Tag Archives: writing

Slowly forward

Posted on by
3

If this was NaNo, I’d be losing. I’m currently at 13,195 words, and though I could be further along, I’m not. I haven’t set an arbitrary nightly word goal to meet. I’m just writing as much as I feel like writing for at least an hour, and I’m not even making that. I may have to go back to a word goal.  At least I would be making some progress.

I have made some headway however. I’m on chapter 3 and well on my way to creating my two main characters. They haven’t met yet, and that’ll have to wait a couple more chapters, but their paths are aligning slowly. Soon they will meet.

But what when they meet? I’ve been working this story for years, coming at it from one angle and then another. I fixed the issue with Giada, the idea of her being a high priced prostitute just didn’t work for the character. I still needed her to rub elbows with the rich and powerful, but a prostitute was clearly the wrong choice, a decision made in revenge towards someone who hurt me. I’m over that now!

I feel like I’m working a puzzle, trying to piece together a narrative that fits with what I already know about them, and that fits what’s already been written, while discarding that which makes a lie out of my characters. It’s a frustrating exercise, but it’s one that I admit I’m enjoying.

 

Starting fresh

Posted on by
3

I hate being a writer sometimes. It’s not that I hate writing, but the discipline required can be a total drag. I think that’s why most people fail at writing, or really at life for that matter. The ones that are successful have to be tenacious. Pursuing a dream doesn’t guarantee success, but giving up certainly guarantees failure. How many of us stop without realizing they’ve given up? How many times have I done that?

I’ve fallen into that trap as of late. It’s discouraging when you feel that you’re not making progress. Part of my problem is that I’m unwilling to let go of my work. Letting go means allowing myself to fail and that’s a problem sometimes. It’s scary to put myself out there for others to judge and criticize. Let’s face it, some people are assholes just to be assholes. Maybe they’re unhappy with themselves and deal with it by tearing others down. Who knows?

Looking at my blog stats, I’ve noticed a downward trend in page views stemming from my own lack of posting. I felt I didn’t have anything new to say, that I was repeating the same empty promises, sounding like a broken record about what I wanted to do and where I was going. Even my book reviews flatlined, breaking promises to read and review a few. I’m rectifying that now, but getting started is going to be troublesome. I’ve lost my mojo.

We’re already twenty days into 2016, and though the time of resolutions has come and gone, maybe it isn’t to late to set some goals for the year. My first is I’m going to post twice a week at the very least. Second, I’m going to write at least an hour a day. I need to reestablish my habit. Third, I’m going to publish a short story twice a month. I’m also going to push myself out of my comfort zone and dabble with other genres. That’ll be an interesting writing exercise!

Lastly, I’m going to write and finish Giada’s novel and start begin reworking Son of the Father. I want to tell Bishop Mendoza’s story, and I have for years. He isn’t a one off story but rather a series, beginning with Giada. I want to discover the road he took and see the reason why he isn’t some one-dimensional religious leader. He’s a real person with real issues and a history that wouldn’t recommend him for anything other than a life in prison.

But he grew up, changed his life, and found a calling out of a depraved life. He dedicated himself and has been a model priest, but the ghosts of his past begin to haunt him, giving ammunition to those who don’t like him. It’s the kind of story I like to read. I find church intrigue to be intriguing.

My writing, I’m discovering, is a journey of my own choosing. Were I to be honest, I would have to say I want my writing to be the engine that propels me out into the world. I’m not an adventurer, but I would like to be able to travel the world, see new places, especially those of historical value. I want to live in Rome, visit England and Germany, hell even see the other states of this great country. I want to have that freedom to explore which in turn will give weight to what I write.

Maybe it’s a pipe dream, but it’s not one that I’m willing to give up on. If anything, writing allows me a way out of the tedium of everyday living. I can explore without  having to leave the comfort of my home. I can do that with reading, but as the writer, I can dictate the flow of events. I like that. I just have to make myself do that.

Some of my favorite reads

Morris West

Shoes of the Fisherman
Clowns of God
Lazurus
Emienince

Greg Tobin

Conclave
Council

David Osborn

The Last Pope

Short Story: Assassin

Posted on by
4

“What the hell?” A large, barrel-chested man shouted as he barged into the chambers, his sword drawn. “How did he get past the guards?”

“I should be asking you the very same question, Officer of the Guard,” another man – this one in robes of embroidered silk, bearing the insignia the Court Advisors – said scathingly, his eyes focused at the dead man on the floor. His blood pooled beside his head, the result of two arrows that pierced his eyes.

“Are you suggesting that my men allowed him access to the King’s chambers, Roma?” The officer asked heatedly, suppressing the urge the attack the advisor. “There is no way that my men were responsible for this.”

“Then how do you explain this, Garrem? Are you suggesting he just materialized into the room?”

“That’s enough out of you two.” Another man – this one arrayed in in armor, bearing the Royal Seal of the King – spoke up. He still had a bow in his hand, but he place the arrow back in his quiver. Beside him, on the throne, sat King Darrian, his face an unreadable mask. “Someone sent an assassin to kill His Majesty and you two want to quibble about how he managed to make it into the chambers? This is not the time.”

“With all due respect,” Roma bowed at the Chief Guard, “but I dare say it is. There was a serious breach of our defenses and we need to know how and why. Who was responsible? How did he get in? What do we need to do to shore up our protection of His Royal Highness? This isn’t something we can ignore.”

“There will time for that later, Roma.” King Darrian replied for his Chief Guard. “Right now I’m more interested in who this assassin was, and who sent him.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Roma looked at everyone in disbelief. “It must have been the Yelians. Look at what he’s wearing! He’s one of their guards!”

The king glanced at his advisor with a look of pity before addressing his Guard. “We need to search him.”

“I’ll do it, Majesty.” Garrem started towards the assassin but was stilled with a gesture from the Chief Guard.

“Not yet. He may be warded.”

“Warded? But he’s dead. Surely any wards that protected him would have broken the moment he breathed his last.”

“Perhaps, but we don’t have the luxury of making that assumption,” the Chief Guard informed the Officer of the Guard. “Our allies made that same mistake and when they investigated the dead body of the assassin to be, there was an explosion and arcane fire rained on everyone assembled in the room, killing everyone in the room, including their king. Fortunately, the prince happened to have left the room moments before the attack and survived. I’d rather not take that chance.”

With a nod, he signaled to a couple of spellcasters who stood behind out of sight behind the tapestry of Founding of the Realm. The couple, a man and his wife, began to chant incantations, searching the deceased for any wards or curses. After several tense minutes, the woman turned and addressed the Chief in an unusually low voice, “He is clean. There are no wards, talismans, or other magical items on his person. He is as he appears, unprotected and undeniably dead.”

“Thank you,” King Darrian sighed with relief. “You may go back to your station, but don’t wander off. We may have need of your services again.” The couple bowed low, and without a word left the chamber. “Now you may search him, Garrem.”

Garrem made swift work of searching he deceased. He turned out his pockets, pulling out Yelian coins, maps, and orders to assassinate the Chanalian court, stating with Darrian. “It appears to be a Yelian guard, Your Majesty. His manner of dress, his meager possessions, everything points to an act of betrayal.”

“There you have it,” Roma said silkily. “Yelia has engaged in an unprovoked, and may I add, cowardly attack on our sovereign. We must respond in kind!”

“Our closest allies?” Darrian spat angrily at his advisor. “Are you so witless that you are blinded by what you see and fail to see the truth?”

“The truth is plain enough for even the most dimwitted to see, Your Highness. King Lain has betrayed you, as I always warned you he would.”

“And your hatred of the Yelian’s has betrayed you, Roma. It wasn’t the Yelians.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“If I may,” Garrem stood up, wiping the blood from his hands with the dead man’s cloak. “He is as he appears to be, a Yelian, or so we are made to believe.”

“What are you going on about, Officer of the Guard?”

“We have employed assassins before, Roma. Maybe not often, and never towards an ally, but against an enemy we have. It’s a dirty game, but not one we are above employing at need. No assassin is stupid enough to go in dressed in a manner that’ll betray the one responsible for the assassination. He must go in dressed to be unnoticed. He will carry nothing other than his weapon. No one goes in with orders in his hands, coins of his home realm. Whoever is responsible wanted to implicate our closest ally, that much is obvious.”

“If not Yelia, then who?”

“Answer me this, how did he get in?” the Chief Guard asked the advisor.

“How should I know? Ask your Officer. It was he and his men that failed to stop this would be assassin from storming the chamber.”

“This was no failure of either my men or our defenses. There are no unguarded points of entry, and to get here, he would have had to force his way through several layers of protection.”

“There is one way,” Darrian said.

“What?” Garrem exclaimed, his face draining of all color.

“At peace. There is a secret way in and out, known only to myself and a few key personel.”

“And am I not to be trusted?” Roma asked indignantly.

“In a word? No.” The Chief Guard replied. “Other than the King, only myself and the Royal Attachment knows of it. The spellcasters erase all knowledge of the passage should one of the Attachment leave the King’s service. There is no one who could possibly know the secret way in.”

“There is one,” Garrem sighed. “Amian”

“What?” Roma scoffed. Do you suspect the Prince might have tried to kill his father? What could possibly make you even consider that a possibility?”

“The fact that he defected to Morta,” the Officer replied. “It’s not a big secret that he blames the King for the Queen’s death. It’s not unheard of for the son to kill the father to ascend to the throne, and in this he has cause, though his cause in an unjust one.”

“Yes, I fear you’re right, Garrem. “The Chief Guard nodded. “I’m also disposed to believe Amian’s the one behind the attack.”

“Where’s the proof?” Roma asked, his arms outstretched to those assembled in the room. He paced in front of the body, almost like a counselor pleading his client’s innocence. “Where’s the proof that the prince had anything to do with it? I defy you to show me.”

“Proof?” The Chief Guard sneered contemptuously. “We have no proof, only suspicions at the moment, but bear with me. The assassin managed to sneak in undetected. The only way he could have made it into the chambers undetected would have been through the King’s passage. Also, the attack lacked subtlety. It was unrefined, poorly planned, and even worse in its execution. This bears Amian’s hallmark.”

“Without proof that the the prince did it in exile, how can you be so swift in judgement? There’s no way he could have done it from Morta.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” King Darrian agreed, “at least not without assistance, Roma. Pella! Ostian! We need your assistance once more!”

The spellcasters appeared immediately from behind the tapestry. “Your Majesty!” Pella replied as she and her husband bowed.

“We suspect that there’s a traitor amongst us. What do you see?”

“Often the sight is cloudy,” Pella replied, “but this is not the case. The traitor is here, in plain sight, paying deference to the one-time prince, the traitor Amian. He lacks subtlety and wisdom and betrays himself with his defiance of the obvious and his defence of the guilty. Look no further, Majesty. There is no need to employ the ancient magicks. His own words brands him a traitor.”

“How dare you?” Roma spat. “I would never betray the kingdom!”

“But you would betray the King, Roma?” The Chief Guard pulled his sword from the scabbard as he stepped down from the dias and reached out to grab the advisor.

“Darrian betrayed us first, leaving us vulnerable to attack. He’s guilty of the Queen’s death, and countless other subjects, all for a fool’s errand. No, his kingship is over. The Prince Amain is the rightful King.”

Roma pulled an orb from beneath his breast pocket. “Death to the treasonous king!” He threw the orb towards the king but the orb hovered for a moment and then a burst into blue flame, showering Roma with arcane fire. Pella and Ostian muttered furiously as they directed the orbs power towards the traitor, his screams echoing from beyond a chasm, fire consuming him until nothing remained but a charred heap. The magic dissipated and Pella and Ostian lifted their wards.

“What luck!” Garrem exclaimed.

“Luck?” Pella raised an eyebrow. “It was obvious he was the traitor from the start, such as it was obvious that there were no wards protecting the assassin. Ostian scanned the room from artifacts of magical properties as I searched the deceased. We set up a barrier around Roma once we were certain.”

“Why then didn’t you tell us?” The Chief Guard yelled angrily.

“What has happened had to play out,” Ostian replied hoarsely, speaking for the first time. “He had to reveal his guilt before we could intervene. We are not murders, nor are we employed as such. Neither are we soothsayers. Our duty is to protect the king and not dictate the flow of events to our will.”

“You did well,” the King thanked the spellcasters. “Now we must respond in kind. Amain’s actions has earned him the title of traitor to the realm. Son or no, he must answer with his blood. Garrem, you know what need be done.”

“And so it will be done,” Garrem said with a sigh before bowing to his leige and turning away, his heart heavy. The one-time prince’s life was forfeit, and it would fall to him to carry out the sentence.

 

Short Stories

Next story – Sacrificed Death
Previous story – Los Altos

Short Story: Los Altos

Posted on by
4

I found out about Los Altos from a friend of a friend, some guy who visited the city and came back going on about how great the club was. “You guys need to go, I’m telling you,” he informed us with a sly smile that told us everything and nothing at the same time. There was something he wasn’t telling us and the only way to find out was to see for ourselves.

I had no intention of going, of course. If you knew me, you’d know that clubs weren’t my scene. I rarely went out, especially to bars. The only place I frequented was an Irish pub down the street from my office where I’d kick back with a few of the locals and shoot the shit. They were mostly from an older generation, reliving their glory days, regaling me with stories that I never quite believed. Mostly, they let me be, knowing that I preferred my own company. All except Ms. Peggy, but I don’t have time to go on about her.

The only times I would go out were when I screwed the courage to ask someone out, usually to go and see a movie, though I rarely did that anymore. I just went alone. Sometimes, if I was in a really good mood, I’d ask Jeannine the receptionist out for dinner. Like me, she preferred her own company so I never felt that she counted as company. We didn’t feel the need to fill the silences so it never became awkward.

My employer sent both Jeannine and me to the city to go to some waste-of-time seminar. We left, wondering why we were forced to sit through hours of lectures that would have been better suited to a couple of emails when Jeannine looked at me, a coy smile on her face, and asked “What are we going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Here we are, in downtown after dark. It’s still kind of early. We could go back to the hotel, maybe grab a drink at the bar, or maybe just go back to our rooms, or we do something out of character. Let loose a little. What do you say?”

“I have my briefcase,” I stated lamely, embarrassed by how ridiculous I sounded.

“So do I,” she laughed. “And I don’t want to go out like this in any case. Let’s head back, change into something a little more casual, something appropriate for a night out, and meet in the lobby, say around eight? Then we’ll see what happens from there.”

“Sounds good,” I answered, still a little less sure than I would have liked. In fact, Jeannine’s sudden aggressiveness had me out of sorts. She was the quiet, bookish woman, a few years older than my thirty-four. She was unmarried, and had never been married before, though she was once engaged to some guy that ended up hooking up with some bimbo in Vegas and she dumped him.

I didn’t know what she had in mind, so I took off the suit and dressed in some khakis and a dress shirt, no tie. I put on a sports jacket and met her by the doors. She was dressed for a night out, wearing a blue cocktail dress, heels, and her hair was down. She always kept it either in a bun or in a pony tail. She looked unlike herself and looking around, all the guys noticed.

“I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,” Jeannine joked, taking my arm into hers. “Where are you taking me?”

“How about Los Altos?” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“I heard about that place,” she said knowingly, gazing at me with a surprised look. “I’m surprised you know about it.”

“Oh, I guy I know told me about it,” I stammered.

“If you say so, Romeo,” she grinned before adding cryptically, “I hope you’re the type that can handle that kind of fun. I don’t suppose you know how to get there?”

“It’s not far,” I replied, trying to maintain my composure, though I was unnerved by how she was acting. “It’s maybe a couple of blocks. Let me hail a cab.”

“Or we can walk. It’s a nice night out, don’t you think?”

I nodded, but didn’t say a word. I was too busy dreading what the night would have in store, as I usually did whenever I went out. The club, from what my friend’s friend said, was owned by a Colombian couple who fled their home country to get away from some drug lord’s promise to kill them. I don’t know why they were in danger. I didn’t catch the story.

What I do know is that they came to the city, with nothing more than the clothes they were wearing, and after a few years scrounged up enough cash to open the club. From the outside, it didn’t look like much. It was housed within a crumbling brick facade amongst towering skyscrapers. There was a few businesses on either side, but I was surprised it hadn’t been bought up yet and developed.

On the north side there was two massive iron doors that led into the club itself, but they were never opened. Instead, you had to go through a glass door which opened to a long corridor in white tile, beige walls, and harsh florescent lighting. At the end of the hallway, a bouncer ensured that only the right kind of people were let in. I was afraid we would be turned away like most of the people ahead of us were, but to my surprise he let us in.

The doors opened to a cavernous warehouse space, where freight was shipped out at one time. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I found that there was a bar on the left. To the right was the iron doors that remained closed. I think that’s where the trucks would back up to and were loaded off the dock. On either side of the bar were ramps that led to the namesake club, Los Altos, or the heights. It was exclusive and one had to be let in, and they didn’t let just anyone in.

Jeannine took me by my hand and led me up the ramp, towards Los Altos. I knew we would be turned away for sure, but to my surprise we were let in. “Good to see you again, Baby Doll,” the doorman greeted my date. “And I see you’re bringing in a newbie. Hope he’s up to it.”

“I think he will be, when the time comes,” Jeannine said brightly before planting a kiss on the doorman’s cheek. “And I think you owe me for last time.”

“I don’t think I do,” he laughed, “but I’ll pay up all the same.”

Jeannine pulled me into cozy room, at least in comparison to the warehouse behind us. It was still at least as big as a ballroom, with vaulted ceilings, but no dance floor. Instead, there were plush sofas all around, with plenty of nooks and crannies to hide in. Up aways I could see a guy reclining back while a woman’s head bobbed up and down.

“Are they doing what I think they are?” I asked, wondering what kind of place we had found ourselves.

“Forget them,” a husky voice replied behind me. I turned around and saw a Latin woman, seductive and sexy, though I didn’t think she was all that pretty. “I’m Amalia, the proprietor of Los Altos. My husband is around here somewhere, probably playing with one of the guests. I’m guessing this is your first time here?”

“It is, Amalia,” Jeannine answered for me.

“Jenny!” Amalia greeted my date warmly. “So good to see you. I thought you forgot about us.”

“Never,” Jeannine batted at the owner playfully.

“Then does he know that what happens here can’t be discussed out there?”

“I wouldn’t have brought him if I thought he was a snitch. You can trust him, I promise.”

“Good. He looks like he can use a little stress relief. I think I may want to play with him sometime.”

“Not before I do.”

“I understand. But come, let me buy you two a drink.”

Amalia walked ahead of us and we followed her towards a side room. It was private and our host left us for a moment before returning with a couple of glasses of champagne. “Salud,” she toasted us and we returned the gesture. I took a sip and she smiled. “You need to relax. Jenny will help with that. If that doesn’t work, well there’s plenty of us who’d love to help you out.”

When she left I turned to Jeannine who laughed at my reaction. “Are you okay?”

“Okay? What kind of place is this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s swinger’s club. I couldn’t come alone, and I was hoping I could convince you to come but since you suggested it first I thought you knew.”

“The hell I did!” I said a little louder than I meant to. “Do I look like that kind of pervert to you?”

“Are you saying that I’m some kind of pervert then?” She asked coldly. “Are you suggesting that I’m some sick slut?”

“Well – um – no I’m not, I’m sorry,” I stammered.

“Well, I am,” she laughed again. “Oh come on and relax. I’m the same quiet girl from work, but once in a while even a good girl like me needs to unwind.”

“Unwind? How? By fucking anyone who happens by?”

“Sometimes,” she said quietly. “I like you, you know. That’s why I never tried to sleep with you. I’ve slept with just about everyone else at work, even Laura, the girl you’ve been making googly eyes at for weeks. They all know to keep quiet. I hope you will, too.”

“How many people have you slept with?”

“Does it matter?” She asked as she grazed my cheek with her fingers. “I could tell you if you want. I’ve kept tabs on who I slept with, who I’ve blown, and just about everything else I’ve ever done. It’s not all bad. We’re all tested once we join. Amalia’s strict about that. I’d like you to join, too. I’d like a boyfriend and I kind of wish it would be you. It’d make it easier for me, and like I said, I like you. What do you say?”

I stared at her, wanting to submit to temptation but also wanting to escape from this hedonistic paradise. I never would have pegged her for a swinger, and I never would have thought I could ever find myself in a place like this. Before I realized it, I found Jeannine in my arms and I had begun to kiss her and I lost myself in her. I wanted to run but I couldn’t move. I had to have her and I had no power to deny her.

I am lost.

 

Short Stories

Next story – Assassin
Previous story – Marionette

Post NaNo: I’m ready to start on my real novel

Posted on by
1

NaNo-2015-Winner-Badge-Large-SquareHere it is, the day after, and I took a day off from work. It wasn’t the result of NaNoWriMo but rather pushing myself at work the past couple of weeks. I had hoped to last until my scheduled days off, which would have been Thursday and Friday, but when I woke up, I knew I had to rest or else I really would go down for the count.

So I slept in until about noon. When I did manage to get out of bed, I didn’t do much but shower and get dressed. Feeling hungry, I headed into town to buy myself a salad. Another consequence of working to much lately has been eating poorly, and I just needed some vegetables. I’m not sure if a salad really counts, but it was still better than the fast food crap I’ve been shoving into my mouth.

I relaxed and didn’t think about writing. For the past month, I wrote a story that never really gelled. My characters were uncooperative, and the story never took off. The suspense I hoped to create between my two main characters never really formed, and there was never any action between the antagonist and the protagonists. I quickly fell out of love for the story, but I pushed through to the end, happy that it’s finally over.

But as I rested today, an itch to revisit another NaNo came to me. Last year I started writing the story of Giada, a minor character in my first NaNo, The Son of the Father. That too didn’t go the way I planned, and in fact it’s the second attempt to write the story, but I never gave up on it. I simply put it on hold, until now.

I opened both attempts to write the story, and though they are vastly different stories, I think I can use the best of them to create a third, and final version. Or at least that’s my hope. Giada, as I originally envisioned her, was an escort for the rich and powerful, a high-priced prostitute and a former porn starlet. I created her as an act of revenge towards a former flame who I felt betrayed me.

But now, years after the fact, I think that’s been my main problem with Giada. She isn’t some immoral, promiscuous slut. She’s a woman who’s been hurt by the men in her life, namely an emotionally unavailable father, and lovers who saw her as a prize to be coveted rather than a person deserving of respect. Though she lives a very free existence, she’s not some shallow bimbo. Giada is an earnest and sincere woman.

I fell in love with the character in spite of myself. Out of all of the characters I have created, she’s the one I like the most. She’s exuberant and just has a joy for life that I find endearing and contagious. She refuses to be kept down despite all the crap that’s gone her way.

That’s why I’ve had so much trouble writing her story. She deserves a good tale. I know she’s a fictional person, but she is real in my mind’s eye. She lives and breaths as a figment of my imagination, far more than some of the others I have created. She’s a complete woman, with both good and bad in her.

Giada will be the next project I write. I wonder how I’ll do it, to reconcile my the different versions of her, but I suspect most of what I have will be thrown out. Well actually, I’ll probably recycle most of it. It may not fit into her narrative, but it’s too good to let go.

While I may not have found any pleasure in this year’s NaNoWriMo, it may have rekindled my desire to write. Only time will tell if I go through with publishing anything, but for now at least I had fun with the exercise.