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100 Word Song – This Too Shall Pass
Last week saw the recognition of World Goth Day with our 100 word song. Thanks to Frelle and her Lacuna Coil selection. Apparently it was a dark seven days for myself and several other 100 word song singers. As a result, I asked one of the most positive and nice 100 word song players, Mel from According to Mags http://accordingtomags.blogspot.com/2012/05/100-word-song-drenched.html to lighten the mood. Before I reveal her choice for this week’s tune, I’d like to thank all of you finding all those places, dark and otherwise to write for this meme. A lot of you go way outside of your comfort zones and I appreciate it very much. I’d like to think 100 word song is more than just an internet writing exercise, it’s also a club where you can find your catharsis.
Mel is dropping This To Shall Pass by Chicago Indie pop rockers, OK Go. You may remember them for Here We Go Again, the treadmill video in 2006. They came back a couple of years later and made anotehr kitschy video for This Too Shall Pass. You should find a lot of inspiration, positive and otherwise, with this week’s selection.
For my 100, we revisit Jake and his teenage daughter, Violet, of the short story work in progress, Soul To Body. http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2012/05/23/violet/
Jake weaved through mid-day suburban Atlanta traffic. His right hand gripped the Blazer’s steering wheel, while his left texted and called Violet. She wasn’t returning them. He looked up and saw the rear end of a silver BMW. He stomped the brake. A hydraulic squeal overwhelmed the thump of his phone dropping to the floorboard. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The memory of driving a crying Camille and a fevered one-year-old Violet surfed over him.
“Jake, she’ll be okay, right?”
Sweating, nervous, and exhausted, Jake smiled.
“Vi’ll be fine.”
Jake opened his eyes and turned toward Davey’s house. Violet was coming home.
Here’s Mel’s choice. foe this week’s 100 word song. We pick up the mood, tempo, and spirit. From Chicago, it’s Indie Pop Rock cult heroes, Ok Go, with This Too Shall Pass.
100 Word Song – Of Lillies And Remains
We’ve been way too happy, nice, fun and positive around here at 100 word song, Even Leeroy the Robot was starting to dance around and smile. It was a really creative week with new interest in 100 word song style. Vickie gave us a good template with Ben Harper’s The Woman In You. Some of you really ran with it and made it sexy, stylish, funny, and interesting. My boy, t, http://aslongasimsinging.wordpress.com/100-word-song/410-woman-in-you/ has been hitting home runs week after week with his entries. He now has a serialized story with his 100s. I asked him to pick this week’s song. He and I have very similar musical tastes and I was expecting old school punk or something loud and fast and mean. Instead, t got weird. He chose Of Lillies And Remains by Bauhaus. There’s so much you brilliant writers can do with this one. I went back to Soul To Body and wrote about Violet and her dad. There’s a surprise at the end. Here’s my 1o0.
Last time with Soul To Body: http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2012/04/03/100-word-song-runaway/
Violet appeared asleep, curled in a dark blue chair in the hospital room’s corner. Her small, bare feet dangled over the arms inches away from a bouquet of lillies delivered earlier in the day. His wife’s whispers couldn’t compete with the hissing of the oxygen machine. He moved in close to her chapped lips.
“I want you to move on. It’s been over a year since I was really your wife. ”
Her clammy hands, once warm and satisfying, were limp inside his grasp. He looked up and caught Violet staring at him.
“Camille, my love remains with you and Violet.”
You can find the rest of Soul To Body, so far, here: http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/soul-to-body/
Link up and we’ll come back next Tuesday with a new song and talk about how much better your life is now that you’ve written to the weird and depressing tones of Peter Murphy and the boys. Here’s t’s pick, Of Lillies & Remains by Bauhaus.
House of Cards
I brought my passion to work this morning. I like my job, at times, I’m quite fond of it; but I’m in lust over the stack of notebooks in the corner of my cubicle. My girlfriend, this novel I’ve written, is distracting me.
My wife approves of my mistress. In fact, she’s been pushing me to be more involved with her. I first crossed a line, or I should say a “t”, 11 months ago, today. In early December, we celebrated our star crossed relationship when I wrote her climax.
On breaks, when ideas strike, and maybe even trips to the bathroom, the novel and I will dalliance. She isn’t the first other woman of words with whom I’ve slept.
Fifteen years ago, I wrote a story with a similar theme – a man finds out he’s not who he thought he was – but I couldn’t consumate the relationship. In fact, in December 1996, after months of writing, I wrote a sentence that now drives me.
“By the end of 1997 you will finish your book and be a writer.”
The reasons why are moot. By the spring of the following year, I broke my resolution. There was an argument. There was a garbage can. There was a break up. The novel was history.
That episode is influencing my current state. It’s the engine that’s revving me to finish this book. What’s also happening now, is maturity, undeniable support from my wife, and, well, excuse my bravado, this novel is pretty damn good.
There are times when I want to quit. The process of fine tuning something so personal is how insanity should be defined. I’ve had to be talked off the ledge of deletion more than once. There are times when I wonder why I’m even doing this.
I thought about the broken promise to myself from 15 years earlier, yesterday, as I sat in a hospital awaiting word on a relative’s health condition. When good news arrived, I relaxed a bit and thought about what was important in achieving my goal.
I’m staring at these notebooks as if they were a house of cards. I hope I don’t pick the wrong one.
I’m lucky to have a wife that lets me have a girlfriend. These crazy robots aren’t going to publish themselves.
****blogger’s note***
This is my personal response to Write On Edge’s: RemembeRED – Unfulfilled
All The Small Things
If “the devil is in the details” then I’m possessed by a demon that laughs at exorcism. I joke about me being part robot. I often say that I can get more out of a 24 day than most people get out of a month. The truth is, I accomplish the big things – my family is provided for, I have a career, this blog is never neglected – but I ignore or mismanage the smaller things in life that leave me feeling freakishly worried.
Most of the negativity in my life is my fault. Yesterday, while exchanging Happy New Year pleasantries with my writer friends, one of them, the excellent poet Marian – http://www.runawaysentence.com, said something to me that felt like a cold shower on my face after an all night New Year’s Eve drunken bender.
“You aren’t the best when it comes to spelling. It took a long time for me to read and comment you regularly because of the typos and small mistakes. They add up, you know.”
Marian is great to me. She’s a brilliant writer with a terrific sense of humor who treats me like a member of her family. Her comment was in the middle of a paragraph of nice. The way my brain works allows for most of the positive to be drowned by the tiniest of negative. I appreciate her pointing this out. It led to a blog post.
As I fine tooth comb the novel I wrote last year, in hope of getting it published, I’m confident in the big parts – story, characters, style – the book is far from being ready to be read because of the errors in punctuation, spelling, adverb excess, and sentence fragments. How many times have you read a book, watched a television show or listened to a CD and said to yourself “you, know, this would be better if they’d corrected this or paid attention to that”?
The devil is in the details in my life. Age is wrecking my memory, eyesight, and organizational skills. Unless I have a list, don’t send me to the grocery story. My children are known as “that one”, “what’s her name”, and “hey you”. My wife has a nickname, Bobina, that has 4 variations, yet, I will point and say “hey, whatever”. This all leads to bad habits that can crush creativity and efficiency. This isn’t good for a husband, father, communications project manager, and aspiring novelist.
I realize it’s sunday and writing about the devil seems inappropriate, but I’m weird and metaphors are hella wicked awesome.
As you peruse the internet today and read about people pledging to lose weight, be better with their finances, and cut down on their social media, do me a favor and ask yourself, “if these maroons threw holy water on their bad habits, would their devil scram?” Pat yourself on the back for using the words maroon and scram, and come back here. I’m not promising anything but I will write a lot, and try to be better.
Happy New Year. Delve into Twelve.
Today’s song is from Blink 182. I’m not the biggest fan of the power pop not very punks but this song reps what I’m talking about. Also, it will get you going so you can defeat the devil in your details. Here’s All The Small Things….
2000 Light Years
Today was supposed to be the day my life changed forever. I made plans to meet up with the woman my wife approved of me seeing on the side, my novel. Three weeks ago, just after Nanowrimo ended, I completed the ending to the book I’ve been writing, rewriting, and editing since February. You can find parts of it, on this blog, under the page heading “Crazy Robot Stories”. There’s about thirty thousand words there for you to peruse. I hit the 50 thousand word requirement to “win” Nanowrimo, about a week early, then over the following two weeks wrote another 33 thousand words and produced a manuscript. My friends, fellow writers, told me to put it away for a while, and start anew after Christmas. So I did.
Today’s the day after Santy Claus. I had planned to break open files and start nipping and tucking Caleb, Breann, and the evil Ava. Then life happened. Again. My wife had to work. My mother in law is ill. That left me working from home and hanging with my middle child, 8 year old “Bug”. Bug is more of a boy than actual boys here age. By noon, when we met her mom for lunch and to buy a discount Christmas tree (our poor skinny meth addict looking one is being kicked out of the house tomorrow), Bug and I had a nerf gun battle, run errands, and watched at the first three episodes of the new show Austin and Ally.
I’m looking at my mistress, now. She’s better looking than I thought, three weeks ago. Her beginning is tight and her ending is delightfully complex. I’m staring at characters that interest more than most real people I’ve ever encountered. Yet, the amount of editing is staggering. I need time with my other woman.
A little while I go I took Bug to my favorite used record store. I found some old Green Day, then two minutes later, Bug announces “i’ve got to go to the bathroom and there’s one in this dumb place.” So much for musical inspiration for writing today.
The frontline women in my life are prioritied. My wife gets off from work in 30 minutes. My 7 year old daughter gets back home from her other family in less than an hour. Bug just bounded downstairs begging me to inspect her room. She organized her room to accomodate a new desk and other stuff. That means I have to end this post.
The important parts of this check-in is; I’ve finished the first draft of my novel and you aren’t being bored with an end of the year look back or a meaningless list of something. I can’t wait to show you what I’ve accomplished.
Now, Bug and I have to get in some one-on-one nerf basketball.
Today’s song is from Green Day with they were awesome snot-nosed punks from Berkeley, California. From 1992 loud Kerplunk record, here’s 2000 Light Years Away. It’s a metaphor for my girlfriend, the book.
They Shoot Ramones, Don’t They?
I walked out of the gas station with my diet dr. pepper. A tall, floppy haired young man, no older than 20, walked in the door I exited. His scraggly appearance was hi-lighted by a black leather jacket and a crisp, black t-shirt that looked like this:
I smiled, then smirked, and spoke to him.
“The Ramones are great. They’re one of my favorite bands.”
I was proud of the kid’s response. Full of anti-social attitude and get away from me creepy older dude snarl, he mumbled incoherently and passed me into the store. The Ramones would be proud of him.
Ramones t-shirts are sold at Target. You can’t open a music book or website and not see The Ramones epic 1976 debut ranked in the top ten of something. That wasn’t the case 35 years ago. When the The Ramones released their record, most people ignored it and them. The only major critic that paid attention was the legendary Lester Bangs. He loved them. People ignored Lester, as well.
Time has been kind to the memory of the four losers from Forest Hills, Queens, New York. I always harken to this example when people talk about criticism.
I’m “this close” to finishing a book. I’m also self publishing some short stories by the end of December. I’m terrifed at the reaction.
Two years ago, when my wife shook her head at my scribbling in notebooks and suggested I resurrect my blogging career, I paced my entire house dozens of times wondering if anyone would care. I’d been divorced. I’d been through therapy. I now live with four strong willed, determined women who know how to push my buttons and get their way. I could handle comments from “strangers” on the internet. Right?
Over the past 11 months, I’ve written every day. Most of what I’ve penciled hasn’t made it to My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. Crazy Robot Stories passed 57 thousand words for Nanowrimo, thus certified or “won”. I’ve got about 67 thousand words en total. Ironing out the ending should make it novel-sized and editor ready. Helene Troy, my wife approved girlfriend, has about 22 thousand words written, with about 15 of it shown. Millicent, the serial poisoner, is a solid 4 thousand word short story sitting with my editor/writer friend Grace http://thegraceofpirates.blogspot.com/ aka @octoberesque . Italian Radio’s 4 thousand words are with Writer’s Digest waiting for a thousand buck cash prize and the adoration of tens. Among those works, I’ve received over 600 comments. Some have been beautiful. Others have been harsh. It’s the rough ones I’ve learned the most. They’ve made me a better writer.
I know I brag about being part robot. I don’t believe if I wasn’t wired this way, I could handle the reviews. Waking up wrong, every day, with these women I live with, gives you rhinoceros skin.
Joey Ramone, The Ramones lead singer and song writer, died 10 and a half years ago, from cancer. Before he died, he gave an interview to Maria Bartriromo of CNBC financial news fame. She asked him if he regretted toiling in obscurity for the first part of his career. He responded profoundly.
“You know, I always wanted to be liked. Now, I just want to be appreciated. I enjoyed my life when I had nothing… and kinda like the idea of just being happy with me. “
I hope, if this writing I’m doing, sees any light of day, I can be as thoughtful as the late great Joey Ramone.
As my comment box asks, Whatdya got?
Today’s song is the first thing anyone ever heard from The Ramones. If you don’t like this, then you’re the problem. Here’s one of the greatest songs I’ve ever heard, Blitzkrieg Bop….
Poison Pen
“Hold on daddy, my friend wants to trade pokemon cards.”
I fidget. The car’s 50 feet away. Do I have time to run out, get it down on paper then come and get her?
“Let’s go daddy, he doesn’t have good cards.”
She hugs me. I feel a second of calm. She’s a happy 8 year old who talks about her day in third grade. I stare at the yellow composition pad. I can’t wait.
“Daddy, what are you doing?”
I smile, embarrassingly.
“Writing the story about the girl who plays guitar. Something bad is happening to her.”
My daughter rolls her eyes.
*****blogger’s note****
This is my response to my friend Velvet’s 100 word challenge at http://www.velvetverbosity.com/2011/11/10/100-words-of-emotional-rollercoasters/ The one word prompt is WRITING.
Today’s song is from one of my favorite 1980s bands, Hoo Doo Gurus. Lyrically the song isn’t compatible, but I often refer to my pencils and pens as drugs or poison because I can;t stop looking at them and/or writing. Here’s Hood Doo Gurus’ Poison Pen…good song
Everyday, I Write The Book
Recently, my wife told me I needed to write more. Last weekend, with my wife working and only the teenaged daughter in the house, I commandeered the kitchen table and wrote seven different writing assignments. I finished a four thousand word short story for The Writer’s Digest Contest. My entry in the thriller category (4 thousand word maximum) is Italian Radio : http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/italian-radio/ . First prize is a thousand dollars and a lot of exposure. I’ll know something by December 1.
This weekend, I’m diving head first into the Nanowrimo, http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/dashboard write a novel in a month contest. My 7 and 8 year old daughters had homework reports on cheetahs and planets, respectively; we used the kitchen table and got a lot accomplished.
The girls are excited. They’re using dictionaries, posterboards, and the internets. I have about 8 thousand words written for my 50,000 word Nanowrimo novel.
My group is a little weird. We do everything together, like The Brady Bunch or an obnoxious beer league softball team. I decided that as long as they were excited and interested in learning, then having them around wasn’t bothering me. I’ll let you know how the girls stuff about cheetahs and planets turns out.
I’m reading a lot of my friends and fellow novel writers complaining about a lack of time and space. They are taking breaks from their blog and twitter. I’m typing out another blog post and scribbling a few hundred words of the robot story. We’ll take a break soon and throw the football around. Maybe family is the key to “making it” as a writer, not an obstacle. I know something for sure. This is a heck of a lot of fun. To answer your question, writer friends, yeah, I’m writing, because Every Day I Write The Book.
Today’s song is from one of the best songwriter’s of all time, Elvis Costello. It was his first big U.S. hit. Here’s Every Day I Write The Book.
Twenty Killer Hurts
He grimaces as he plants his fingers into the ground and mud oozes over his purpled knuckles. Out of the three point stance he listens for the third “hut” and bounds towards the football, held by his teammate. Two larger boys in uniforms of a different color than his, meet him violently. He thuds into the ground. Hurt surges over his band and shoulders. A timeout is called.
He refuses to take a knee like his teammates because getting up would be too painful. Someone hands him a waterbottle. He pours warm liquid in his mouth and spits it aout, along with blood from his cut lips. He glances at the blue and black bruises on his arms. Someone next to him speaks.
“This is it. The last play of our football lives. Thank God it’s over.”
He smirks at the mixture of sentiment and sarcasm, then assumes the position. His hand in the ground, eyes straight ahead, the hut sounds and he takes a pitched football a few feet from his teammate. He sees the stadium lights dance between players and runs toward it with reckless abandon. An opponent hits him in his left thigh with their helmet. He cringes but stays upright. Everything begins to move in slow motion as jerseys blur, body parts merge, and he’s hit again. He falls to the grass in a heap of hurt.
It’s over. His vision is dazed by pain. He sees the scoreboard clock tick to zero. His team lost 14-7. No one helps him up. He rolls to his right side and slowly rises.
Cold November air chills the warm sweat streaking his face. Blood trickles from a wound below his right bicep and collects inside his elbow. The roar of thousands of small town high school football fans is muffled by the stark reality that he would never do this again. He went through the motions of shaking hands with his celebrating opponents. Deliberately, he walks off the field, and heads up the field house corridor. He turns around, takes off his helmet and looks over everything he’s leaving. In a perverse sense of relief and wonder, he accepts he’s a football player, no longer.
****blogger’s note****
This is a fictionalized version of my last night playing high school football in 1987. It is part of the writing assignment from Write On Edge’s Red Writing Hood: 400 words or less where athleticism features prominently.
http://writeonedge.com/2011/10/red-writing-hood-athleticism/
Today’s song was one of my favorites in November 1987. I had a thing for the group Gene Love Jezebel in the late 80s. This song leapt to mind when I saw the Write On Edge prompt. Here’s Twenty Killer Hurts.
Wave of Mutilation
It’s been a few years, but I’m remembering the last time I was in a fistfight. That moment when someone’s fist connects with your face is unforgettable. You look up, the knuckles are into your nose, cheek, and eye socket. The pain overwhelms your senses. The cartoons lie. You don’t see stars or hear birds. It’s blackness. Everything goes to a sheet of dark while hurt becomes your master.
That’s how I feel today. Don’t worry, things at home are great. My blues, to quote a Maid Marian, are regarding my writing.
Since the first of August, I started receiving feedback on my words. I joined a critique group and weathered the storm of good natured, constructive criticism. Then I started entering short stories contests, applied to two online magazines, and asked three people who are published authors to judge my stuff. The running total is 4 rejections and some harsh reality regarding the two stories being serialized on MY BLOG CAN BEAT UP YOUR BLOG - Robots and Helene. They need more work than I thought.
I’ve been writing almost every day for 10 months. On average, pencil has been on parent six days a week since mid January. Ninety percent of what I’ve written, you all haven’t seen. That 10 percent is being punched out like a Mike Tyson opponent in the mid 1980s.
The worst blogs on the internet are the ones where people whine in Dear Diary style. You know the ones. They read like Alanis Morisette or Conor Oberst journals. Woe is me and pass the chardonnay with black fly. Guess what, sports fans, that’s the category this post can fall. I have no funny. There’s not a life lesson to ponder. Even the song I will post, while good, is typical of what a Dear Diarist would play. Writing those posts every once in a while is great, just not every one. So, I’ll try not to make a habit of this.
I have a lot of work to do, professionally and personally. For now I’m not changing a damn thing. I am using the word damn, which shows my frustration. I might call my reviewers doodyheads but I promise I’ll do that offblog. No reason to work blue.
Before I get back to work, I’m going to see my 8 year old daughter beat up little boys in judo class. I may have her punch and kick me. At least it will cease being metaphorical for me.
I just wrote 444 words on why I suck. Beat that.
Today’s song is excellent. I almost used Where Is My Mind? or Debaser. They’re my second and third favorite Pixies songs. This is my first. It’s my blog and I’ll play my Pixies if I want too. Here’s Wave of Mutilation. It’s how I feel. Thanks for reading, I love you all.
