My children often make me laugh, simply because of things they say or do or reactions they may have to things I say or do. My daughter, whom I write about a lot, often gets that chuckle out of me, even when she is in psycho mode, as she has been in today.
Ah, psycho mode. My daughter really hit it home today and I had to get on her a lot. I felt bad about it but there is only so much lip you can take from anyone, much less a child. But, that is really a story for another day.
The story for today in How My Children Scare Me is as follows:
Catherine and I were standing in the doorway of our bedroom. Well, I was in the doorway. She was in the bedroom. I said something, she remarked back.
“Woman, don’t make me come over there,” I said and pointed, jokingly, mind you.
She put her arms out and said, “Come on over here.”
She went all thug on me with the arm gestures and posturing. I started toward her and then stopped. We stood nose to nose and then it dawned on me: she was trying to provoke me into a wrestling match. Normally I would be all up for this, pun intended. But, there is something you need to know about the whole scenario that was about to play itself out: my two children are my wife’s henchmen.
Yes, you read right. My wife has her henchmen and they are seven and four years of age and vicious.
Catherine could be in the bedroom and I could be in the front room. She could laugh at a comment someone made on the phone and all of a sudden I hear one of my kids say, “Quick, Mommy’s in trouble.” The next thing you know Chloe and Logan run into the room where I am at and start wailing on me. I’m not talking love taps here, folks. I’m talking honest to goodness wailing, as if they were beating up someone their own size.
So as we stood toe to toe and I was about to pick her up and drop her to the bed in one of the Underwriter’s famous moves (inside joke, sorry folks for those who don’t know), it dawned on me. I started to chuckle.
“I know why you can be so confident in yourself right now and why you don’t back down but try to egg me on.”
“Why is that?” she said all innocent-like.
“Because all you have to do is laugh or scream out and they’ll come running.”
She smiled. “That’s right. Don’t forget it.”
Catherine made a fist at me and all I could do is shake my head and walk away.
Now, I’m sure some of you are saying, “what? Walk away?”
Yeah, I walked away. No, I’m not one to shy away from some good old wrestling with the wife. The truth is my children scare the living crap out of me. I am of the firm belief that they really are trying to hurt me when we wrestle. My son, Logan, doesn’t even call it wrestling. He yells out, “I’m gonna beat you up, Daddy,” before he tries to tackle me.
They head butt, folks.
They hit, folks.
They kick, folks.
My daughter even likes to pull hair.
To quote Linus Van Pelt: I’m doomed.
Once the little ones have a hold of me they can be vicious. And all the while, Catherine is usually laughing in the background.
And they say I’m the one who needs to be nicer to folks?
***
In writing news, I received my second rejection yesterday, this one from Shock Totem for a story I really want someone to pick up one day. But, that is okay because today I had a story accepted. This story may end up being the basis to something much longer. It is titled, “The Legend of Hollis Williams,” and I wrote it specifically for the website Six Sentences. What’s even better about this is that it goes live tomorrow!
So, check it out when you get a chance:
Six Sentences
That puts me at two acceptances for a 4% total of where I want to be at the end of the year. Remember, my goal is 50 publications THIS year.
***
On another note I have done pretty good with keeping my 1000 words a day pace going. As of yesterday I was sitting at 26,572 words in the first fifteen days of the year. That’s better than 11,000 words more than what I wanted at this point.
***
Though my story, The Woodshed, may not garner a full Stoker nomination I did receive word today that it got a second recommendation. Obviously, this made me feel good, but since we’re not supposed to lobby HWA members to read and recommend our stories for Stokers, it will more than likely fall short of the amount of recommendations needed to garner an out and out nomination.
At any rate, if you would like to read The Woodshed, you need to purchase Dark Distortions Volume I. It was put out by Scotopia Press and Molly Feese did a wonderful job of editing the story. She is one of those editors you just love to work with.
Check out Scotopia Press and Dark Distortions here:
Scotopia Press
***
And one final thought. When I was writing for NaNoWriMo someone posted a thread in a forum about a neat little website that helped them reach their goal of 1667 words per day, which is the minimum amount in order to reach 50,000 words in one month and consistently write every day.
The website is called Write Or Die.
I had completely forgotten about this website until the other day when I stumbled on it when looking for something else. I had a few minutes so I clicked on the site and then typed in that I wanted to type for 10 minutes. The pressure to write without stopping was intriguing since I like to stop and mess around in the middle of writing. Not for long, mind you, but only for a minute or two. I’ve actually stopped writing this three times since I sat down about fifteen minutes ago.
I typed and typed and then the timer went off and I kept on typing. I ended up typing for about twenty minutes and putting out 884 words. They may not have been the best quality of words but it did what I wanted it to do: forced me to write without stopping. Even though I only did it in the medium mode, I still felt the need to just type. It was like there was a gun pointing at me from inside the computer, warning me to write and not stop, lest I pay for it with a bullet to the brain. A zombie I am not so I don’t really have a reason to want a bullet to the brain, yah know?
If you want to check out Write or Die, look here:
Write or Die
Well, that’s it for now. Until next time, I’m AJ and I’m out.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Questions About the Homeless and An Update
I have a few questions today. I hope some of you who read this would take the time to answer them.
Something came up in our office yesterday and a story idea came to mind. I've pondered it since then and have been wondering what other people think about certain things dealing with the homeless.
I want HONEST answers. I posed these questions to a writing workshop today and got some pretty interesting replies.
1. When a homeless person approaches you on the street what do you do?
2. What do you think about the people who hold up signs like, Will Work For Food or Homeless, Please Help?
3. Do homeless or street people scare you? If so, why?
Remember, I really would like honest answers on this--it won't help my story if the majority of the answers are politically correct. Uggh, I can’t believe I actually wrote those two words.
***
Yesterday I received my first rejection of the young year. It wasn’t too disheartening since the editors gave some good feedback on it and I can see what they are saying. It is a place I will submit to again in the near future and a story I will be working on to make it better and send it back out.
With a rejection in the hip pocket I awaited other replies for the ten stories I have submitted since the first of the year.
Lo and behold, this evening I check my e-mail and see a second response to a submission. With trepidation, I opened it and read it. Yeah, I’m smiling now. My story, Sarah’s Playground, was accepted for the February edition of SNM Magazine. To quote my good friend, John Miller: YIPPIE.
That’s one down, forty-nine to go. So, that’s what, 2% of the way to my goal?
***
My daily word count has been going well. Here it is, the thirteenth of January and I sit at a little over 21,000 words for the month. That’s 8,000 words over my daily goal. I’m pleased with that but the year is still very early and things tend to change. Hopefully, the enthusiasm won’t wane in the coming months.
***
I want to wish my older brother, Larry, a happy birthday. Tomorrow (January 14) is his fortieth birthday. Congratulations on making it this far.
***
Sorry to say I don’t have any humorous stories of my children tonight. Well, I do, but I’m pretty tired and I am heading to bed shortly. Tune in next time for another episode of How My Children Scare Me.
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.
Something came up in our office yesterday and a story idea came to mind. I've pondered it since then and have been wondering what other people think about certain things dealing with the homeless.
I want HONEST answers. I posed these questions to a writing workshop today and got some pretty interesting replies.
1. When a homeless person approaches you on the street what do you do?
2. What do you think about the people who hold up signs like, Will Work For Food or Homeless, Please Help?
3. Do homeless or street people scare you? If so, why?
Remember, I really would like honest answers on this--it won't help my story if the majority of the answers are politically correct. Uggh, I can’t believe I actually wrote those two words.
***
Yesterday I received my first rejection of the young year. It wasn’t too disheartening since the editors gave some good feedback on it and I can see what they are saying. It is a place I will submit to again in the near future and a story I will be working on to make it better and send it back out.
With a rejection in the hip pocket I awaited other replies for the ten stories I have submitted since the first of the year.
Lo and behold, this evening I check my e-mail and see a second response to a submission. With trepidation, I opened it and read it. Yeah, I’m smiling now. My story, Sarah’s Playground, was accepted for the February edition of SNM Magazine. To quote my good friend, John Miller: YIPPIE.
That’s one down, forty-nine to go. So, that’s what, 2% of the way to my goal?
***
My daily word count has been going well. Here it is, the thirteenth of January and I sit at a little over 21,000 words for the month. That’s 8,000 words over my daily goal. I’m pleased with that but the year is still very early and things tend to change. Hopefully, the enthusiasm won’t wane in the coming months.
***
I want to wish my older brother, Larry, a happy birthday. Tomorrow (January 14) is his fortieth birthday. Congratulations on making it this far.
***
Sorry to say I don’t have any humorous stories of my children tonight. Well, I do, but I’m pretty tired and I am heading to bed shortly. Tune in next time for another episode of How My Children Scare Me.
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
An Old Friend and Hubba Bubba Bubblegum
On Thursday an old friend from my childhood called me up. His name is Tony and he lives in Raleigh now. He tells me he is coming to town this weekend. Unfortunately, his uncle had passed away and he would be coming to town for the funeral.
“Let’s get together,” he said.
I agreed.
So, tonight I went out to dinner with who I would consider to be one of my life long friends. We ate wings, watched the Ravens beat the Titans (YAY!) and talked. We did some reminiscing but not as much as I thought we might. Instead, we talked about the here and now, our lives as they are today.
It was a good conversation. It felt like old times, sort of. It’s odd, you know, seeing someone you have always been close to and not missing a beat, as if we still lived two houses down from each other. But, really, that’s the way it supposed to be with friends. Time may pass and miles may separate, but that bond has always been there.
Tony and I met when we were around nine or so. I believe he was nine and I was ten at the time. He was the first black kid on our street and we bonded instantly. From that day forth we were rarely apart, on through our high school days.
Tony reminded me of something that I had never forgotten but warmed me to hear it. Neither of our families were what you would consider well off. Not by any standards. I guess that’s what makes these old memories so special.
“Do you remember how we would walk to school and we would stop off and by that bubble gum?”
“Hubba Bubba bubble gum,” I said. “Never forget it.”
He flashed that brilliant smile that made many a female’s heart pitter-patter. “Yeah, Hubba Bubba bubblegum.”
“Even though I didn’t have much money, you always said, I got you, man.”
I chuckled. You know that memory chuckle?
“You remember in high school how we would catch the city bus and we would stop and get biscuits. Sometimes I wouldn’t be able to get one and you would say I got you, man?”
“Yeah, those were great biscuits.”
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said and he set a football jersey on the table—a Steve Smith jersey.
Wow. That’s all I could say. Well, that and thank you.
We talked some more, recalling some brief things about our childhood friendship. Then we started talking football. Yeah, two men together eating wings, it’s bound to happen. But, it felt so right.
We talked about Uncle Bulldog and a little about his life. We talked about another friend of ours who died on Tuesday. He was only 38. We talked about my family and his family and I knew when he dropped me off tonight I would miss him dearly.
And I do.
Tomorrow Tony’s family will lay to rest Uncle Bulldog and the he will head back to Raleigh. We will go about our lives as usual. But, I know I will miss him a little more now. You see, time never slows. His dad is seventy and his mother is sixty-three. My parents are both in their early sixties as well. Years have passed and we’ve grown older, had children, pursued dreams. And Tony is still one of my two closest friends. The other one is another friend from school—Keith. He lives three blocks from me and we work together.
I sit here at this computer and I type this meager piece about our friendship and my mind is rushing back to the past recalling the Hubba Bubba bubblegum, the pick-up football and basketball games, taking about girls, riding the bus together; those great biscuits, hanging out at his house with his mom, Pinky Mae and his brothers and sisters, talking trash about his Cowboys and whatever team I happen to be pulling for at the time, music and jokes and just good old times.
Good old times? Yeah, that’s what they were. Yeah, we had our share of rough times. I venture to say, as our parents get older, we will have a few more. I’m not looking forward to that.
This is one of those times I’m not really sure how to end something. There are so many things I could write, but I don’t think there is enough space to put it all. So, I’ll leave by saying these things:
Cherish each day, each person you love. In the blink of an eye time catches up to you and you’re wondering what happened to it.
To Uncle Bulldog and Chico Davis, we will miss you and may God bless you in your journey home.
To Tony, thank you for always being there, always being my friend and I miss you.
To my other family, Pinky Mae, Janice, Shirley, John, Don and Hoghead (don’t ask), may God bless you and keep you.
And, for you, the reader who took the time to read this sentimentality of mine, thank you. For, without you, I would have no real reasons to write, would I?
I’m AJ and I’m going to go see if I can find some Hubba Bubba bubblegum. Until next time, I’m out.
“Let’s get together,” he said.
I agreed.
So, tonight I went out to dinner with who I would consider to be one of my life long friends. We ate wings, watched the Ravens beat the Titans (YAY!) and talked. We did some reminiscing but not as much as I thought we might. Instead, we talked about the here and now, our lives as they are today.
It was a good conversation. It felt like old times, sort of. It’s odd, you know, seeing someone you have always been close to and not missing a beat, as if we still lived two houses down from each other. But, really, that’s the way it supposed to be with friends. Time may pass and miles may separate, but that bond has always been there.
Tony and I met when we were around nine or so. I believe he was nine and I was ten at the time. He was the first black kid on our street and we bonded instantly. From that day forth we were rarely apart, on through our high school days.
Tony reminded me of something that I had never forgotten but warmed me to hear it. Neither of our families were what you would consider well off. Not by any standards. I guess that’s what makes these old memories so special.
“Do you remember how we would walk to school and we would stop off and by that bubble gum?”
“Hubba Bubba bubble gum,” I said. “Never forget it.”
He flashed that brilliant smile that made many a female’s heart pitter-patter. “Yeah, Hubba Bubba bubblegum.”
“Even though I didn’t have much money, you always said, I got you, man.”
I chuckled. You know that memory chuckle?
“You remember in high school how we would catch the city bus and we would stop and get biscuits. Sometimes I wouldn’t be able to get one and you would say I got you, man?”
“Yeah, those were great biscuits.”
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said and he set a football jersey on the table—a Steve Smith jersey.
Wow. That’s all I could say. Well, that and thank you.
We talked some more, recalling some brief things about our childhood friendship. Then we started talking football. Yeah, two men together eating wings, it’s bound to happen. But, it felt so right.
We talked about Uncle Bulldog and a little about his life. We talked about another friend of ours who died on Tuesday. He was only 38. We talked about my family and his family and I knew when he dropped me off tonight I would miss him dearly.
And I do.
Tomorrow Tony’s family will lay to rest Uncle Bulldog and the he will head back to Raleigh. We will go about our lives as usual. But, I know I will miss him a little more now. You see, time never slows. His dad is seventy and his mother is sixty-three. My parents are both in their early sixties as well. Years have passed and we’ve grown older, had children, pursued dreams. And Tony is still one of my two closest friends. The other one is another friend from school—Keith. He lives three blocks from me and we work together.
I sit here at this computer and I type this meager piece about our friendship and my mind is rushing back to the past recalling the Hubba Bubba bubblegum, the pick-up football and basketball games, taking about girls, riding the bus together; those great biscuits, hanging out at his house with his mom, Pinky Mae and his brothers and sisters, talking trash about his Cowboys and whatever team I happen to be pulling for at the time, music and jokes and just good old times.
Good old times? Yeah, that’s what they were. Yeah, we had our share of rough times. I venture to say, as our parents get older, we will have a few more. I’m not looking forward to that.
This is one of those times I’m not really sure how to end something. There are so many things I could write, but I don’t think there is enough space to put it all. So, I’ll leave by saying these things:
Cherish each day, each person you love. In the blink of an eye time catches up to you and you’re wondering what happened to it.
To Uncle Bulldog and Chico Davis, we will miss you and may God bless you in your journey home.
To Tony, thank you for always being there, always being my friend and I miss you.
To my other family, Pinky Mae, Janice, Shirley, John, Don and Hoghead (don’t ask), may God bless you and keep you.
And, for you, the reader who took the time to read this sentimentality of mine, thank you. For, without you, I would have no real reasons to write, would I?
I’m AJ and I’m going to go see if I can find some Hubba Bubba bubblegum. Until next time, I’m out.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Go Ahead and Smile and Other Thoughts
I really don’t like to smile that often. It’s been that way for a long time—back since I was in my teens or so. This is a problem. You see, I made that resolution to be a kinder gentler Jeff—even if no one thinks I can do it—and I plan on giving it my best effort.
My friend, Chris Perridas, suggested that I smile more, that it actually can affect my attitude and the folks around me as well. So, I thought about it and decided to give it a go.
I walked down the hall this morning and smiled at one of the ladies as I passed her desk. And, yah know what happened? She frowned. She looked at me like I had lost my mind, like I was just a little on the nuts-o side of things. I felt like Wednesday Adams all of a sudden. You know that scene in the movie, Adams Family Values where she is forced to smile and it scared everyone in the camp? Yup, that’s what I felt like.
I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. If I’m going to scare people when I smile, well maybe I shouldn’t do it that often after all.
The good thing is I’m still not being negative about things and I’m still trying to be . . . gasp . . . nice.
Stay tuned.
***
On to other things.
My son likes to wake me up in the mornings—especially on Saturdays, the only day I get to sleep until it’s daylight. He crawls up in the bed between Catherine and myself.
“Hey, Daddy,” he says and smacks me in the head. “Daddy, I want to get up. Can you get up? Can you play with me? Can I have some drink? Daddy. Daddy, get up.”
I usually open one eye and look at the smiling face that is inches from my head.
“Hey, little buddy, lay down and go back to sleep.”
I usually try to get him to lie down between us but that doesn’t work.
“Daddy, come on. Get up.”
He crawls out the bed and tugs on my foot.
“Logan, wake your momma up.”
“No,” he says and lets go of my foot.
“Why not?”
“I scared to.”
Though I’ve heard this dozens of times it always gets me. “What?”
“I scared to wake Mommy up.”
“Why?”
“She’ll get mad.”
I usually sit up at this. “Are you afraid to wake Daddy up?”
“No,” he says but he doesn’t just say no. He says “Nooooooooooooo.”
Yeah, he drags it out like I’ve just asked him a dumb question. So, what do I do? I get up.
I tell you this because I’m the one who took the initiative to try and become kinder and gentler and my son is afraid to wake up his mother. What’s up with that?
***
On the writing front I have subbed out eight stories since the first and have hopes for each one. Now, just to sit back and wait for the responses. Fingers crossed and all.
The writing is coming along nicely as well. I wanted to write one thousand words a day and so far I sit at 15167 and counting. I should finish up a six thousand word story tomorrow and I have a few other things I want to get started in the next few days.
I haven’t started back on the novel yet, but I’m going to soon.
Okay, I’m done for now—the Bull Crap System game is about to start back and I’m pulling for Florida. Though I’m not a big fan of the Gators, I do like Tim Tebow. I’ve been pulling for the Florida Tebows in this one.
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.
My friend, Chris Perridas, suggested that I smile more, that it actually can affect my attitude and the folks around me as well. So, I thought about it and decided to give it a go.
I walked down the hall this morning and smiled at one of the ladies as I passed her desk. And, yah know what happened? She frowned. She looked at me like I had lost my mind, like I was just a little on the nuts-o side of things. I felt like Wednesday Adams all of a sudden. You know that scene in the movie, Adams Family Values where she is forced to smile and it scared everyone in the camp? Yup, that’s what I felt like.
I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. If I’m going to scare people when I smile, well maybe I shouldn’t do it that often after all.
The good thing is I’m still not being negative about things and I’m still trying to be . . . gasp . . . nice.
Stay tuned.
***
On to other things.
My son likes to wake me up in the mornings—especially on Saturdays, the only day I get to sleep until it’s daylight. He crawls up in the bed between Catherine and myself.
“Hey, Daddy,” he says and smacks me in the head. “Daddy, I want to get up. Can you get up? Can you play with me? Can I have some drink? Daddy. Daddy, get up.”
I usually open one eye and look at the smiling face that is inches from my head.
“Hey, little buddy, lay down and go back to sleep.”
I usually try to get him to lie down between us but that doesn’t work.
“Daddy, come on. Get up.”
He crawls out the bed and tugs on my foot.
“Logan, wake your momma up.”
“No,” he says and lets go of my foot.
“Why not?”
“I scared to.”
Though I’ve heard this dozens of times it always gets me. “What?”
“I scared to wake Mommy up.”
“Why?”
“She’ll get mad.”
I usually sit up at this. “Are you afraid to wake Daddy up?”
“No,” he says but he doesn’t just say no. He says “Nooooooooooooo.”
Yeah, he drags it out like I’ve just asked him a dumb question. So, what do I do? I get up.
I tell you this because I’m the one who took the initiative to try and become kinder and gentler and my son is afraid to wake up his mother. What’s up with that?
***
On the writing front I have subbed out eight stories since the first and have hopes for each one. Now, just to sit back and wait for the responses. Fingers crossed and all.
The writing is coming along nicely as well. I wanted to write one thousand words a day and so far I sit at 15167 and counting. I should finish up a six thousand word story tomorrow and I have a few other things I want to get started in the next few days.
I haven’t started back on the novel yet, but I’m going to soon.
Okay, I’m done for now—the Bull Crap System game is about to start back and I’m pulling for Florida. Though I’m not a big fan of the Gators, I do like Tim Tebow. I’ve been pulling for the Florida Tebows in this one.
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The New Year and A Few Resolutions That I Won't Keep
Let’s start the year off on the right foot: HAPPY NEW YEAR to all you folks out there.
It’s been a while, I know, but a lot has been going on and I haven’t been posting as much as I should. I know. I know. Bad, bad AJ. But, hey, it’s life and it is what it is, right?
Okay, here we go. It is January 5th—the first Monday of the New Year. I’ve set for myself some goals with my writing and would like to share them to all of the three people who read my posts. I set goals every year but these are a bit different. They are a little tougher and will make me work harder if I want to reach them.
Here they are in no specific order:
1) I want to write 1000 words a day. Every day. Yeah, that one might be tough. If you do the math that’s 365,000 words this year. Personally, I think that is attainable. For an update on that: So far this year (all of 5 days), I’ve written 4 flash stories and 2 short stories, which equals a little over 8000 words so far.
Now, just to keep that enthusiasm and pace…
2) I want to publish 50 stories this year. Yeah, that’s a LOT and that may be a little tougher, considering the most stories I’ve ever published in one year is 27. But, I’m thinking positive here and setting the sights kind of high on purpose.
3) I want to get paid more this year than last year for my stories. I have a goal of 500 bucks, which isn’t a lot but when you consider the small press, it’s a bunch.
4) Here is the part that may be toughest of all for me: I want to branch out more. I want to write some things that are not horror related. I’m already breaking a sweat on this one. That nervous tick is coming back and I’m grinding my teeth.
5) Finish the novel I started for NaNoWriMo. I reached the word count easily enough but I haven’t really worked on it since reaching the goal. The story is too good not to finish.
And then there is the final goal for this year: To write more blogs and network a little better than in the past. That includes these little pieces like the one I am writing now.
Okay, if you have read this far, I would like to point out my personal New Year’s resolution, which I almost blew on the first day.
Catherine, my lovely wife, and I were talking and I said to her, “Hey, Babe,” (Yeah, that’s what I call my wife), “I think I’m going to try and be a kinder, gentler Jeff this year.” For those not in the know, the J in AJ stands for Jefferson but I go by Jeff. Don’t call me Jeffery or Jeffy. It might get you—oh wait, I almost blew it again.
“Really? Again?” Catherine said as she stirred her coffee full of creamer that could put hair on your chest, but thankfully, not hers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, feigning that I was wounded by her two words.
“Didn’t you try to be nice before?”
“Well, yeah, but that was a while back.”
“Okay.”
“What? You don’t think I can do it?”
She didn’t really answer the question, per say, but she did say, “Well, I heard you tell Keith that a couple of years ago and he started laughing at you.” She gave me one of her pretty smiles. I think she was trying not to laugh at me.
“Yeah, but that was a few years ago.”
“Okay, if you think you can do it.”
At this point I am waiting for her to say something like, I will support you or back you up on this, but NO, that never came. Just, “Okay, if you think you can do it.”
“You don’t think I can, do you?”
She glanced at me. It was one of those looks that said everything. No, she doesn’t believe I can do it.
“You see, this is why I can’t do it. No one believes I can be a kinder, gentler Jeff. This is why I don’t make it past the first day.”
After that she was laughing, but I think it was one of those, ‘you’re pathetic’ laughs.
I walked away. And, as I sit here now, my muse on my shoulder whispering in my ear and rubbing his hands together, I have decided to use this disbelief as motivation. It’s bulletin board material, folks, and if I cared to use Facebook I would put it on the bulletin board there. But, I don’t care to use Facebook that often so I’ll just post it on my forehead and look in the mirror each morning.
By the way, I haven’t blown it yet and I’m five days in. I think the excessive writing has a lot to do with that.
Okay, I am finished running my mouth or fingers, depending on how you look at it. Until next time—and there will be a next time—I am AJ and I’m out.
It’s been a while, I know, but a lot has been going on and I haven’t been posting as much as I should. I know. I know. Bad, bad AJ. But, hey, it’s life and it is what it is, right?
Okay, here we go. It is January 5th—the first Monday of the New Year. I’ve set for myself some goals with my writing and would like to share them to all of the three people who read my posts. I set goals every year but these are a bit different. They are a little tougher and will make me work harder if I want to reach them.
Here they are in no specific order:
1) I want to write 1000 words a day. Every day. Yeah, that one might be tough. If you do the math that’s 365,000 words this year. Personally, I think that is attainable. For an update on that: So far this year (all of 5 days), I’ve written 4 flash stories and 2 short stories, which equals a little over 8000 words so far.
Now, just to keep that enthusiasm and pace…
2) I want to publish 50 stories this year. Yeah, that’s a LOT and that may be a little tougher, considering the most stories I’ve ever published in one year is 27. But, I’m thinking positive here and setting the sights kind of high on purpose.
3) I want to get paid more this year than last year for my stories. I have a goal of 500 bucks, which isn’t a lot but when you consider the small press, it’s a bunch.
4) Here is the part that may be toughest of all for me: I want to branch out more. I want to write some things that are not horror related. I’m already breaking a sweat on this one. That nervous tick is coming back and I’m grinding my teeth.
5) Finish the novel I started for NaNoWriMo. I reached the word count easily enough but I haven’t really worked on it since reaching the goal. The story is too good not to finish.
And then there is the final goal for this year: To write more blogs and network a little better than in the past. That includes these little pieces like the one I am writing now.
Okay, if you have read this far, I would like to point out my personal New Year’s resolution, which I almost blew on the first day.
Catherine, my lovely wife, and I were talking and I said to her, “Hey, Babe,” (Yeah, that’s what I call my wife), “I think I’m going to try and be a kinder, gentler Jeff this year.” For those not in the know, the J in AJ stands for Jefferson but I go by Jeff. Don’t call me Jeffery or Jeffy. It might get you—oh wait, I almost blew it again.
“Really? Again?” Catherine said as she stirred her coffee full of creamer that could put hair on your chest, but thankfully, not hers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, feigning that I was wounded by her two words.
“Didn’t you try to be nice before?”
“Well, yeah, but that was a while back.”
“Okay.”
“What? You don’t think I can do it?”
She didn’t really answer the question, per say, but she did say, “Well, I heard you tell Keith that a couple of years ago and he started laughing at you.” She gave me one of her pretty smiles. I think she was trying not to laugh at me.
“Yeah, but that was a few years ago.”
“Okay, if you think you can do it.”
At this point I am waiting for her to say something like, I will support you or back you up on this, but NO, that never came. Just, “Okay, if you think you can do it.”
“You don’t think I can, do you?”
She glanced at me. It was one of those looks that said everything. No, she doesn’t believe I can do it.
“You see, this is why I can’t do it. No one believes I can be a kinder, gentler Jeff. This is why I don’t make it past the first day.”
After that she was laughing, but I think it was one of those, ‘you’re pathetic’ laughs.
I walked away. And, as I sit here now, my muse on my shoulder whispering in my ear and rubbing his hands together, I have decided to use this disbelief as motivation. It’s bulletin board material, folks, and if I cared to use Facebook I would put it on the bulletin board there. But, I don’t care to use Facebook that often so I’ll just post it on my forehead and look in the mirror each morning.
By the way, I haven’t blown it yet and I’m five days in. I think the excessive writing has a lot to do with that.
Okay, I am finished running my mouth or fingers, depending on how you look at it. Until next time—and there will be a next time—I am AJ and I’m out.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Starting Them Young
Thanksgiving. What a blast. I love the food and the fun. It is, for the most part, a wonderful time each year. But, it is not necessarily Thanksgiving that I wish to talk to you all about today.
Today I would like to talk about the day before Thanksgiving or Thanksgiving Eve. Yeah, it’s lame. I know. More specifically, I want to talk about something that happened this Thanksgiving Eve.
Before I go into that I would like to tell you about one of my daughter’s favorite things to do. She likes to walk through the house talking in an automated-type voice. She says, “I am a robot and I am here to disturb you.” Keep that in mind while you read. That statement, in and of itself, is disturbing.
Now, onto Thanksgiving Eve.
Upon arriving home on Wednesday my children went outside and I went in to the kitchen where my wife, Catherine, was preparing the turkey—her first. I’m sure she’ll remember her first time. Ba-dum-bum. Come on guys. Cut me some slack.
I looked out the kitchen window and what do I see? Guess. Okay, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. I saw my seven-year-old daughter digging a hole with my shovel.
“What is she doing?” I asked my wife and then proceeded to head outside. I stopped near my daughter, mindful of how wide she was swinging the shovel as she tossed the dirt around the yard. “Chloe, can you put my shovel up?”
“I’m digging a hole, Daddy.”
“I know that, Sweetheart—I don’t want holes in the middle of the yard. So, let’s put the shovel away.”
She stopped digging long enough to look up at me and say, “Daddy, this is my grave yard and I’m digging graves for my animals.”
I stood silent for a minute as she went back to digging her hole—she actually did a really good job with it, too. Finally, I turned around and walked away, not sure what else to say at that moment. I went inside, no longer interested in the turkey but more preoccupied with staring out the window at my daughter and son.
“So, why is she digging holes?” Catherine asked.
“She’s not digging holes—they’re graves. And have you seen Pouncer?”
“Umm . . . no,” she said.
Pouncer, by the way, is our cat of eight years. I stood at the window as Chloe dug holes and my son, Logan, who is three, stood near her. After each hole was dug Chloe placed an animal shaped sand toy in each one. Logan then covered the animals and patted them down with the shovel while Chloe searched out bricks from a fire pit Catherine had made so we could roast marshmallows outside.
“Our back yard is turning into a toy graveyard,” I said as my wife seasoned the turkey.
Finally, Logan grew tired of planting toys in the ground and he said, “I’m done.” He came inside and my daughter finished the chore at hand. I walked outside and stood near the center of the yard. There were small mounds all over. Bricks sat either on or by the mounds. My daughter was placing her last brick in place.
“Hello, sir,” she said to me. “Would you like to take a tour of my pet cemetery?”
Just for the record, there is a difference between a regular every day tour and a grand tour. As my daughter has informed me, a tour is just where someone shows you things you can’t touch. A grand tour is where you can touch the items and do all sorts of fun things.
“Sure, I’ll take the tour of your pet cemetery.”
She takes me by the hand like a morbid mortician and leads me along a path of blocks and mounds. She told me which animals were in which graves.
“This one is a flamingo. That is a penguin. That is a seahorse. Over there is a lion and her baby. Poor baby.”
We came to the end of the tour and I looked down at my daughter in something that I guess was amazement. It may have been shock, but I am not sure. I do know one thing is certain, if she would have done her robot voice she would have succeeded in disturbing me.
“That is . . . very interesting . . . Sweetheart.” It was all I could think to say at the moment.
Chloe looked up at me with her eyes bright and her smile beaming from ear to ear. “Come back anytime, Sir—I’m always burying something.”
Honey, have you seen Pouncer?
Today I would like to talk about the day before Thanksgiving or Thanksgiving Eve. Yeah, it’s lame. I know. More specifically, I want to talk about something that happened this Thanksgiving Eve.
Before I go into that I would like to tell you about one of my daughter’s favorite things to do. She likes to walk through the house talking in an automated-type voice. She says, “I am a robot and I am here to disturb you.” Keep that in mind while you read. That statement, in and of itself, is disturbing.
Now, onto Thanksgiving Eve.
Upon arriving home on Wednesday my children went outside and I went in to the kitchen where my wife, Catherine, was preparing the turkey—her first. I’m sure she’ll remember her first time. Ba-dum-bum. Come on guys. Cut me some slack.
I looked out the kitchen window and what do I see? Guess. Okay, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. I saw my seven-year-old daughter digging a hole with my shovel.
“What is she doing?” I asked my wife and then proceeded to head outside. I stopped near my daughter, mindful of how wide she was swinging the shovel as she tossed the dirt around the yard. “Chloe, can you put my shovel up?”
“I’m digging a hole, Daddy.”
“I know that, Sweetheart—I don’t want holes in the middle of the yard. So, let’s put the shovel away.”
She stopped digging long enough to look up at me and say, “Daddy, this is my grave yard and I’m digging graves for my animals.”
I stood silent for a minute as she went back to digging her hole—she actually did a really good job with it, too. Finally, I turned around and walked away, not sure what else to say at that moment. I went inside, no longer interested in the turkey but more preoccupied with staring out the window at my daughter and son.
“So, why is she digging holes?” Catherine asked.
“She’s not digging holes—they’re graves. And have you seen Pouncer?”
“Umm . . . no,” she said.
Pouncer, by the way, is our cat of eight years. I stood at the window as Chloe dug holes and my son, Logan, who is three, stood near her. After each hole was dug Chloe placed an animal shaped sand toy in each one. Logan then covered the animals and patted them down with the shovel while Chloe searched out bricks from a fire pit Catherine had made so we could roast marshmallows outside.
“Our back yard is turning into a toy graveyard,” I said as my wife seasoned the turkey.
Finally, Logan grew tired of planting toys in the ground and he said, “I’m done.” He came inside and my daughter finished the chore at hand. I walked outside and stood near the center of the yard. There were small mounds all over. Bricks sat either on or by the mounds. My daughter was placing her last brick in place.
“Hello, sir,” she said to me. “Would you like to take a tour of my pet cemetery?”
Just for the record, there is a difference between a regular every day tour and a grand tour. As my daughter has informed me, a tour is just where someone shows you things you can’t touch. A grand tour is where you can touch the items and do all sorts of fun things.
“Sure, I’ll take the tour of your pet cemetery.”
She takes me by the hand like a morbid mortician and leads me along a path of blocks and mounds. She told me which animals were in which graves.
“This one is a flamingo. That is a penguin. That is a seahorse. Over there is a lion and her baby. Poor baby.”
We came to the end of the tour and I looked down at my daughter in something that I guess was amazement. It may have been shock, but I am not sure. I do know one thing is certain, if she would have done her robot voice she would have succeeded in disturbing me.
“That is . . . very interesting . . . Sweetheart.” It was all I could think to say at the moment.
Chloe looked up at me with her eyes bright and her smile beaming from ear to ear. “Come back anytime, Sir—I’m always burying something.”
Honey, have you seen Pouncer?
Thursday, October 23, 2008
A Miserable Lot of Complainers We Are
Writers. We're a miserable lot.
It's true. We are. We moan and groan and complain and whine. It's what we do best. Well, other than write, that is.
We complain about the publishing world and form rejects. We complain about why people won't read our stories. We complain about markets going under. We complain about long waits and then complain when we finally hear back from a publication we have so impatiently waited on.
We complain about editing and rewrites. We complain when someone says you should workshop your stories. We complain when an editor actually takes the time to give out constructive criticism instead of sending that aforementioned form rejection. And, why? Because it wasn't what we wanted to hear.
Do you see a theme here?
Wait. It gets better.
We complain about a lack of originality but then don't do anything about it in our own writing. We complain about copycat writers but then turn around and copy them.
We complain about writer's block and them bemoan people when they tell us how they get out of that horrid gray area in most writers' lives.
We complain about guidelines. Double space or single space? Justified or ragged or tabbed? Do we have to use William Shunn's template for submitting stories? (No, but I recommend it—it truly has the professional appearance.) Bios or no bios? Contact information with the introductory letter or on the first page of the story? Headers? Funny—we complain about these things but then don't follow the guidelines, get rejected and then complain about why we got rejected.
Nag. Nag. Nag.
You see, writers are a truly miserable lot. And we love the company. So, let's go complain to all of our writer friends. Or anyone who will listen for that matter.
But, wait. There's more.
The biggest complaint I have heard recently is, believe it or not: How did that person get published? I write better than that person. I can't believe he/she got accepted and I didn't.
Oh, my head hurts.
What gives, people? Seriously. What gives?
Here's some advice from your Uncle AJ. Stop complaining. It doesn't get you anywhere and it makes people want to avoid you. Seriously. Stop complaining. To add to that, stop comparing yourselves to other writers. You are YOU—not King, Barker, Ketchum or Wilson. If you want to write like them, by all means, do so, but please, stop complaining when you can't capture their style. You HPL fans—he's hard to emulate, but it can be done. However, if it doesn't add up, don't whine about it. Try again. And KEEP trying, if that is what you wish to do or how you wish to write.
I like to view comparing ourselves to other writers in a similar way that Rick Warren views ministry. Bear with me here for a second and don't turn away.
"There are two reasons why you should never compare your shape, ministry or the results of your ministry with anyone else. First, you will always be able to find someone who seems to be doing a better job than you and you will become discouraged. Or you will always be able to find someone who doesn't seem as effective and you will get full of pride. Either attitude will take you out of service and rob you of your joy."
--Rick Warren
A Purpose Driven Life
Okay, now listen to me for a second. If you take the above quote and apply it to your writing then you may get more out of it than you think. For the longest time I wanted to write like—you guessed it—Stephen King. But, you know, I'm just not King. I am me. I write like me. It's that simple.
A couple of years ago I really sucked. I mean sucked big time. I had great ideas but when I put them to paper the stories were essentially ruined. Getting published was not even close to a reality.
After some long, thoughtful soul searching, I figured out that by trying to be like King I was actually hurting myself. Then I set out to discover if writing was something I wanted to pursue. There are so many great writers, both professional and amateur and I wondered if I even had a prayer in the market world. Again, I was comparing myself with others. No. No. No. No.
When I decided to be me and learn about the craft of writing I started to grow. I started to get that feeling that the stories don't suck half as bad as they used to. Now, the stories only suck about a third as bad as they used to. I'm happy about that.
There is always going to be writers out there that are better than me. Always. There are always going to be writers out there who are better than you. There's no need to get discouraged about that. There is this gentleman I know who is a much better writer than I am and every time I read one of his stories I think, 'Wow, this guy is good.' That gentleman is Ian Rogers. If you haven't heard of him, you are truly missing out. Look him up. But, I don't let that discourage me. In fact, I analyze a lot of his writing and look at the things at which he is very good at. Some of those things I apply to my own writing. It's a way of learning for me. Ian is just one example of someone who I KNOW is a better writer than I am. There are many, many, many more.
Ah . . . but there are those people I feel I write better than they do. But, I never say it or really think about it. Instead, I like to try and help them in the manner that I have been helped. Encouraging them, pointing out things that I have seen in my own writing that I see in theirs. It's amazing to see some of these people blossom right before my eyes. It's amazing to see them take to something and really work it until they get it right. They do NOT complain. As a matter of fact, one of these guys lets out a Yahoo or a Yippee every time he is rejected. His enthusiasm is contagious and his writing has improved ten fold in the less than a year I have known him. And that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with him, his drive, determination, enthusiasm and willingness to constantly get better and better with each passing story.
Most of those folks are better writers than I am now!
What does it all boil down to? It's simple. Complaining isn't going to get you anywhere in the world of writing. Writing will get you where you want to go. Working on writing will get you where you want to go. An enthusiastic attitude will get you there. Not so much, however, complaining.
As I said before: Writer's are a miserable lot. We really are. But, if we stop complaining about the state of things in the writing community and start doing something about it, then maybe we wouldn't be so darn miserable.
For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.
It's true. We are. We moan and groan and complain and whine. It's what we do best. Well, other than write, that is.
We complain about the publishing world and form rejects. We complain about why people won't read our stories. We complain about markets going under. We complain about long waits and then complain when we finally hear back from a publication we have so impatiently waited on.
We complain about editing and rewrites. We complain when someone says you should workshop your stories. We complain when an editor actually takes the time to give out constructive criticism instead of sending that aforementioned form rejection. And, why? Because it wasn't what we wanted to hear.
Do you see a theme here?
Wait. It gets better.
We complain about a lack of originality but then don't do anything about it in our own writing. We complain about copycat writers but then turn around and copy them.
We complain about writer's block and them bemoan people when they tell us how they get out of that horrid gray area in most writers' lives.
We complain about guidelines. Double space or single space? Justified or ragged or tabbed? Do we have to use William Shunn's template for submitting stories? (No, but I recommend it—it truly has the professional appearance.) Bios or no bios? Contact information with the introductory letter or on the first page of the story? Headers? Funny—we complain about these things but then don't follow the guidelines, get rejected and then complain about why we got rejected.
Nag. Nag. Nag.
You see, writers are a truly miserable lot. And we love the company. So, let's go complain to all of our writer friends. Or anyone who will listen for that matter.
But, wait. There's more.
The biggest complaint I have heard recently is, believe it or not: How did that person get published? I write better than that person. I can't believe he/she got accepted and I didn't.
Oh, my head hurts.
What gives, people? Seriously. What gives?
Here's some advice from your Uncle AJ. Stop complaining. It doesn't get you anywhere and it makes people want to avoid you. Seriously. Stop complaining. To add to that, stop comparing yourselves to other writers. You are YOU—not King, Barker, Ketchum or Wilson. If you want to write like them, by all means, do so, but please, stop complaining when you can't capture their style. You HPL fans—he's hard to emulate, but it can be done. However, if it doesn't add up, don't whine about it. Try again. And KEEP trying, if that is what you wish to do or how you wish to write.
I like to view comparing ourselves to other writers in a similar way that Rick Warren views ministry. Bear with me here for a second and don't turn away.
"There are two reasons why you should never compare your shape, ministry or the results of your ministry with anyone else. First, you will always be able to find someone who seems to be doing a better job than you and you will become discouraged. Or you will always be able to find someone who doesn't seem as effective and you will get full of pride. Either attitude will take you out of service and rob you of your joy."
--Rick Warren
A Purpose Driven Life
Okay, now listen to me for a second. If you take the above quote and apply it to your writing then you may get more out of it than you think. For the longest time I wanted to write like—you guessed it—Stephen King. But, you know, I'm just not King. I am me. I write like me. It's that simple.
A couple of years ago I really sucked. I mean sucked big time. I had great ideas but when I put them to paper the stories were essentially ruined. Getting published was not even close to a reality.
After some long, thoughtful soul searching, I figured out that by trying to be like King I was actually hurting myself. Then I set out to discover if writing was something I wanted to pursue. There are so many great writers, both professional and amateur and I wondered if I even had a prayer in the market world. Again, I was comparing myself with others. No. No. No. No.
When I decided to be me and learn about the craft of writing I started to grow. I started to get that feeling that the stories don't suck half as bad as they used to. Now, the stories only suck about a third as bad as they used to. I'm happy about that.
There is always going to be writers out there that are better than me. Always. There are always going to be writers out there who are better than you. There's no need to get discouraged about that. There is this gentleman I know who is a much better writer than I am and every time I read one of his stories I think, 'Wow, this guy is good.' That gentleman is Ian Rogers. If you haven't heard of him, you are truly missing out. Look him up. But, I don't let that discourage me. In fact, I analyze a lot of his writing and look at the things at which he is very good at. Some of those things I apply to my own writing. It's a way of learning for me. Ian is just one example of someone who I KNOW is a better writer than I am. There are many, many, many more.
Ah . . . but there are those people I feel I write better than they do. But, I never say it or really think about it. Instead, I like to try and help them in the manner that I have been helped. Encouraging them, pointing out things that I have seen in my own writing that I see in theirs. It's amazing to see some of these people blossom right before my eyes. It's amazing to see them take to something and really work it until they get it right. They do NOT complain. As a matter of fact, one of these guys lets out a Yahoo or a Yippee every time he is rejected. His enthusiasm is contagious and his writing has improved ten fold in the less than a year I have known him. And that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with him, his drive, determination, enthusiasm and willingness to constantly get better and better with each passing story.
Most of those folks are better writers than I am now!
What does it all boil down to? It's simple. Complaining isn't going to get you anywhere in the world of writing. Writing will get you where you want to go. Working on writing will get you where you want to go. An enthusiastic attitude will get you there. Not so much, however, complaining.
As I said before: Writer's are a miserable lot. We really are. But, if we stop complaining about the state of things in the writing community and start doing something about it, then maybe we wouldn't be so darn miserable.
For now, I'm AJ and I'm out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)