Funny...

It's funny. I have been avoiding writing because I am so caught up in the idea that I don't have a clue what I am doing, but the whole point of this blog is to get better!
I spend a lot of time thinking about stories, but even typing them out on my iTouch seems to be a challenge. Damn it, I thought this blog would help.
Time to get on it!I have been returning to Jerry often, tweaking a few things here and there; that and I like what I have written!
One day at a time, I just need to remind myself.

Narcotics...

     So, I was actually on some narcotics when I wrote this; I was sorta having a out of mind experience at the time. While this I written in the third person, I was reflecting on myself from the outside. Odd, yes, but par for the course. This isn't exactly fiction, yet also it is not exactly non-fiction.

Begin

     The night was dragging. Weekends often were often more calm, but the narcotics made everything move in slow motion; the clock seemed not to move, noises were more clear and his thoughts were not racing like normal. Able to process one or two ideas at a time verses ten or twelve, he felt more at ease; patient.
      He had heard stories about how Valium was suppose to mello you out, but this was something else; perhaps taking it with Lortab was doing something unexpected.
     He didn't feel the angst, the despair he normally did while watching people. He still viewed humanity as an infantile species, but with more acceptance, understanding; perhaps it was more compassion than normal.
     Maybe this was an opportunity to make some new observations, gain some new insight in to any possible meaning for existence. He didn't hold his breath, but he felt more open to the possibilities, that is if there were any left that had any value what so ever to them.
     As he pondered his new state of semi-clarity, he thought about the mere act of thinking. Did it matter if an idea was able to have more "air time" than normal, or was it really just the same only slower? If it didn't really matter or wasn't any different, then eventually the pity for humanity was bound to arise as "new" conclusions were drawn. Perhaps he was not going to gain new insights so "easily".

     Ignorance is bliss; unfortunately one can never return to that state so easily.

End

Entry...

Well, it has been a busy few days. Among life events, as I was writing a post the other day, I wrote one line. That one line helped me realize the opening problem I was having with my novel, so I have been occupied with thought!

Jerry...work in progress

Fiction starts here:

     "Why are you always on my ass?" Jerry shouted as Tina walked out of the room.

     "Someone's gotta babysit you," she shouted back. "Considering the fact that you act like a child, what do you expect?"

     "What the hell does that mean?" he said as he stood up, tossing the game controller gently on the coffee table.

     Tina slammed the refrigerator door shut. "Why, in the name of all that's holy, can't you throw rotten food out!"

     "There's food in our fridge?" he asked as he rubbed his hands together and walked to the kitchen.

     "Get out of here," Tina said quietly. Jerry stopped. He knew this wasn't good. Tina wasn't just raggin; she was on the verge. He stood still as he watched her breath heavily; she was leaning on the counter with both hands, staring out the window. Her head shook slightly. She was more than just pissed.

     "I...said...," Tina began.

     Jerry quickly stepped out of the kitchen and made his way down the hall to the bathroom where he promptly locked himself in safely.

     "This could be it," he thought to himself.

     He sat in the tub and drew the curtain closed. He pulled his knees to his chin and began to gently rock.

     Jerry sat for several minutes in silence; then it began. He rocked a little faster as he heard Tina kick the cabinet repeatedly; a loud smash of the tower of dirty dishes hit the floor; Jerry rocked a little faster; the crashing of glasses being thrown against the wall, through the kitchen window; Jerry began to hum, rocking slightly faster; the pounding of chairs again the wall, drywall giving way; the screaming, audible frustration coming out of Tina.

     Silence.

     A faint knock on the front door; Jerry still rocking and humming.

     Muffled voices conversed for several minutes.

     Footsteps down the hall; a gentle knock on the bathroom door, a muffled male voice; Jerry still rocking and humming. The bathroom door knob jiggled -BOOM; the door was kicked open. Jerry hummed louder, rocking as fast as he could.The shower curtain yanked open and an officer stepped back quickly placing his hand on his gun. The officer stood staring at Jerry, confused. Jerry continued to rock and hum, only giving a quick glance to the officer.

     "It's not a child, Frank," the officer shouted to the livingroom, "It's a man... in the tub."

End fiction.

Edgar...thoughts

I am not so sure I am in to writing a "love" story right now. I think he could be a fun character and the idea of researching the Depression sounds interesting. I guess I could let it brew a little while and see if I want to come back to it or not. Until then, I'll write something new a little later.

Edgar...

I was pondering Edgar and realized if he was eighty, he would have been born before the beginning of the Great Depression, his schooling would have been during the Depression. He would have been in fourth grade in the late 1930's, if he would have even had the chance to go to school. Now, I also realized I am not sure what education was really like in that time period.
Also, I am not sure of how many schools were in Iowa City at that time. There is a lot of research I need to do before I can really delve into his past. Details, details. At any rate, it would be interesting to learn more about that time period.
I like the idea of having him be born in 1923-24, that way he could go off to war. Love lost, they go their separate ways, some drama that splits them up.
However I think I would have part of the reason be Edgar doesn't feel he is good enough for Lizzy is the fighting, the killing he did in the war. Plus, being in that type of war, so brutal, so vicious, it might add a certain level of not feeling secure, being secure. And if he was affected like my grandpa, it wasn't for the good.

Now, the real question is do I like this character and storyline enough to do all this research?

Old man, continued... or beginning...

Fiction starts here:

     Shortly after Edgar was born, his father was killed in a farm accident. Although he was an experienced farm hand, he made the city slicker mistake of walking up behind a horse too quickly. The horse spooked, and there was no fixin' his fractured skull.  Edgar was two days old; his mother, only nineteen herself, never remarried or even dated again.
     Edgar's mother, Ellie, found work at the hospital for a while. Working in housekeeping, she barely made enough for the two of them. Her husband's death weighed heavy on her mind, and caused her problems with working a steady job. No one faulted her of course, except Ellie. She fought her demons, but maintained quite well considering.
     By the time Edgar was 3, the "family rotation" (as Edgar called it) had begun. While family was welcoming, understanding and compassionate, Ellie's embarassment lead to their frequent moves. Edgar got along well enough, being a good kid he made friends easily.
     Edgar wasn't embarassed about where they lived or who they lived with, but he worried about his momma. He would hear her crying at night, sit with her on the days she just sat staring out the window. She was sad and he didn't know how to make her happy. But that was a lot of grown-up stuff, so he did the best he could.
     When he started going to school, Edgar loved having his own desk and the chance to be relaxed in school. His momma usually worked during the day, so she wouldn't be alone and that let him just be a kid.
The learning he was doing kept him interested enough so that he would ask questions, do his work and get good grades.
     However, school posed a challenge for Edgar. As they moved often, he spent most of his elementary school years in a different school each year. Having an above average intelligence Edgar was able to keep pace enough to pass from grade to grade, but it wore on him..
It was during fourth grade that Edgar met Lizzy. She was a quiet young girl, but was friendly and well liked. She took to Edgar right away. From the first day he joined their class they carried on conversations; mostly it was Lizzy talking and Edgar listening. He always thought of those early days as good training for marriage.
     At a age when boys typically don't like girls and girls don't like boys, they never thought of each other like that. Pure and honest friendship. They did their diggin' in the dirt and mud, stompin' in the creeks, catching fireflies in the summer and catching snow flakes on their tounges in the winter. They were kids being the best possible kids they could be, considering. They were bestfriends, plain and simple.
     Ellie was able to keep her job for sometime which meant that Edgar was able to stay in the same grade school for two more years. They got a small apartment near the school, but what Edgar liked better was how close it was to Hickory Hill park. Hours of walking, tree climbing and creek stompin' just down the street. Edgar couldn't be happier, and Lizzy's house was on the way to the park.
     Simple times, simple pleasures.
     Of course things don't always stay simple; hormones change everything.

End fiction.

Thought...

I am wondering if I might need to do multiple posts on these "people". I mean, I was just beginning to get a slight feel for Edgar, and then it was over. Eighty years is a lot of stories within a story.

I may need to rethink my strategy about this little project. I guess that's why it's here; to learn and grow those seeds of imagination.

Yes, I think after several rereads of the first two posts, I may need to do more on each character creation. They were a little too short and left me with too many questions. I will play a little more and go a little deeper.

Old man...

As I was walking on the lower level this afternoon on my way to class, I came upon this old man. I would venture to say he was in his mid to late eighties.
Now, while he was walking really slow and wobbly, I thought it was pretty amazing he was getting along so well and alone, too. What caught my eye about him was his hat (newsboy/dude hat) and his hair. It looked as though he had a streak down the middle, like a stripe. While the whole of his head was white hair, I wondered about the lighter stipe, and that's when I knew I had something to write about!

Fiction starts here:

     Edgar Thompson had grown up on the streets. Now, growing up on the streets of Iowa City ain't like growing up on the streets of New York. There was typically "family" who would put them up for a time, but Edgar preferred to stay out of sight and be as little a burden as possible on whatever host they were mooching off of at the time. He spent hours walking, reading books at the library and hiking through the parks.
     Keeping on the move all those years gave Edgar a love of working outside. Parks and riverbanks had become more of a home than Edgar had known. It was something constant, permanent; they were the only thing he could rely upon through the years. But one park was more revered by Edgar than the others: Old Hickory Hill.
     There was young lady friend of his who lived near the park, and often they would have late night rondezvous; walking for hours, talking about their hopes and dreams. No one but Edgar and Lizzy ever knew about their nights, the depths of their relationship. They had always been friends, but those nights were note than that, to both of them.
     Edgar grew to learn of Lizzy's love for him; it was something that put fear into his bones. It was so intense, open, true and honest he began to push her away. He knew in his heart he wasn't good enough for her, would never be what she wanted in a few years; he wasn't someone who ever had security, and how can someone who's never had something give it to someone else? Edgar asked himself this question over and over.  He knew the answer and he also knew it wasn't a question if would she understand, but when would she understand? She eventually did, and they went their seperate ways. Both found love, both were happy.
     Edgar thought about her often through the years and when he did he ran his fingers through his hair, something Lizzy did when they were young. He often joked with himself that he ran his fingers through his hair so much he wore the color right out. Now in his eighties, a hand width streak from front to back down the middle of his head, the grey hair is a few shades lighter.

End Fiction

Pizza Hat...

So I saw this guy at Godfather's eating with his family. He was a larger man probably not much older than I, but what caught my eye was his stocking cap; what struck me was the way it seemed to teeter on his head. I thought his physical presence would be a fun exercise in description.

Fiction starts here:

     John Brummly was a conisseur of pizza, among other things. A single topping pizza was a mere appetizer in his mind. There had to be stuff on stuff, and if you could get stuff in stuff that was even better.
     Standing over six foot five, John was able to distribute some of his healthy appetite. Although he felt he looked ok, really, he looked like a caucasian pear. The sweaters he wore looked as though he had pulled them from under a Christmas tree. There were no pleats in his pants, and suspenders were preferred over belts (not that he could use one, mind you).
     But nothing made him look more odd than when he wore a stocking cap. You see, when he entered a building he would pull the cap up so it would gently lay upon his head.
As he would move about, you watched him, waiting to catch the cap when it fell from his head. However, he didn't move fast enough to make the cap fall from his head. He could have carried a book on his head; his movements were deliberate and smooth, no quick or jerky motions. Yet you still can not take your eyes off his cap.
     It seemed as though a slight breeze should be able to take it off his head. But no; it was like two pieces of velcro sticking to each other. Some people looked at his cap and wanted to snatch it off his head; others just simply couldn't look at it at all.
     Due to his pear nature, the cap drew attention to his ill proportioned head. The loftier the placement of the hat, the smaller his head appeared and his midsection more pronounced.
Greg Jones, former circus trainer, once summed it up best when he said: "It looks like a ball on the tip of a seal's nose; you just wait to see how long he can balance it. It just goes on and on... It's exhausting."

End fiction

Beginnings...

I have decided to use this blog as a way to hone my writing skills. I will try to pick someone I observe during the day and create a fictional story with them as the main character.
How this will work out, I am not sure. If I decide I like a story line, I may run with it - creative freedom!