NOTE: The following was written the night before after a long day of attending an eductech conference, taking part in The Great Escape Room and hanging out at Downtown Disney for a few hours. I am pasting it exactly as I had typed it - typos and nonsensicals included. For the record, I do not drink alcohol any longer. I haven't had a drop since 1990. Yes, you needed to know that. This little bit of writing below might lead you to believe otherwise:
Well, since getting back into writing 750 words per day, I really haven't written much of anything. It's nearly midnight on a Wednesday and I am in Orlando, so I figured as tired as I am, I would go ahead and write something. Makes about as much sense as anything else, right?
Caleb Tengan stood around 5'9" with short brown hair. He had brown eyes. Well, mostly brown eyes. His left eye had a peculiarity in which a full three-fourths of the color was brown, but one fourth of the circle surrounding his pupil was actually blue. You had to look closely to see it, but once you did, you saw it forever. His medium build, regular nose, and non-descript mouth made him look like anyone else in the world. He felt nothing special about himself. That is not to say he was down on himself. On the contrary, he thought himself to be of at least average intelligence and of at least above-average in the looks department. He wasn't going to set girls' hearts to fluttering, but he wasn't some ugly beast, either. And, he was fine with that. He scratched lightly at his chest.
"Well, I'm not too shabby, I suppose," he said to no one in particular. In fact, as he looked around, he wasn't saying it to anyone else at all. The room in which he stood was vacant. "Well, dang. How long have I been standing here?" He looked at his watch. It was 3:15 in the afternoon, and he had no recollection as to how he missed the fact that all the other participants had left the room. He shrugged, "Well, whaddya gonna do, eh," he said in a mock Italian-American accent.
**I can already tell, this is going nowhere right now. I keep typing in a haze, some kind of weird vegetative state where my eyes glaze over and thoughts escape me, yet my fingers continue to type. Sometimes, I have to go back and fix the words on the page because I have allowed my mind and fingers wander into places unknown. As I am typing this, I have hit 358 words. That's a little bit beyond the halfway mark.
I keep zoning out, playing some kindof boxing match in my head. In the daydream, I walk up to someone's house (always the same house, though) and ask for Niko or something (I can't remember just now). When he comes out, we have a scuffle and I cannot remember why. But, I end up getting an .. I have no idea. My mind is shot, and the line between the reality of the fact I am typing and that of being a hired hand to work, there are certainly drawbacks.
Okay, time to shut this down. Sorry. I just couldn't make it.
--- NOTE: Haha, I have no idea what the second-to-last line means. In fact, I don't even remember typing the last full paragraph. This, children, is why we don't write after we should have gone to sleep.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Playing with #750Words
Greetings!
It has been several YEARS since I last updated this blog. I have decided to give it another go. My source of inspiration comes from a site called "750words.com" which asks you to write at least 750 words per day.
I am going to start posting my entries (or at least some of them) as a way to show not only what runs through my brain when freestyle writing, but to hopefully provide some thoughts and insights as to the writing process as well.
All entries are copyright David W Henderson, Prescott, AR. Feel free to contact me regarding usage, etc if you are so inclined.
Tonight's entry:
Elmer Johnson washed his hands in the dirty bathroom basin. The mirror above the sink was a piece of polished stainless that had long ago lost its lustre. Now, as he looked into it, a ghostly image stared back. Actually, stared is too strong a word, for the surface was so scarred and so disorienting, one could not make out any specific features at all. So, instead of seeing his own defined reflection, there were mere impressions of his being looking back at him. He could not make out eyes nor little, round wire-rimmed glasses nor the bald head with a taunture of hair on each side above the ears. He simply saw an ill-defined shape that shifted when he shifted. He smiled, and the reflection made no noticeable change. This made Elmer scowl and then he spat on the mirror.
Looking down, he rubbed his hands under the running water. Blood washed off in sheets and streams and rivers and tributaries. It fell into the sink, splashing all around, leaving ribbons on the side as the blood found its way to the drain. He tried using the soap dispenser, but it was long empty. As the faucet continued to run, he grabbed a few paper towels out of the dispenser on the wall. He rubbed and he wiped, using circular motions that reminded him of a scene in a movie he had once seen. In the that scene, a boy washed and waxed a car in specific circular motions as commanded by his teacher, his sensei. He smiled again. There was no sensei, no master here. Unless, of course, he counted himself the master, which he did not. He shook his head to show himself there was no master, least of all one Elmer Ray Johnson.
He turned off the water and used more towels to clean up the sink. The thing was so grimy, he couldn't tell where the blood stopped and the filth began. By the time he finished, the sink was as clean as it must have been the first day they installed it, save for the cracks and dents and dings that time so ungraciously provided to it. He considered wiping the stainless steel mirror, but thought he had already wasted too much time in this rest stop restroom. He gathered the used towels and stuffed them into the pockets of his light jacket. He looked down to see his shadow puddling around his feet as the fluorescent light above shone down from the ceiling.
He turned around, unbolted the door, and opened it. As he did, the day's light filled the space and flicked the switch on the wall to turn off the light. He walked briskly to his car, not because of what had just transpired but because the temperature had fallen a great deal while he was in that bathroom. He watched as his breath made vapor in the air.
"Lower than 40," he said out loud to no one. The sky above had grey, smooth clouds. In fact, everything seemed to have taken on a decidedly grey look to it, as he had noticed seemed to be the norm as the season changed from Fall to Winter. And here it was, the first real sign that winter had arrived: monochromatic scenery and smooth clouds overhead. Snow would come. He squinted against the bright, reflected and refracted light around him. If there had been snow, surely he would be blinded by the light all around him. He reached his car and unlocked the door. After getting in, he laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.
When he woke, he shivered a moment before opening his eyes. As he began to come back into the world, he realized he hadn't driven anywhere. The bright, grey light was gone. Left behind, the dark sky overhead, still covered he presumed since he could not see stars. His windshield was covered in a light layer of snow, easily brushed away with the wipers once he started them. He put his key in the ignition and turned it. The wipers raised up from their hidden place and wiped away the snow. The engine hesitated once then came to life. The headlights automatically lit the way before him. He reached over to the center console, flicked the temperature dial to the large red section, indicating maximum heat then he turned the fan to maximum. He punched the button that split the airflow between the windshield and his feet. Curling his toes inside his shoes against the rush of cold air, he threw the car into DRIVE. He hit the gas pedal so hard, his tires spun out on the icy surface beneath them for a moment before catching a dry spot, lurching the car forward.
(Note: at this point, we see that the story is TELLING and not SHOWING. To remedy this, we need to go back and add thoughts, dialog, etc. We need to show more of the surroundings. What does he hear, smell, feel?)
It has been several YEARS since I last updated this blog. I have decided to give it another go. My source of inspiration comes from a site called "750words.com" which asks you to write at least 750 words per day.
I am going to start posting my entries (or at least some of them) as a way to show not only what runs through my brain when freestyle writing, but to hopefully provide some thoughts and insights as to the writing process as well.
All entries are copyright David W Henderson, Prescott, AR. Feel free to contact me regarding usage, etc if you are so inclined.
Tonight's entry:
Elmer Johnson washed his hands in the dirty bathroom basin. The mirror above the sink was a piece of polished stainless that had long ago lost its lustre. Now, as he looked into it, a ghostly image stared back. Actually, stared is too strong a word, for the surface was so scarred and so disorienting, one could not make out any specific features at all. So, instead of seeing his own defined reflection, there were mere impressions of his being looking back at him. He could not make out eyes nor little, round wire-rimmed glasses nor the bald head with a taunture of hair on each side above the ears. He simply saw an ill-defined shape that shifted when he shifted. He smiled, and the reflection made no noticeable change. This made Elmer scowl and then he spat on the mirror.
Looking down, he rubbed his hands under the running water. Blood washed off in sheets and streams and rivers and tributaries. It fell into the sink, splashing all around, leaving ribbons on the side as the blood found its way to the drain. He tried using the soap dispenser, but it was long empty. As the faucet continued to run, he grabbed a few paper towels out of the dispenser on the wall. He rubbed and he wiped, using circular motions that reminded him of a scene in a movie he had once seen. In the that scene, a boy washed and waxed a car in specific circular motions as commanded by his teacher, his sensei. He smiled again. There was no sensei, no master here. Unless, of course, he counted himself the master, which he did not. He shook his head to show himself there was no master, least of all one Elmer Ray Johnson.
He turned off the water and used more towels to clean up the sink. The thing was so grimy, he couldn't tell where the blood stopped and the filth began. By the time he finished, the sink was as clean as it must have been the first day they installed it, save for the cracks and dents and dings that time so ungraciously provided to it. He considered wiping the stainless steel mirror, but thought he had already wasted too much time in this rest stop restroom. He gathered the used towels and stuffed them into the pockets of his light jacket. He looked down to see his shadow puddling around his feet as the fluorescent light above shone down from the ceiling.
He turned around, unbolted the door, and opened it. As he did, the day's light filled the space and flicked the switch on the wall to turn off the light. He walked briskly to his car, not because of what had just transpired but because the temperature had fallen a great deal while he was in that bathroom. He watched as his breath made vapor in the air.
"Lower than 40," he said out loud to no one. The sky above had grey, smooth clouds. In fact, everything seemed to have taken on a decidedly grey look to it, as he had noticed seemed to be the norm as the season changed from Fall to Winter. And here it was, the first real sign that winter had arrived: monochromatic scenery and smooth clouds overhead. Snow would come. He squinted against the bright, reflected and refracted light around him. If there had been snow, surely he would be blinded by the light all around him. He reached his car and unlocked the door. After getting in, he laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.
When he woke, he shivered a moment before opening his eyes. As he began to come back into the world, he realized he hadn't driven anywhere. The bright, grey light was gone. Left behind, the dark sky overhead, still covered he presumed since he could not see stars. His windshield was covered in a light layer of snow, easily brushed away with the wipers once he started them. He put his key in the ignition and turned it. The wipers raised up from their hidden place and wiped away the snow. The engine hesitated once then came to life. The headlights automatically lit the way before him. He reached over to the center console, flicked the temperature dial to the large red section, indicating maximum heat then he turned the fan to maximum. He punched the button that split the airflow between the windshield and his feet. Curling his toes inside his shoes against the rush of cold air, he threw the car into DRIVE. He hit the gas pedal so hard, his tires spun out on the icy surface beneath them for a moment before catching a dry spot, lurching the car forward.
(Note: at this point, we see that the story is TELLING and not SHOWING. To remedy this, we need to go back and add thoughts, dialog, etc. We need to show more of the surroundings. What does he hear, smell, feel?)
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