…Yup, it has. Looks like I did it again.

So what’s been going on with me? First, I’ve got a new job. Actually, since I’ve been working two gigs for a while, I could say that I’ve replaced the old Job #1 with a new Job #1. It pays more, but not enough for me to totally ditch Job#2. So other than driving to a different place every day and working slightly more hours, not much has changed. My need to switch jobs wasn’t totally driven by money, but that was about 70% of the reason. The other 30% was a complete lack of faith that the job would still exist in a year’s time.

I don’t think I’ve ever gone into detail about the goings on at my old job. I didn’t feel comfortable putting that stuff here, especially while I still worked there. Now that I don’t, perhaps I’ll make a separate post about how what was once a great place to work turned into a soul-sucking pit of incompetence and anger. Once I got serious about leaving (back in December), it took me a good five months to find another gig. As it turns out, while the new gig is better than the old one, it isn’t the bastion of stability that I thought it was. But, hey, my situation is better and I still HAVE a job, so I’m not gonna complain too loudly, especially this soon.

What does this mean for the writing? Honestly, I had pretty much given up on it until, literally, a few hours ago. I may have never come out and said it, but I think I hinted pretty strongly that as long as I was working two jobs I would be on hiatus. My attitude hasn’t changed. Neither has my available free time. CLEARLY the world doesn’t want me to write. And CLEARLY that previous sentence is bullshit. The fact is that I’m tired and angry. Tired of trying (and failing) to dodge one financial torpedo after another while barely scraping by. Angry that I have to work as hard as I do while still getting further and further behind each month. I used to cling to writing as something that might eventually help me out of this situation. That didn’t work out, through no one’s fault but my own lack of ideas on how to monetize my hobby.

So I said “fuck it.” I said that a long time ago… about a few weeks before the most recent “In Deed” page hit the server. If I can’t make money at this then it just isn’t worth my time doing. I decided to finish out “In Deed” and then shift my efforts into things that would either make me some money or not require so much of my energy. Shortly after that, literally right in the middle of writing a page for “In Deed”, I said “fuck it” again, turned off the word processor, and decided finishing the story wasn’t worth my time. If I was going to be out, then right then was as good a time as any. That was a selfish mistake, but it felt right at the time so I went with it.

I see now that the real problem started a long time before that moment. It started when I tried to make this hobby some kind of potential life raft for my fiances. At that moment, writing became a job. It moved from something I did because I liked doing it to something I HAD to do (for free) because it might help me out later on. I’m not saying that’s necessarily a bad thing, but it is a bad thing for ME. My personality doesn’t lend itself to that type of thing. Regular exercise is good for you and will add years to your life. You don’t get paid for it, but the benefit comes later. I know this. Everyone knows this. How much exercise do I get in a week? None. And writing became a new treadmill to ignore and avoid. I think that’s a pretty good metaphor. History bears it out. I got my start in serial fiction and wrote several novel-length stories. Why serial fiction? Near-immediate gratification. I didn’t… and still cannot… write for months on end without the benefit of people reading my work. It doesn’t work for me. Anyway, I think I’m getting off track…

In the past few months I’ve set a few “this weekend I’m going to finish that damned story and be DONE with it” dates, but I ignored each one for various reasons that also felt right at the time. Hell, I even stopped writing down ideas. I never stopped HAVING them, because that, I think, is impossible for me. But instead of jotting them down for future use like I always did, I just sort of glanced at them as they went by, then went back to working, playing video games, or randomly surfing the internet.

A few weeks ago, I renewed the “darkicon.com” domain name mostly out of inertia. The fact that there was a website with years of my work and a handful of fans that still stop by after all this time never entered my mind. I just wanted to keep the name. It is a cool name, after all. Meanwhile, the stories… and my exercise bike… sat ignored in the corner.

I realized my mistake because of the Atlanta cheating scandal that’s been in the news lately. You may not have heard of it, but to sum it up: a lot of teachers and administrators are losing their jobs because they conspired to falsify standardized test scores to make the scores for the district look good. Apparently, they’ve been doing it for years.

Okay, so what the HELL does that have to do with writing?

My wife and I were talking about the scandal. I said that people shouldn’t have been surprised at all… in fact, they should have EXPECTED this type of thing. Why? Teachers… the good ones, anyway… don’t teach because they want to get paid. Yes, they will probably stop teaching if you stop paying them, but they sure as shit didn’t BECOME teachers for the money. But when then “no child left behind” program put in place a system for punishing and rewarding schools based on test performance… well, that changed the game entirely. Suddenly they were teaching for money! Or, closer to the truth: Suddenly the incentive for teaching shifted from loving the job to obtaining reward or avoiding punishments based on test scores. That changed everything. That changed the very REASON they came to work every day. I think I did a poor job of explaining this to my wife, and maybe only a slightly better job explaining it here. But I think you see what I’m saying. Somewhere along the line I gave my self an imaginary financial incentive to keep writing. This changed the very REASON that I wrote, and when the incentive didn’t materialize… “fuck it.”

It all seems so clear in hindsight. I screwed myself up. I gave myself an unrealistic expectation, and then quit in frustration.

So what am I going to do about it?

As I said near the top of this post, the facts of my situation haven’t really changed. I won’t be writing a lot of anything in this situation, because the time isn’t there. BUT… so far this blog post is just over 1200 words and I sure as hell had the time to write THIS, now didn’t I?

So… First, I’m going to get off my un-exercised ass and finish “In Deed”. The next page will be posted Monday. Maybe Sunday. I can say this with near certainty because the page is almost finished. I can crank out a page a weekend with little effort, and there are only a handful of pages left in the story. Seriously, if you knew how close we are to the end you’d hate me for not finishing it a long time ago. I sure do.

After that, I’ll need to decide what else I’m going to write. It won’t be much, because writing has returned to its proper “hobby” status, and I don’t have a lot of time for hobbies these days. But it will be something. Earlier, I had decided that I was going to finish the Crusade story that I stopped in the middle of years ago. “Earlier” was quite few months ago, so my head and heart might not be in that right now. We’ll see. No, I’m not asking for suggestions; I think I know what everyone (both of you) want by now. I’ll take it into consideration, but major undertakings are beyond me at this point. I will also still be trying to find ways to monetize this site because I’d be stupid not to. But my focus won’t be on that. I need to find the embers of what I used to love back in those alt.dragons-inn days and try to re-kindle some portion of that fire. I wasn’t even THINKING of money back then, and look at what I accomplished. Writing is supposed to be fun, dammit… not work. And after the months I’ve had recently, I really need to have some fun.

"Remember me, motherfucker? Lemme remind you... this is what you did to my room. Physicians had told me of the great illness of eighteen years before, and our electric torches and batteries, food and later for other purposes, that they were all tranquilizers or poisons. Perhaps that was it. All he could find. Could he have gotten to October Falls, but all to go. Every "I'm so sorry," and "What a shame- why'd it have to be concerned. Randal had no intention of getting into a high continental plateau, was some twelve thousand feet in elevation, with grotesque stone buildings began to move forward like a sack of rotten meat. His limbs still jerked involuntarily for several seconds.

Darion towered over the dead murderer, and uttered one word: "Live."

Rikky jerked awake, as if giant bat-winged gryphons looked on transcosmic gulfs.

I’m not exactly sure what to think. Yeah, it’s pure gibberish; but there are identifiable pieces of Lovecraft and my own writing in there. With a little tweaking, this could be… interesting. Very interesting.

Besides, this is probably the closest you’ll ever come to a Lovecraft story with the word “motherfucker” in it. That in ITSELF is bad-ass.

———————-
EDIT:
Now THIS is a much better example. It weaves two of my stories together with some standard Loveraftian shenanigans, all created at random. Plus, it’s actually readable:

—paste—
we covered the miles of primeval forest and hill until the wooded ascent checked it. The country bore an aspect more than usually sinister as we viewed it by night and without the accustomed crowds of investigators, so that we would have spied their dreaded summits in the dim western distance had it not been for the heart attack that suddenly seized me one forenoon as I sat writing in my room. Physicians had told me of the strange and disturbing Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich; and when we thought of such things as the ungainly Palmyrene sculptures fashioned in the Roman manner. That others had recently noticed this belt of carving was hinted by the presence of a living water bird in such a direction – in a world whose surface was one of anticlimax. For amidst the littered expanse of that sculptured Crypt – a perfect cube with sides of about twenty feet – there remained no recent object of instantly discernible size; so that we would have spied their dreaded summits in the dim western distance had it not been for the heart attack that suddenly seized me one forenoon as I sat writing in my room. Physicians had told me of the strange and disturbing Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich; and when we thought of the frightful stone city of R’lyeh and all the construction and carving were marvelously well-preserved. The floor was quite clear, except for a slight detritus bearing outgoing penguin tracks and the inward tracks of these others. The farther one advanced, the warmer it became; so that we would have to be wholly revised, for this thing was no product of any cell growth science knows about. There had been a remarkable and unique degree of continuity between the life of over three hundred million years ago and that of only thirty million years ago. How far this continuity had extended beyond the Oligocene Age when the cavern was closed was of course past all speculation. In any event, the coming of the frightful stone city of R’lyeh and all the construction and carving were marvelously well-preserved. The floor was quite clear, except for a slight detritus bearing outgoing penguin tracks and the inward tracks of these others. The farther one advanced, the warmer it became; so that we would have to try the next nearest one – the one with the dashboard, but by the time of the tunneling, and had indeed noticed the inferior workmanship of the arabesques in the stretches behind us. But now, in this deeper section beyond the cavern, there was a huge, roofless rampart still complete in its gigantic five-pointed outline and rising to an irregular height of ten or eleven feet. For this latter we headed; and when at last we remembered that the demoniac Shoggoths – given life, thought, and plastic organ patterns solely by the Old Ones, and had modeled their tough plasticity into various useful temporary limbs and organs; but now their self-modeling powers were sometimes exercised independently, and in various imitative forms implanted by past suggestion. They had, it seems, developed a semistable brain whose separate and occasionally stubborn volition echoed the will of the Old Ones shifted north ahead of the creeping ice cap? Existing geology shows no trace of their presence. Had the frightful Mi-Go been still a menace in the outer land world of the north? Could one be sure of what might lie beyond the protecting coastal range. Such thoughts formed a measure of my overwrought condition at the time of the tunneling, and had indeed noticed the inferior workmanship of the arabesques in the stretches behind us. But now, in this deeper section beyond the cavern, there was a tall, lean man in a suit standing in front of him.

“Whaaa!” yelled Darion. He was now trapped. “I’m gonna scream.”

“We both know how much good that will do. Please, Darion. Hear me out.”

“Okay. I’m gonna scream and then I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t let me outta here. I don’t want nothin’ from you.”

“That’s what your mouth says… but it lies.. I can see you’re upset. You” you share a little bit of what you’re doing back here and I will personally drive to the nearest veterinary supplier and replace those bottles. All the way to Macon, Georgia; the common starting point for all the directions he could find. Could he have gotten to October Falls directly from Tampa? Logic told him yes, but the collected wisdom of Google, Mapquest, and Rand-McNally all told him “maybe, maybe not.” From Macon, he’d driven south via a web of incomprehensible back roads… a whirlwind tour of small towns he thought only existed in horror movies about horny rednecks and mutant cannibals. He was in the neighborhood of the prostrate things that new and lately unexplainable fetor had been wholly dominant; but by this time it WAS a perfect shot. He severed the tentacle cleanly. The flesh wrapped around his right arm until he reached the limit of his “leash” and it snapped his arm backward, spinning him to the strangers around him, and was careful to dust his room and modified the pumps and feed of his refrigerating machine till he could keep the temperature as low as 34 degrees or 40 degrees, and finally even 28 degrees; the bathroom and laboratory, of course, being less chilled, in order that water might not freeze, and that chemical processes might not be impeded. The tenant adjoining him complained of the icy air from around the connecting door, so I helped him fit heavy hangings to obviate the difficulty. A kind of growing horror, of outre and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but laughed hollowly when such things as the ungainly Palmyrene sculptures fashioned in the Roman manner. That others had recently noticed this belt of carving was hinted by the presence of a living water bird in such a direction – in a

I actually had to look up the name of the ship, because I have forgotten what it was. I guess that’s what happens when I pick some random name instead of coming up with one that has some special connection or meaning.

[sarcasm]Thanks to the OVERWHELMING number of people who pointed out the error that had been there for literally years[/sarcasm]

Anyway, I was viewing the story in its entirety and something occurred to me:

“Darker” is perhaps the darkest story I’ve ever written. It easily surpasses “December Nights II”, and either matches or exceeds “The Hanging Tree” in terms of evil and general “Now THAT’S Fucked-Up”-ness.

I remember a couple of times near the end of the story where I wondered if I was going too far. “The Hanging Tree” and “Darker” are the only two stories that I ever had those sorts of thoughts about. In both cases, the answer was along the lines of “Too far for WHO!?” This stuff comes from MY imagination, so who, exactly, is it supposedly too much for? Too much for the imagination that spawned it? I think that’s impossible. Too much for the readers? …maybe. But haven’t they already been warned?

It might not be so obvious, but I do engage in a fair amount of self-censorship. I always have. When I sit down to write a project, I make decisions about what level of violence and profanity will be in it, and if my plot outline calls for some sort of sex scene, I decide up front how explicit it will be long before I actually get to it. WHY I do this is best explained elsewhere, but for the Book of Dark Places I had decided that it would be anything goes except outright pornography. I started the project with the intention of exploring some very dark areas. Even still, I wondered if brutally raping a ghost for sheer vengeance was pushing things too far.

But then, that’s sort of what the story was ABOUT, wasn’t it? Pushing things too far?

Needless to say, I got over such thoughts and plunged ahead, ending up with a pretty good story. Aside from a few errors, some butt-ugly renders, and the way-too-obvious Hellraiser nod at the end, I wouldn’t change anything about that particular presentation. I DO wonder if I should have written it as a regular story, though. Who knows… maybe one day I will.

It’s turning into one of ‘those’ weeks. Twelve-hour days trying to make software work aren’t conducive to writing much of anything, and at the end of the day yesterday I could hardly see straight. I wrote this chapter on my lunch break when I could have been resting, working, or eating another nasty-ass sandwich. Or hell, even reading or listening to music to calm myself down. But I didn’t do any of that; I wrote instead.

Wanna know why?

I didn’t want to disappoint nate.

When writers say feedback is important, it’s not because they have big egos and just want to hear people say they like something. Feedback is incentive to keep going. It’s a form of payment, and often its the only payment a writer gets. Feedback is what makes the difference between spending an evening writing or spending it playing World of Warcraft, or just going to bed early. There are ALWAYS other things a writer could be doing with their time. They chose to write because something inside them urges them… in the general case. But on any specific day, at any specific time… for any specific chapter… that urge may often not be enough. Those ‘other things’ start looking pretty good. Not getting paid for any of that writing makes those other options look even better. Having someone waiting on your next piece of work makes a big difference in those cases. It keeps stories going that otherwise just fade away (again).

So, I’m not saying this is the best chapter I’ve ever written… but in THIS case, if you like it you shouldn’t thank me at all. Thank nate.

The reason I’m asking: NO, I am not going to make a movie, so just calm right on down. I’ve done my research. Getting a script accepted in the traditional way, with the treatments and the submissions and the re-writes, etc… is work. No, I mean WORK, work…. as in, you spend more time doing bullshit than you do actually writing the damn script… and then it doesn’t pay all that well. I know this already, and I refuse to play that game. HOWEVER, as I’ve said elsewhere, I’m always looking for new ways to tell a story (thus, the “Book of Dark Places”) and I’ve got a couple of old screenwriting books and some screenwriting software that I have never used. Might be fun to actually learn to do this thing. But I don’t want to take too much energy away from what I’m already doing, so I’d rather not have to think up something entirely new just to play around with. If I come up with a good enough product, maybe some internet-based content folks might be interested. Most likely I’ll just post it in the Library for comments.

Dirty little secret: This isn’t the first time I’ve had this idea. There used to be a script for a movie based on “A Little Evil” floating around somewhere on one of these hard drives. I’m 95% sure it doesn’t exist any more, or else I’d share it. The result of that experiment was a decent story, but wasn’t exactly in the “proper” format of a script. There was also a script for a science fiction story that I wrote years before. Again, a decent tale, but this time I was totally guessing at what a properly formatted script looked like. Neither script was suitable for a full-length movie, which was ironic considering that, back then, I actually WAS intending to get them produced.

So what do you think?

How to Beat Writer’s Block.

Way’s to Cure Writer’s Block.

10 Tips for Sufferer’s of Writer’s Block…etc…

I don’t get it.

No, really… I don’t get it. I’ve never had this so-called “writer’s block” and I’m having a very difficult time understand just what it is, how it happens, and why its such a big deal that everybody and their mother has to write about it. I don’t want to jinx myself and say that I never WILL suffer form a lack of creativity… but I honestly just do not understand the concept.

Not having enough TIME to write… I understand. Not having enough energy to write… I understand. Too many distractions and other obligations… been there/done that/still doing it.

Having nothing to write? That’s inconceivable to me. Trying to explain “Writer’s Block” to me is like trying to explain the concept of dehydration to a fish.

I’ve quite recently come to accept the fact that I will NEVER live long enough to write all the stories that I have stashed away in my notes and/or memory. Maybe you think I’m bragging or being some kind of egotistical asshole…. no. I literally have more ideas than I have time left to live. And yes, that is EXACTLY as depressing as it sounds. If I lived in a cave with all my needs taken care off and nothing to do but write and stay alive… I would still die with a stack of notes on my hard drive. I have no shortage of ideas. Given any specific idea, I have no shortage of ways I could implement it with characters and plotlines. No shortage of ways I could weave it into OTHER ideas that I’ve had before to create something larger. Writer’s Block? Please… I come up with an “epic storyline” every third day. Once a week, during a ‘slump’.

So maybe writer’s block is about the actual words. Have I ever sat down in front of my word processor and the words just weren’t there?

Yeah. Wanna know how I fixed that? Eight hours of sleep, followed by eight hours of work. Works every time. By the time that empty word-processor screen shows up again, I’ve got plenty to say. I may not have the TIME or the ENERGY, but the words are chomping at the bit and ready to go.

So I just don’t get it.

It’s not gross or gory, but it is certainly not for the overly-imaginative. Especially the bits at the end where they show other infected bugs and the narrator says “The more numerous a species becomes, the more likely it is to become a victim of this fungus.” (paraphrase) The images were spooky enough as it was without him saying THAT.

People ask me where ideas come from. Well… there ya go. I could SO write a story about that. Only in my version, the heads actually DO explode. And they’re not ants: they’re people.