainwave. tounge-and-grove floorboards. That eventually worked!
But WRITING?
It wasn't a blank day, but only 331 frsh words of fiction and 2,000 "Other Writings"
But am I a writer or a car mechanic, or a joiner?
Today is day 7 and I'm one thousand words on the way to proving I'm firstly, a writer.
Day Six (Day Two)
001 001,350 Words Story
002 001,095 Words Story
003 001,025 Words Story
004 001,158 Words Story
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<<
006 001,480 Words Story
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<<
008 000,331 Words Story Start
888 007,170 Words Other Writings
999 015,359 Words TOTAL
999 002,560 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
There's a lesson here somewhere. I measured VERY carefully... (measure twice, cut once) and had these excellent shelves, but there was no way I could actually get them INTO the cab where they'd lie perfectly. No amount of corner cutting sufficed and I gave up in disgust after three hours and forty quid.
Then I had a brainwave. tounge-and-grove floorboards. That eventually worked!
But WRITING?
It wasn't a blank day, but only 331 frsh words of fiction and 2,000 "Other Writings"
But am I a writer or a car mechanic, or a joiner?
Today is day 7 and I'm one thousand words on the way to proving I'm firstly, a writer.
Day Six (Day Two)
001 001,350 Words Story
002 001,095 Words Story
003 001,025 Words Story
004 001,158 Words Story
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<<
006 001,480 Words Story
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<<
008 000,331 Words Story Start
888 007,170 Words Other Writings
999 015,359 Words TOTAL
999 002,560 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
Monday, 15 October 2007
Start of a Long Year
Of course I feel like crap.
I got an iPod Touch for my birthday (God the technology is exquisite) and I was up until almost three hacking away at my Music Library so i could also get all my photos on the beast.
Had a calf cramp in the night, thought it was gonna kill me. Feel a little hungover, have the school run and have to take PJ to the hospital. Might be a late start. So glad now that I got a bit of headway made in the arm up days.
SNAPSHOT
My office is a tip.
On my desk is:
Donald Barthelme 40 Stories
Donald Barthelme 60 Stories
David Foster Wallace Infinite Jest
The Essential Tales of Chekhov
Ruth Padel The Poem and the Journey
101 Sonnets from Shakespeare to heaney (Ed Don Paterson)
Staying Alive: Poems for Unreal Times
Doris Lessing The Fifth Child
The Letters of T S Eliot
Knut Hamsun Hunger
Saul Bellow Collected Stories
A DVD The Lives of Others
Better by Atul Gawdane
Katherine Govier The Immaculate Conception Art Gallery
Razorbill (mine)
a folder of my poems, countless magazines, an old newspaper, a mug, the new iPod, bills, soundsticks, Seventh Quark Magazine, a cheque book, bills, receipts, DVDs of photographs, a packet of pain-killers, the Complete New Yorker Portable Hard Drive
and yes it's a helluva mess
Today's prompts are:
Big isn't it?
Blue and Green is not unusual
By the St Lawrence
Cousins
Dark Blue Jeans, White T-Shirt
Does Your Mother Know?
Early Morning Coffee
Edward was explaining to Carl about levels
Even Better Than the Real Thing
Get Up, Get Up, Get Up
Goodbye Argentina
Grasshopper
He always wore one glove, carried the other
He had a heart attack and crashed his bus
Here, have this loaf of bread
I AM communicating with you
I am Old Enough to leave, So I Will
I think it was St Mary's but I'm not going to argue
I'm not DENYING anything
It was in those days when I wandered about hungry.
It's a nice addiction to have
Keep On Running
Learning Kung Fu
Leaving the Yellow House
Looking for Mr Green
Marjorie and Emily Short-cutting to school
Miss Jones wants to make love to me
Neighbours
Potassium Permanganate
Reading Chekhov
Sensible Shoes
She Came in Through the Bathroom Window
Sign Here, and Here, and HERE
Sometimes, I think I can hear him
Standard jewel case
Tears Flowed at the Chapel Funeral
They live in cracks, under, behind
Tigger!
Today we have a fire drills
What Kind of day Did You Have?
Whose side, your father's or your mother's?
Whose turn for the shit
Without Poetry it just isn't the same
A Silver Dish
A theft
A very small bone, broken
Air on a G String
Angel of the Great White Way
Bellarossa
I have to say today will be hard. Don't feel great, want to work out, have PJ to sort.
But I must chip away at that million.
Wish me luck.
Alex
PS I feel very old.
I got an iPod Touch for my birthday (God the technology is exquisite) and I was up until almost three hacking away at my Music Library so i could also get all my photos on the beast.
Had a calf cramp in the night, thought it was gonna kill me. Feel a little hungover, have the school run and have to take PJ to the hospital. Might be a late start. So glad now that I got a bit of headway made in the arm up days.
SNAPSHOT
My office is a tip.
On my desk is:
Donald Barthelme 40 Stories
Donald Barthelme 60 Stories
David Foster Wallace Infinite Jest
The Essential Tales of Chekhov
Ruth Padel The Poem and the Journey
101 Sonnets from Shakespeare to heaney (Ed Don Paterson)
Staying Alive: Poems for Unreal Times
Doris Lessing The Fifth Child
The Letters of T S Eliot
Knut Hamsun Hunger
Saul Bellow Collected Stories
A DVD The Lives of Others
Better by Atul Gawdane
Katherine Govier The Immaculate Conception Art Gallery
Razorbill (mine)
a folder of my poems, countless magazines, an old newspaper, a mug, the new iPod, bills, soundsticks, Seventh Quark Magazine, a cheque book, bills, receipts, DVDs of photographs, a packet of pain-killers, the Complete New Yorker Portable Hard Drive
and yes it's a helluva mess
Today's prompts are:
Big isn't it?
Blue and Green is not unusual
By the St Lawrence
Cousins
Dark Blue Jeans, White T-Shirt
Does Your Mother Know?
Early Morning Coffee
Edward was explaining to Carl about levels
Even Better Than the Real Thing
Get Up, Get Up, Get Up
Goodbye Argentina
Grasshopper
He always wore one glove, carried the other
He had a heart attack and crashed his bus
Here, have this loaf of bread
I AM communicating with you
I am Old Enough to leave, So I Will
I think it was St Mary's but I'm not going to argue
I'm not DENYING anything
It was in those days when I wandered about hungry.
It's a nice addiction to have
Keep On Running
Learning Kung Fu
Leaving the Yellow House
Looking for Mr Green
Marjorie and Emily Short-cutting to school
Miss Jones wants to make love to me
Neighbours
Potassium Permanganate
Reading Chekhov
Sensible Shoes
She Came in Through the Bathroom Window
Sign Here, and Here, and HERE
Sometimes, I think I can hear him
Standard jewel case
Tears Flowed at the Chapel Funeral
They live in cracks, under, behind
Tigger!
Today we have a fire drills
What Kind of day Did You Have?
Whose side, your father's or your mother's?
Whose turn for the shit
Without Poetry it just isn't the same
A Silver Dish
A theft
A very small bone, broken
Air on a G String
Angel of the Great White Way
Bellarossa
I have to say today will be hard. Don't feel great, want to work out, have PJ to sort.
But I must chip away at that million.
Wish me luck.
Alex
PS I feel very old.
Sunday, 14 October 2007
Yee-hah!
Empty of Ideas, hung-over, sore gut, loads to do, 'smy burfday and I should chill.
But it's 08:30 and I've just written a story good enough to win a comp.
Now I get to walk the dog, go to the gym with my son at ten.
NOT a blank day.
Day Five (Day One)
001 001,350 Words Story
002 001,095 Words Story
003 001,025 Words Story
004 001,158 Words Story
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<<
006 001,480 Words Story
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<<
888 005,170 Words Other Writings
999 013,028 Words TOTAL
999 002,606 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
But it's 08:30 and I've just written a story good enough to win a comp.
Now I get to walk the dog, go to the gym with my son at ten.
NOT a blank day.
Day Five (Day One)
001 001,350 Words Story
002 001,095 Words Story
003 001,025 Words Story
004 001,158 Words Story
005 000,900 Words Story (Subbed) <<<<
006 001,480 Words Story
007 000,850 Words Story <<<<<<
888 005,170 Words Other Writings
999 013,028 Words TOTAL
999 002,606 Words Daily Average
01 Submissions
OK, I Read It
I read it.
I read it again.
I read it again.
I am VERY glad I don't write like that.
If it matters, I found it bowel-neutral, neither aided and abetted or caused blockage.
I read it again.
I read it again.
I am VERY glad I don't write like that.
If it matters, I found it bowel-neutral, neither aided and abetted or caused blockage.
07:07
07:07 and no writing yet.
Should/Could be a day off but I'll feel so HOLY if I write something on my birthday.
First though, off to read Donald Barthelme's "On the Deck"
I may be a long time...
Should/Could be a day off but I'll feel so HOLY if I write something on my birthday.
First though, off to read Donald Barthelme's "On the Deck"
I may be a long time...
One Set of Prompts
I didn't write these!
Handkerchiefs from Auntie Maisie
Memories of Birthdays Past
Recycled cards
Bumps
Mouth Like a Parrot's Cage
Daddy, I made this for you …
Rumbleguts
Why Josephine Can't Come to the Party
Annual Excuses
How many candles?
Cardigans and Slippers
The Skin I'm In
Conspicuous Consumption
Four Weddings and a Birthday
Not Old, Merely Mature
The Man Who Saved All His Wrapping Paper
Forgetfulness
Handkerchiefs from Auntie Maisie
Memories of Birthdays Past
Recycled cards
Bumps
Mouth Like a Parrot's Cage
Daddy, I made this for you …
Rumbleguts
Why Josephine Can't Come to the Party
Annual Excuses
How many candles?
Cardigans and Slippers
The Skin I'm In
Conspicuous Consumption
Four Weddings and a Birthday
Not Old, Merely Mature
The Man Who Saved All His Wrapping Paper
Forgetfulness
Sixty Years Ago Today
The sound barrier was broken by Chuck Yeager
Children in Need Night
I must be mad, I will be sick
but there are eleven of us now.
JOIN US?
One more, Ants Davies from Leeds
01 Alex, Berkshire
02 Claire, Cumbria, England
03 TomC, Yorkshire
04 Joel, Finland
05 Dan, England
06 Caroline, England
07 Britbird, Brighton, England
08 The Secretary!
09 Colin, England
10 Missy, England
11 Ants, Leeds, England
Children in Need Night
I must be mad, I will be sick
but there are eleven of us now.
JOIN US?
One more, Ants Davies from Leeds
01 Alex, Berkshire
02 Claire, Cumbria, England
03 TomC, Yorkshire
04 Joel, Finland
05 Dan, England
06 Caroline, England
07 Britbird, Brighton, England
08 The Secretary!
09 Colin, England
10 Missy, England
11 Ants, Leeds, England
Saturday, 13 October 2007
Words
Day Four (so far)
01 001,350 Words Story
02 001,095 Words Story
03 001,025 Words Story
04 001,158 Words Story
05 000,900 Words Story (Subbed)
06 001,480 Words Story
88 004,520 Words Other Writings
99 011,528 Words TOTAL
99 002,882 Words Daily Average (1,051,930 per Year)
01 Submissions
01 001,350 Words Story
02 001,095 Words Story
03 001,025 Words Story
04 001,158 Words Story
05 000,900 Words Story (Subbed)
06 001,480 Words Story
88 004,520 Words Other Writings
99 011,528 Words TOTAL
99 002,882 Words Daily Average (1,051,930 per Year)
01 Submissions
Paid in Blood
06:18 upset tummy, mouth like the bottom of a bird-cage, 1,500 words written, another day over and deeper in debt.
But the words keep coming, keep coming.
I have to say that this morning's "story" is probably crap, more a melodramatic, tearful, indulgent troll through a load of old guilt-wrecked memories.
But sometimes it's like that. Sometimes a story comes out word by aching word, sometimes they scream out like joyous, frantic music, perfectly formed. Sometimes the phrase is verbal diahorrea and it smells like it.
Sometimes it just doesn't feel like it's working.
It doesn't matter. The muscles are exercised, the pipes remain open. Even if just one sentence is worth it, it's worth it.
Remember, every blank day is a day nearer being dead. You never get those days back.
Today I have to pick up a car. I'm getting dropped at the garage two hours before the car is due to be ready as Deb & Bridie have things to do. This afternoon PJ and I are off to Wembley to watch England v Estonia. Tonight a family game of monopoly is booked (PJ cheats)
but I have WRITTEN and it's only 06:25
I might write while I wait for the car. I'll take the laptop and a couple of books.
alx
But the words keep coming, keep coming.
I have to say that this morning's "story" is probably crap, more a melodramatic, tearful, indulgent troll through a load of old guilt-wrecked memories.
But sometimes it's like that. Sometimes a story comes out word by aching word, sometimes they scream out like joyous, frantic music, perfectly formed. Sometimes the phrase is verbal diahorrea and it smells like it.
Sometimes it just doesn't feel like it's working.
It doesn't matter. The muscles are exercised, the pipes remain open. Even if just one sentence is worth it, it's worth it.
Remember, every blank day is a day nearer being dead. You never get those days back.
Today I have to pick up a car. I'm getting dropped at the garage two hours before the car is due to be ready as Deb & Bridie have things to do. This afternoon PJ and I are off to Wembley to watch England v Estonia. Tonight a family game of monopoly is booked (PJ cheats)
but I have WRITTEN and it's only 06:25
I might write while I wait for the car. I'll take the laptop and a couple of books.
alx
WHAT Time?
Woke twice in the night. Drank little in the evening yet felt seriously hungover and very rough. Third time I woke (04:04) i thought stuff this and got up, cleaned my teeth, shaved, came downstairs to write. It's 04:53 and I've walked the echoing empty corridors of Boot Camp, made seven fortunes from Nigerian benefactors, ate two pieces of toast, drunk a cup of coffee, flicked through half-a-dozen ancient poetry books (Penguin Modern Poets), created an alphabetical list of prompts for BC (and you dear reader.) In five minutes it will be 05:00 and I've run out of excuses. I have to write.
A breakfast egg and Otis Redding
A particularly hard stool evacuated from an aeroplane
At gravesides priest will say, "I don't give a fuck."
Bad dreams of old cars
Cream Crackers
Dermatitis
Everytime
Fish and chips on winter nights
Gathering
Girls in bikinis, moonbathing
How she sews.
I have, here, in my pocket…
I want to paint murdered kings
I was born in the village of Much Bickering
If I was ever faithful
It's not true, there ARE intelligent women
Jeffrey Archer, Poet Laureate
Jelly-babies
Kill the thing
Loose
Moths and Lamps
My father planting potatoes
Negro postmen, money, dreams
Old poetry books turn brown and make me remember sadnesses
On a tour of public lavatories
Pick yer Paris Tunnel
Please don't put out the light
Quickly, Press
Refuse
Schoolgirls waiting at a crossing
Since there is no help, let us kiss and part
The dead will quietly bury the living
The first daffodils of autumn appear
There it is, word for word
This line of thinking brought me back to his letter
Tiger!
Tonight at noon
Truth limits man
Untamed Danish Pastries
Virgin
We are waiting for the end of eternity when this guy turns up shouting
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
When the room is emptied, heat remains
When vegetables retreat
X marks the blemish
Yesterday I believed
Zoo
Alex
A breakfast egg and Otis Redding
A particularly hard stool evacuated from an aeroplane
At gravesides priest will say, "I don't give a fuck."
Bad dreams of old cars
Cream Crackers
Dermatitis
Everytime
Fish and chips on winter nights
Gathering
Girls in bikinis, moonbathing
How she sews.
I have, here, in my pocket…
I want to paint murdered kings
I was born in the village of Much Bickering
If I was ever faithful
It's not true, there ARE intelligent women
Jeffrey Archer, Poet Laureate
Jelly-babies
Kill the thing
Loose
Moths and Lamps
My father planting potatoes
Negro postmen, money, dreams
Old poetry books turn brown and make me remember sadnesses
On a tour of public lavatories
Pick yer Paris Tunnel
Please don't put out the light
Quickly, Press
Refuse
Schoolgirls waiting at a crossing
Since there is no help, let us kiss and part
The dead will quietly bury the living
The first daffodils of autumn appear
There it is, word for word
This line of thinking brought me back to his letter
Tiger!
Tonight at noon
Truth limits man
Untamed Danish Pastries
Virgin
We are waiting for the end of eternity when this guy turns up shouting
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
When the room is emptied, heat remains
When vegetables retreat
X marks the blemish
Yesterday I believed
Zoo
Alex
Friday, 12 October 2007
The Life of Pi
I bought this in the original hardback, then in paperback, then a second time in paperback, then bought the illustrated version.
I HAVE STILL TO READ IT!
But help is at hand. Ten Boot Campers have signed up to read and share critiques, so that's my immediate reading.
Interested in joining us for a hard crit session, posta message in the public area of Yuku's BootCampKeegan
Other reading ongoing is:
The Essential Tales of Chekov (Edited by Richard Ford)
Yesterday I read "The Lady With the Dog" (the lad has promise)
and from the sublime to the ridiculous:
I picked up Jeffrey Archer's "Cat o'Nine Tales"
I've read two stories so far and they are appalling.
Also reading the quite excellent "BETTER: A Surgeon's Notes on Performance" by Atul Gawande. I picked this up thinking it was a book of short stories when in fact they are medical articles. Nevertheless I recommend the book strongly.
With my new-found direction (the NOVEL, Alex, the NOVEL) I've decided I want to be longlisted for The Booker within five years and (if I live that long) shortlisted within ten. That's not outrageous or egotistical, one Boot Camper already has been.
So I'm reading Anne Enright's "The Gathering"
BELIEVE.
I HAVE STILL TO READ IT!
But help is at hand. Ten Boot Campers have signed up to read and share critiques, so that's my immediate reading.
Interested in joining us for a hard crit session, posta message in the public area of Yuku's BootCampKeegan
Other reading ongoing is:
The Essential Tales of Chekov (Edited by Richard Ford)
Yesterday I read "The Lady With the Dog" (the lad has promise)
and from the sublime to the ridiculous:
I picked up Jeffrey Archer's "Cat o'Nine Tales"
I've read two stories so far and they are appalling.
Also reading the quite excellent "BETTER: A Surgeon's Notes on Performance" by Atul Gawande. I picked this up thinking it was a book of short stories when in fact they are medical articles. Nevertheless I recommend the book strongly.
With my new-found direction (the NOVEL, Alex, the NOVEL) I've decided I want to be longlisted for The Booker within five years and (if I live that long) shortlisted within ten. That's not outrageous or egotistical, one Boot Camper already has been.
So I'm reading Anne Enright's "The Gathering"
BELIEVE.
BINGO!
After some very dry, not-that-great stories (probably publishable, but very run of the mill) just written one 9second story today) which I REALLY like.
That usually means it's unpublishable, but who cares?
Subbed already. Watch this space.
Now averaging 3,000 words a day for the warm-up period
Incidentally, 2,740 words a day is a million in a year.
01 001,350 Words Story
02 001,095 Words Story
03 001,025 Words Story
04 001,158 Words Story
05 000,900 Words Story (Subbed)
88 004,000 Words Other Writings
99 009,528 Words TOTAL
01 Submissions
That usually means it's unpublishable, but who cares?
Subbed already. Watch this space.
Now averaging 3,000 words a day for the warm-up period
Incidentally, 2,740 words a day is a million in a year.
01 001,350 Words Story
02 001,095 Words Story
03 001,025 Words Story
04 001,158 Words Story
05 000,900 Words Story (Subbed)
88 004,000 Words Other Writings
99 009,528 Words TOTAL
01 Submissions
Walkies!
No Pikkies, Blogger is having troubles again
Just noticed, that despite all the various differences, I again finish Story 01 at around midday and all four have been very similar length. (I should say that 1,000 for me now contains more than 2,500 did ten years ago!)
Cabin-Fever setting in, so I figure take the dogs for a walk, frshen myself up a bit, see if this afternoon I can get some more writing in. (It's Boot Camp Friday deadline time and there are already half-a-dozen stories to critique)
But first, the dogs.
Just noticed, that despite all the various differences, I again finish Story 01 at around midday and all four have been very similar length. (I should say that 1,000 for me now contains more than 2,500 did ten years ago!)
Cabin-Fever setting in, so I figure take the dogs for a walk, frshen myself up a bit, see if this afternoon I can get some more writing in. (It's Boot Camp Friday deadline time and there are already half-a-dozen stories to critique)
But first, the dogs.
Everything is Painful!
Yesterday, thinking of this blog, I found myself "too-aware" and writing in a laboured, stilted, way.
Today was much the same.
OK I've managed 2,000 words and the story may tick all the boxes, but it has little SOUL.
I feel disappointed. I hope blogging my writing doesn't change it. So far it feels like it IS affecting it. Maybe I'll get used to the system and back to normal "drunk" writing.
01 001,350 Words Story
02 001,095 Words Story
03 001,025 Words Story
04 001,158 Words Story
88 003,600 Words Other Writings
99 008,230 Words TOTAL
Today was much the same.
OK I've managed 2,000 words and the story may tick all the boxes, but it has little SOUL.
I feel disappointed. I hope blogging my writing doesn't change it. So far it feels like it IS affecting it. Maybe I'll get used to the system and back to normal "drunk" writing.
01 001,350 Words Story
02 001,095 Words Story
03 001,025 Words Story
04 001,158 Words Story
88 003,600 Words Other Writings
99 008,230 Words TOTAL
School-run time-if only that was all.
Deb is home today, so I figure life should be a little easier. Hah!
While the kids get ready for school she takes the pups for a walk and I pull together a set of prompts for Boot Camp. I used the letters of T S Eliot, a few poems from "Staying Alive" and half a dozen of my own lines, all mixed in.
I'm just posting when I hear Deb shouting. Anything not absolutely neutral/cruising is a crisis for Deb but she's REALLY shouting, she's lost the dogs in a field.
The kids (big surprise) respond, and I do (if you ignore the fact I'm shoeless etc) but by the time I get out I have to think WHICH field, which way (which town, which country.)
I shout, no response, so decide to jog on our usual morning route. I spot the kids one side of a hedge, the dogs the other, Deb a further 100 yards off ranting.
Point is KIDS if you call them THIS WAY and yer mother calls them THAT way…
Duh.
To get to the gate is another few hundred yards. Deb is in the middle of the field and the dogs are "over by the kids".
In fact they are OVER BY THE TRAPPED DEER, a Bambi sized, totally terrified little thing which the dogs want to eat/play with, chat about.
I have to attack the dogs (COS I AM ALPHA DOG, KNOW THIS) and frighten them away, chase them, then I turn to this deer.
It's whimpering, sounds quite human and it is very fucking stupid pushing itself further into the trapping wire fence. I can see its face is very bloody. I don't know if that's the fence or the dogs, but I do know this crazed, powerful "little" animal is going to go into shock and die unless I do something.
I try to release it by going to the head end and making it want to scrabble backwards (forwards is just making the trap more permanent.) But the mutt just screams and digs a deeper hole.
Now I have to run back to the house (about half-a-mile) find some tools with which I MIGHT be able to cut the deer free. I send Deb off on the school run (we were going to the gym straight after) get a toolbag from the garage and run back.
I should say I'm in singlet and shorts, under a waterproof jacket. It looks like I'm ONLY wearing the jacket. My trainers are soaking wet. Normally I'd wear wellies in that particular field.
On the way back, a guy from the gravel pit shouts. He's in work-clothes, a safety-top, white crash-hat etc and he's got long dirty-blond hair. Over the noise of the pit he hand-signals that he thinks the deer is out. I see one (it looks BIG) belting across the field. But is it the mother? I have to go get wet again and check the baby.
When I get there, sure enough, the little feller has managed to get free. I think it will live but it'll have a few handsome scars.
I try out this best-use tool on the fence (for future reference). Yes it will cut through the wire.
It's now half-eight.
I go in, record this before it's forgotten (important tip, things mutate.)
Now, do I still go to the gym? (A mile walk cos Deb has the car) or should I get writing?
I think I need to work out, shower, get zipped up, ready to fire.
I don't know what it is about me and "incidents". I could fill a book of them from crashing aircraft, the Clapham Rail Disaster, dying deer, dying swans, con-men, a terrorist incident. Fuck fiction, maybe I should just keep a diary.
OK this "incident" is a little one, but I must embrace it and not the direct immediate specifics, but my reactions, like the van I stopped (did he have wire cutters?) like the man on the rig in the gravel pit (made me think of YMCA, The Village People) or the way the drama is halted for the wife and kids but continues for me, and then I'm in a kind of limb, plans temporarily awry.
As I walked back, a fleet of Canada geese came in low. The noise they make sounds man-made, heavy, machine-like. The dogs cannot figure it out when geese fly over.
A neighbour is leaving, she see me, bare legs sticking from a jacket and I'm carrying a brown tool-bag like Jack the Ripper. I think her ten year old daughter averts her eyes.
In the house the dogs are in their cage, snuggled up, puppies, cute. Killers.
Alx
While the kids get ready for school she takes the pups for a walk and I pull together a set of prompts for Boot Camp. I used the letters of T S Eliot, a few poems from "Staying Alive" and half a dozen of my own lines, all mixed in.
I'm just posting when I hear Deb shouting. Anything not absolutely neutral/cruising is a crisis for Deb but she's REALLY shouting, she's lost the dogs in a field.
The kids (big surprise) respond, and I do (if you ignore the fact I'm shoeless etc) but by the time I get out I have to think WHICH field, which way (which town, which country.)
I shout, no response, so decide to jog on our usual morning route. I spot the kids one side of a hedge, the dogs the other, Deb a further 100 yards off ranting.
Point is KIDS if you call them THIS WAY and yer mother calls them THAT way…
Duh.
To get to the gate is another few hundred yards. Deb is in the middle of the field and the dogs are "over by the kids".
In fact they are OVER BY THE TRAPPED DEER, a Bambi sized, totally terrified little thing which the dogs want to eat/play with, chat about.
I have to attack the dogs (COS I AM ALPHA DOG, KNOW THIS) and frighten them away, chase them, then I turn to this deer.
It's whimpering, sounds quite human and it is very fucking stupid pushing itself further into the trapping wire fence. I can see its face is very bloody. I don't know if that's the fence or the dogs, but I do know this crazed, powerful "little" animal is going to go into shock and die unless I do something.
I try to release it by going to the head end and making it want to scrabble backwards (forwards is just making the trap more permanent.) But the mutt just screams and digs a deeper hole.
Now I have to run back to the house (about half-a-mile) find some tools with which I MIGHT be able to cut the deer free. I send Deb off on the school run (we were going to the gym straight after) get a toolbag from the garage and run back.
I should say I'm in singlet and shorts, under a waterproof jacket. It looks like I'm ONLY wearing the jacket. My trainers are soaking wet. Normally I'd wear wellies in that particular field.
On the way back, a guy from the gravel pit shouts. He's in work-clothes, a safety-top, white crash-hat etc and he's got long dirty-blond hair. Over the noise of the pit he hand-signals that he thinks the deer is out. I see one (it looks BIG) belting across the field. But is it the mother? I have to go get wet again and check the baby.
When I get there, sure enough, the little feller has managed to get free. I think it will live but it'll have a few handsome scars.
I try out this best-use tool on the fence (for future reference). Yes it will cut through the wire.
It's now half-eight.
I go in, record this before it's forgotten (important tip, things mutate.)
Now, do I still go to the gym? (A mile walk cos Deb has the car) or should I get writing?
I think I need to work out, shower, get zipped up, ready to fire.
I don't know what it is about me and "incidents". I could fill a book of them from crashing aircraft, the Clapham Rail Disaster, dying deer, dying swans, con-men, a terrorist incident. Fuck fiction, maybe I should just keep a diary.
OK this "incident" is a little one, but I must embrace it and not the direct immediate specifics, but my reactions, like the van I stopped (did he have wire cutters?) like the man on the rig in the gravel pit (made me think of YMCA, The Village People) or the way the drama is halted for the wife and kids but continues for me, and then I'm in a kind of limb, plans temporarily awry.
As I walked back, a fleet of Canada geese came in low. The noise they make sounds man-made, heavy, machine-like. The dogs cannot figure it out when geese fly over.
A neighbour is leaving, she see me, bare legs sticking from a jacket and I'm carrying a brown tool-bag like Jack the Ripper. I think her ten year old daughter averts her eyes.
In the house the dogs are in their cage, snuggled up, puppies, cute. Killers.
Alx
Thursday, 11 October 2007
Children in Need Night
For the last two years, 2007 makes three, I've been involved in a writing marathon to raise money for kids. The charity is BBC Children in Need and we've raised about £20,000 so far.
Last year I was so ILL I swore I'd never do it again.
I'm doing it again! November 16-17
For details see http://thebootcampkeegandiaries.blogspot.com/
Other particpants, sponsors, UK magazines willing to look at the top stories, all welcome. Post here as a comment or email me
From the POV of a year-long writing push, CIN Night is GREAT.
It's possible to write 20-30 publishable pieces in the thirty hours.
BRING IT ON!
Alx
Last year I was so ILL I swore I'd never do it again.
I'm doing it again! November 16-17
For details see http://thebootcampkeegandiaries.blogspot.com/
Other particpants, sponsors, UK magazines willing to look at the top stories, all welcome. Post here as a comment or email me
From the POV of a year-long writing push, CIN Night is GREAT.
It's possible to write 20-30 publishable pieces in the thirty hours.
BRING IT ON!
Alx
THE POINT-TWO
My brother's habit is bloody annoying. He’s Friar Tuck and I’m running as Maid Marion and we are only four miles into the London Marathon and the swish-swish-swish-bloody-swish is driving me crazy.
“Fer Christ’s sake, Colin, I told you, go as the Sheriff of Nottingham, we’ll never catch Robin Hood and Little John now – and that’s me and you down fifty quid each.”
“Ah sod off, brother,” Colin says (he always says it like that, brother heavy on the emphasis). Then he reminds me the London is his seventeenth marathon and Robin and Little John have gone off far too fast.
Don’t ask me why we do it, raise this money. Don’t ask me, because I know and telling people breaks my heart, but why do we dress like idiots every time? My forty-seven inch D-Cups make Jordan look anorexic, but bloody hell do they bounce, swish-fucking-swish, bounce-bounce-bounce. AND WE HAVE TWENTY-TWO MILES TO GO.
“Twenty-Two-Point-Two,” Colin reminds me, swish-swish, bounce-bounce. “Never forget the point-two. The number of people who think ‘26’ and end up on their arse, 392 yards to go….”
I need to get into the zone, settle into the rhythm. Running a marathon is as much in the head as in the heart and lungs. You have to settle down, not get too excited (twenty-six-point-two miles is a long way) run within yourself and if you’ve trained properly just remember you run twenty miles and then you have to run another six-point-two. Never forget the point-two.
The rebels had an odd badge, a blue apple. After they had cleansed a village, they would paint their damn blue apples everywhere. White squares, blue apples, and so much blood.
They liked to finish people with machetes.
I’m thirty-two. Thirty-two, fit. I run marathons. Colin and I still climb, we white-water raft, we fly hang-gliders, we surf off Newquay. We do lots of things, things that are easy with two legs. Legs with feet on the end. We are young men, but sometimes, especially last thing at night, or passing a glossy display of red-green apples in the supermarket, I feel old, old, old.
And empty.
I was in the mob, a sprog, a foot-soldier, a para almost before I was shaving, then I came under fire, the real thing and forgive me but I loved it. I loved the way the world came down to just you, your mates, staying alive. I loved it so much I trained twice as hard, even tried for the SAS. It’s not Hollywood, not ever, but even losing buddies you get used to. That’s why when I came out I straight away signed up to go to Africa. I hadn’t had enough.
We are passing the ten mile marker. Colin’s saying something. Apparently one of my tits has shifted position. I shove it down. The crowd laughs and someone starts a chant, “Get-yerr tits out for the boys!!”
We’d stopped singing three months into that dirty war. We’d stopped most things. I kept a diary back then – we all had visions of being Andy McNab – and reading it what strikes me still is how we avoided our feelings. We saw the world as them, the fucking rebels. The rebels did this, fucking disgusting, the rebels did that, fucking evil, we walked in on this, fucking unbelievable.
Thirty, gonna live for fucking ever. What we didn’t do was think. What you don’t ever do is think. Thinking can slow you down and there’s sometimes a split-second difference between killing and killed. We just did our job.
Thirteen miles. No, it’s not half-way. Don’t forget the point-two. Colin is like a metronome now. I would be if it wasn’t for these tits. We go along easily, eight minute miling. We’ve run together like this with packs on, carrying weapons, and we both ran sub-three hour marathons before we started raising money for the charity and had to dress up.
“Oi, Marion, fancy a shag?”
“Oi, Tuck! Ooo ate all the pies?”
We wave back, grin. Suddenly for no reason at all I imagine blowing the two blokes away, the women nearby going down too, collateral damage. Instead I shove my tits up and wave.
I know when I decided enough was enough. We were clearing a town about ten miles from the capital. The Blue Apples had been there, swept in, swept out. We knew there’d be bodies, but even hard bastards like us weren’t ready for what we found that day. Carnage.
We went in before sunrise, laid under cover and obbed the place for movements. Nothing. Me, Colin, half a dozen others, Robin Hood and Little John, got up and walked in. The other half of the squad watched our back.
Seventeen miles. About four hundred yards ahead I think I can make out Robin and John from the way they are running.
We walk in, careful, alert, but we just know there’s nothing alive. That’s when we see the cat. Bits of it are trailing behind it, and it’s making this sound that’d break your heart. Colin stamped on its head and the noise stopped. Then we came across a used-car lot, all the windows of the cars broken, the back seat of one of them crawling with those little brown stinging caterpillars.
Nineteen Miles. Definitely them three hundred ahead.
We heard a window or a door clatter. When we got up, nothing. In one house what looked like a family (except the father). I started to feel it then, and I really don’t know why. People kill. Rwanda, Sudan it doesn’t matter, people kill. Stamping on the cat, that was mercy. We’d seen death so many times. Mostly dead-people look peaceful. It’s the way the muscle-tone goes and there comes this point where they are just ‘things”. But today I felt different.
Twenty-one miles. It’s definitely them. The way they run is distinctive.
This was when we found the dairy. Incongruous or what? Right smack in the middle of it all, deep up the arse of Africa, they were making ice-cream! The Chocolate Kingfisher Company. Here’s this place, a big white building, and all along the top there are these cartoon black faces, kids enjoying ice-cream then the name “The Chocolate Kingfisher Company” and a hand-painted Kingfisher about six feet high.
Twenty-three miles. There they are clear as day, limping along, Sergeant Robin Fucking Hood and Corporal Fucking Little John. Fair dues, the bastards have done well, considering, but then it’s bleeding hot and you try running in a fucking dress or a fucking habit for twenty-six miles.
Inside the factory were these big stainless-steel vats, ice-cream we supposed. The owner was probably in England, long-gone, but we found the foreman behind one of them. This was when Robin Hood (Jack Cunningham) gets us all together.
“How many bodies we seen?”
“The family, the car-dealer, and this bloke.”
“Exactly. That’s not enough.”
What Jack was saying was, we knew that out in the villages, the people would run off into the bush, and we always knew roughly how many would catch it. Mothers with too many little kids, old men, that sort of thing. But here was a small town and we’d only found nine bodies. It didn’t make sense. Jack didn’t like it much. Summat felt really bad.
Twenty-four miles. We are a hundred yards back and could pick of Robin Hood and Little John if we wanted to, but it’s more fun to track them, save our energy.
They were out the back of the factory, between it and the dairy that must have supplied the milk. There was a big area would have been for the lorries before the civil war.
Twenty-five miles. There are people walking but not the Sarge and Corporal John Little. There they are, the fucking flowerpot men, or Zebedee One and Zebedee Two, more like. Good foot, stump, good foot stump.
The Blue Apples, they’d herded the whole fucking town together out the back of the factory and then sent them across that open ground. No problem except the area was laced with anti-personnel mines, those tiny little fuckers designed not to kill, just to blow a foot off and tie down the enemy with too many wounded. We were a couple of days late.
We come up behind Jack and John, start taking the piss. “Hop along now you two. Hop it,” that sort of bollocks. They both ignore us, don’t even turn round. They just make sure we see their raised fingers. Good foot, stump, good foot, stump, swish-swish-fucking-swish and bounce-bounce-bounce.
There were people alive in the middle of all that. The fucking animals knew they’d all have leg injuries, abdominal stuff. The best thing to do in that sort of killing field is walk on your hands so when you get unlucky and there’s that little phutt, it blows you head off and you hear nothing.
They knew we were coming. They knew we couldn’t just walk away. Either we walked away, pretended we never found this, we shot the few still living, or someone had to go in and haul these poor fuckers out.
They got people who volunteer to clear these evil fucking mines. Like us. There’s a charity, that’s who we run for. That day Colin wanted to go in, grab the ones he could see waving, two kids, a woman with a dead baby in her arms. The Sarge said no. Colin said he wanted to. Fuck it, he said, we can’t just leave.
“How wide are your stripes?” Jack Cunningham said and when Colin said something like, “Fuck your stripes we gorra do something,” Jack told Colin he’d shoot him in the back if he so much as took a step.
I won’t forget Jack’s face, the way he told me to get my fucking brother the fuck out of there. “Do it fucking now, Jonesey,” he said, and I knew he wasn’t going to listen to any arguments.
We were back with the others when we heard the shots. There were five, then a gap then another one, and then a minute later, another.
It’s that last one that fucks me every time I remember.
And now the four of us are side by side, half a mile of this miserable fucking marathon to go. Jack’s suffering more than usual, his stump is playing up, John’s OK but having one arm makes him run awkwardly and he gets blisters the size of eggs. Me, I got all my bits. I’m the lucky one, but twenty-six miles wearing tits, it takes a lot out of you. Colin lost a hand in Eritreia then another one in Rwanda but he says it’s handy, he’s balanced out and it doesn’t fuck up his running. Time to blow these two sorry fuckers away.
So me and Colin kick on and leave Jack and John. And there’s the twenty-six mile marker just up ahead. Ha, the old buggers, good for nowt. But then we’re grinning, coming towards the finish, congratulating ourselves when the bastards come by us – good foot, stump, good foot, stump.
I don’t fucking believe it. Robbed.
“The point-two!” Colin shouts. Never forget the fucking point-two.”
1,890 words
“Fer Christ’s sake, Colin, I told you, go as the Sheriff of Nottingham, we’ll never catch Robin Hood and Little John now – and that’s me and you down fifty quid each.”
“Ah sod off, brother,” Colin says (he always says it like that, brother heavy on the emphasis). Then he reminds me the London is his seventeenth marathon and Robin and Little John have gone off far too fast.
Don’t ask me why we do it, raise this money. Don’t ask me, because I know and telling people breaks my heart, but why do we dress like idiots every time? My forty-seven inch D-Cups make Jordan look anorexic, but bloody hell do they bounce, swish-fucking-swish, bounce-bounce-bounce. AND WE HAVE TWENTY-TWO MILES TO GO.
“Twenty-Two-Point-Two,” Colin reminds me, swish-swish, bounce-bounce. “Never forget the point-two. The number of people who think ‘26’ and end up on their arse, 392 yards to go….”
I need to get into the zone, settle into the rhythm. Running a marathon is as much in the head as in the heart and lungs. You have to settle down, not get too excited (twenty-six-point-two miles is a long way) run within yourself and if you’ve trained properly just remember you run twenty miles and then you have to run another six-point-two. Never forget the point-two.
The rebels had an odd badge, a blue apple. After they had cleansed a village, they would paint their damn blue apples everywhere. White squares, blue apples, and so much blood.
They liked to finish people with machetes.
I’m thirty-two. Thirty-two, fit. I run marathons. Colin and I still climb, we white-water raft, we fly hang-gliders, we surf off Newquay. We do lots of things, things that are easy with two legs. Legs with feet on the end. We are young men, but sometimes, especially last thing at night, or passing a glossy display of red-green apples in the supermarket, I feel old, old, old.
And empty.
I was in the mob, a sprog, a foot-soldier, a para almost before I was shaving, then I came under fire, the real thing and forgive me but I loved it. I loved the way the world came down to just you, your mates, staying alive. I loved it so much I trained twice as hard, even tried for the SAS. It’s not Hollywood, not ever, but even losing buddies you get used to. That’s why when I came out I straight away signed up to go to Africa. I hadn’t had enough.
We are passing the ten mile marker. Colin’s saying something. Apparently one of my tits has shifted position. I shove it down. The crowd laughs and someone starts a chant, “Get-yerr tits out for the boys!!”
We’d stopped singing three months into that dirty war. We’d stopped most things. I kept a diary back then – we all had visions of being Andy McNab – and reading it what strikes me still is how we avoided our feelings. We saw the world as them, the fucking rebels. The rebels did this, fucking disgusting, the rebels did that, fucking evil, we walked in on this, fucking unbelievable.
Thirty, gonna live for fucking ever. What we didn’t do was think. What you don’t ever do is think. Thinking can slow you down and there’s sometimes a split-second difference between killing and killed. We just did our job.
Thirteen miles. No, it’s not half-way. Don’t forget the point-two. Colin is like a metronome now. I would be if it wasn’t for these tits. We go along easily, eight minute miling. We’ve run together like this with packs on, carrying weapons, and we both ran sub-three hour marathons before we started raising money for the charity and had to dress up.
“Oi, Marion, fancy a shag?”
“Oi, Tuck! Ooo ate all the pies?”
We wave back, grin. Suddenly for no reason at all I imagine blowing the two blokes away, the women nearby going down too, collateral damage. Instead I shove my tits up and wave.
I know when I decided enough was enough. We were clearing a town about ten miles from the capital. The Blue Apples had been there, swept in, swept out. We knew there’d be bodies, but even hard bastards like us weren’t ready for what we found that day. Carnage.
We went in before sunrise, laid under cover and obbed the place for movements. Nothing. Me, Colin, half a dozen others, Robin Hood and Little John, got up and walked in. The other half of the squad watched our back.
Seventeen miles. About four hundred yards ahead I think I can make out Robin and John from the way they are running.
We walk in, careful, alert, but we just know there’s nothing alive. That’s when we see the cat. Bits of it are trailing behind it, and it’s making this sound that’d break your heart. Colin stamped on its head and the noise stopped. Then we came across a used-car lot, all the windows of the cars broken, the back seat of one of them crawling with those little brown stinging caterpillars.
Nineteen Miles. Definitely them three hundred ahead.
We heard a window or a door clatter. When we got up, nothing. In one house what looked like a family (except the father). I started to feel it then, and I really don’t know why. People kill. Rwanda, Sudan it doesn’t matter, people kill. Stamping on the cat, that was mercy. We’d seen death so many times. Mostly dead-people look peaceful. It’s the way the muscle-tone goes and there comes this point where they are just ‘things”. But today I felt different.
Twenty-one miles. It’s definitely them. The way they run is distinctive.
This was when we found the dairy. Incongruous or what? Right smack in the middle of it all, deep up the arse of Africa, they were making ice-cream! The Chocolate Kingfisher Company. Here’s this place, a big white building, and all along the top there are these cartoon black faces, kids enjoying ice-cream then the name “The Chocolate Kingfisher Company” and a hand-painted Kingfisher about six feet high.
Twenty-three miles. There they are clear as day, limping along, Sergeant Robin Fucking Hood and Corporal Fucking Little John. Fair dues, the bastards have done well, considering, but then it’s bleeding hot and you try running in a fucking dress or a fucking habit for twenty-six miles.
Inside the factory were these big stainless-steel vats, ice-cream we supposed. The owner was probably in England, long-gone, but we found the foreman behind one of them. This was when Robin Hood (Jack Cunningham) gets us all together.
“How many bodies we seen?”
“The family, the car-dealer, and this bloke.”
“Exactly. That’s not enough.”
What Jack was saying was, we knew that out in the villages, the people would run off into the bush, and we always knew roughly how many would catch it. Mothers with too many little kids, old men, that sort of thing. But here was a small town and we’d only found nine bodies. It didn’t make sense. Jack didn’t like it much. Summat felt really bad.
Twenty-four miles. We are a hundred yards back and could pick of Robin Hood and Little John if we wanted to, but it’s more fun to track them, save our energy.
They were out the back of the factory, between it and the dairy that must have supplied the milk. There was a big area would have been for the lorries before the civil war.
Twenty-five miles. There are people walking but not the Sarge and Corporal John Little. There they are, the fucking flowerpot men, or Zebedee One and Zebedee Two, more like. Good foot, stump, good foot stump.
The Blue Apples, they’d herded the whole fucking town together out the back of the factory and then sent them across that open ground. No problem except the area was laced with anti-personnel mines, those tiny little fuckers designed not to kill, just to blow a foot off and tie down the enemy with too many wounded. We were a couple of days late.
We come up behind Jack and John, start taking the piss. “Hop along now you two. Hop it,” that sort of bollocks. They both ignore us, don’t even turn round. They just make sure we see their raised fingers. Good foot, stump, good foot, stump, swish-swish-fucking-swish and bounce-bounce-bounce.
There were people alive in the middle of all that. The fucking animals knew they’d all have leg injuries, abdominal stuff. The best thing to do in that sort of killing field is walk on your hands so when you get unlucky and there’s that little phutt, it blows you head off and you hear nothing.
They knew we were coming. They knew we couldn’t just walk away. Either we walked away, pretended we never found this, we shot the few still living, or someone had to go in and haul these poor fuckers out.
They got people who volunteer to clear these evil fucking mines. Like us. There’s a charity, that’s who we run for. That day Colin wanted to go in, grab the ones he could see waving, two kids, a woman with a dead baby in her arms. The Sarge said no. Colin said he wanted to. Fuck it, he said, we can’t just leave.
“How wide are your stripes?” Jack Cunningham said and when Colin said something like, “Fuck your stripes we gorra do something,” Jack told Colin he’d shoot him in the back if he so much as took a step.
I won’t forget Jack’s face, the way he told me to get my fucking brother the fuck out of there. “Do it fucking now, Jonesey,” he said, and I knew he wasn’t going to listen to any arguments.
We were back with the others when we heard the shots. There were five, then a gap then another one, and then a minute later, another.
It’s that last one that fucks me every time I remember.
And now the four of us are side by side, half a mile of this miserable fucking marathon to go. Jack’s suffering more than usual, his stump is playing up, John’s OK but having one arm makes him run awkwardly and he gets blisters the size of eggs. Me, I got all my bits. I’m the lucky one, but twenty-six miles wearing tits, it takes a lot out of you. Colin lost a hand in Eritreia then another one in Rwanda but he says it’s handy, he’s balanced out and it doesn’t fuck up his running. Time to blow these two sorry fuckers away.
So me and Colin kick on and leave Jack and John. And there’s the twenty-six mile marker just up ahead. Ha, the old buggers, good for nowt. But then we’re grinning, coming towards the finish, congratulating ourselves when the bastards come by us – good foot, stump, good foot, stump.
I don’t fucking believe it. Robbed.
“The point-two!” Colin shouts. Never forget the fucking point-two.”
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