tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44710071194318877722024-02-19T05:13:22.937-08:00David W Henderson, Author--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-35436496733619256602019-02-19T10:06:00.000-08:002019-02-19T10:06:18.431-08:00Reddit Writing Prompt: Empty HometownThe following is a writing prompt from Reddit, offered up some time ago. I wrote a <i><b>rough </b></i>short story based on the prompt. Enjoy!<br />
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<i>Reddit: [WP] Took a wrong turn while hiking and got stuck in the woods for 24hrs. You found your way back only to find your hometown deserted.</i><br />
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<b>HOMETOWN (DESERTED)</b><br />
by David W. Henderson, (c)2019, All Rights Reserved.<br />
<br />
I stumbled out of the woods and onto the two-lane road. It looked familiar, but lack of sleep and food kept my mind too cloudy for clear thinking. I lumbered along for a while before coming across the familiar green metal post sticking up out of the ground with the the blue and yellow "48" on it. I was on County Road 48. From the looks of things, I was heading into town rather than away from it, so I chalked that up to good luck and kept on walking.<br />
<br />
The cows in the fields on either side of the road stood by their barbed-wire prison bars, chewing on grass and doing all they could to ignore me. Every now and then, one would raise its head and look at me for a moment with huge round eyes that appeared too big for the sockets they occupied. Birds chirped from the trees. Wind rustled leaves. No cars came by, which was a bit odd. It was a smaller road, but it was paved and served as the main way into or out of our sleepy little town. I kept walking.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I saw the town gradually take shape before me. Nondescript brick storefronts, most of them empty for decades, came into view and I quickened my pace. Though much of the town had dried up and blown away, we did still have a couple gas stations, a school, several eateries, and more than handful of antique shops selling wares which reminded the people of what life used to be like when the town a bustling city.<br />
<br />
The clock on the bank showed 8:30, but all the streets were empty. No cars drove from place to place. I didn't hear children playing in yards. No one sat waiting for their turn at the gas station pumps. I could faintly hear music playing somewhere in the distance. No one was outside.<br />
<br />
I walked to the gas station nearest this end of town, a Shell station as of late, though it had been many brands over the years. I opened the door and walked into the brightly lit convenience store. The counter was empty, but that wasn't unusual. The workers were often in the back dealing with stock or in the restroom taking care of their own business.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" I called out, my voice reverberating off the metal shelving half stocked with various treats and supplies. No reply. "HELLO? ANYONE HERE?" I yelled. No answer. I knocked on the bathroom door and opened it when I heard no reply. Empty. I walked to the back where the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign hung above a door and called out again, "Hello? Anyone here?" Nothing. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one was. I stepped through the door. The stockroom was full of supplies but that was all.<br />
<br />
I came back out front and grabbed a twin pack of chocolate cupcakes--the ones with the white swirls on top--and a Yoohoo from the cooler. I walked to the counter and waited. Looking through the large windows to the outside world, I couldn't help but noticed how quiet everything seemed to be. Or how dead. Nothing was moving except for the occasional stray dog or cat that walked along the road. No people, though. I looked around inside. Still no signs of life in here, other than myself.<br />
<br />
"HELLO!?" I yelled out again. Something wasn't right. I took five dollars out of my pocket and put it on the counter. That was more than the total cost, but I wanted to get out of there quickly. "Close enough," I said to the register as I pushed my way through the front door. The traffic light to my right and one block up went through its cycle, though no cars passed beneath it.<br />
<br />
I ran across the street to the hardware store and tried the door. It was locked. That was unusual because the store regularly opens at seven o'clock. People have things to do, you know. Or, HAD things to do, it seemed now. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and hit the "wake" button. Nothing happened. I remembered that my battery had died earlier the day before. I had set out for a hike in the woods and had forgotten to charge my phone first. Brilliant.<br />
<br />
I decided to head for Jack's house. Jack lived a couple blocks away and was one of my best friends from high school. This was a small town. Most folks stayed here. Where else would we go? What else would we do? Sure, there was an open road and a world around around us, but staying trapped within the confines of city limits proved to be the norm rather than the exception. We did the best we could with what he had and we took pride in what was left of our town. It's hard to explain to folks. Growing up here, one is a part of the town as much as the town is a part of the person.<br />
<br />
I knocked on Jack's door, but no one answered. "Jack!?" I called out. No answer. I hollered again, hoping someone, anyone would hear me. Silence. I picked up a rock that lined the sidewalk to Jack's front door and turned it in my hand. As the bottom came into view, I pulled open the cover to where he had kept his spare key. taking the key, I went inside. Everything was in place. Nothing seemed to me knocked over or messed or missing. Except Jack. I searched the house, calling out every so often to see if anyone else was inside. Of course, no one was.<br />
<br />
I found Jack's car keys hanging near the garage door, so I took them, went out into the garage and got in his car--a newer model Ford Mustang convertible. I figured if I was going to drive around town and figure out what was going on, I might as well do it in style. Besides, it sure beat walking.<br />
<br />
I drove. I stopped at random houses. I honked my horn, well, Jack's horn, to try and get some attention. Nothing. I stopped by the courthouse, the police station, the post office. Nothing, or more to the point: no one. The town was empty. It was as if the rapture had taken place and I was the only one left behind. I kept driving. I spent the full day exploring the town I had lived in my whole life, discovering parts of town I had never seen and visiting the old haunts of my youth. In none of this did I encounter another human being. I drove home. One would think the first place i would have driven was home, but I wasn't thinking straight. I'm not sure what I was thinking. But, now, I drove home.<br />
<br />
The ranch-style house haunched on the top of a small hill. I drove up the driveway, honking the horn the whole time. I pulled under the carport, hopped out of the car and unlocked the door. I rushed in, hoping someone would be there.<br />
<br />
"Kara?" I called out, hoping my wife would answer. "Scooter? Shawn?" I called out for my son, first by his nickname then by his given name. No answer. I searched frantically, knocking over lamps and tables and anything else in my way. I pushed through doors and searched through closets. Empty. I must have searched for more than hour before collapsing in a heap of spent adrenaline and tears onto the living room couch. My eye caught the cordless phone on the table beside me. I picked it up, turned it on, and got a dial tone. I dialed 9-1-1.<br />
<br />
An operator on the other end said, "9-1-1. What is your emergency?"<br />
<br />
###<br />
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For information regarding usage, publication, distribution, etc, please contact me: <a href="mailto:davidinark@gmail.com">davidinark@gmail.com</a> --Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-77444364060824671082018-08-08T13:43:00.000-07:002018-08-08T13:43:52.466-07:00Chaos of Hard Clay out now!!<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="direction: ltr; font-size: 12pt; unicode-bidi: embed;">My story, “A Game of Tag” is included in this brand-new anthology “Chaos of Hard Clay!!” Get it here: http://mybook.to/hardclay #author #writing #anthology </span></div>
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--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-86143184389464557252017-10-29T21:13:00.001-07:002017-10-29T21:13:50.435-07:00"A Game of Tag" to be published in Nov 2017!<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "SF Optimized", system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.12px;">So excited and honored to have "A Game of Tag" included in this collection coming out SOON!! </span><a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="async" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fgallencook.com%2F2017%2F10%2F29%2Fhardclay%2F&h=ATP87Y7M5_9Hjddh1AqTywsq1B9VMVvC3nq5rNbpHSs6SiU9-9OD558A2cFAEakxvVXQPgbhMyPz9S1iDMoHgHAVIkPkXa3PAROe65Lo3SY3IETvkaJKVsjtVimRMP2Qjm6EeXDnlhvgZ7Xv7H0g1XExtGUrwimefrEFahOmHlVLn7J2gsGWSyy2yTdCygIp7MypsBTa1FDQ4bHzwJbSXslDU8NPZVClnYzWKTn51KHGGu4lBXoKvWvp0h_BcxvKIoftYFaGxMjHb27LBE0gW6O6qgg7w15aNQY1WtlQSpWN9w" rel="noopener nofollow" style="background-color: white; color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: "SF Optimized", system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.12px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">http://gallencook.com/2017/10/29/hardclay/</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFg8IvELZDuvMgwx8zYsyBl9jldeKbshBpUZzdTUma0zA4_6G9tBbnhzs7fNmTAz9JAQ0nd_vZZrSGvWa9qp3_eXJwBIr9YctP0XW_y6mgaFNecixUcWxz72Y5rYYiV-43PUiUfp1ieQed/s1600/book-cover-275x500.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFg8IvELZDuvMgwx8zYsyBl9jldeKbshBpUZzdTUma0zA4_6G9tBbnhzs7fNmTAz9JAQ0nd_vZZrSGvWa9qp3_eXJwBIr9YctP0XW_y6mgaFNecixUcWxz72Y5rYYiV-43PUiUfp1ieQed/s320/book-cover-275x500.png" width="176" /></a></div>
<br />--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-75209649456860903762017-10-27T06:26:00.000-07:002017-10-27T06:26:45.601-07:00Gathering of Authors Event - Oct 28 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kMvB-7lgeaMVvXZihXph1bRfeu8Zcc3VRurp0UwWkT23unKvI4uEQfEAulz30zX2emmqn1qo-ylekAChWj6cxwAUzaM84M8KaK2qd6w_FVIekJ4O2132GBgZFzB1SsLTjJ8VP_noD9v1/s1600/goa-logo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="891" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kMvB-7lgeaMVvXZihXph1bRfeu8Zcc3VRurp0UwWkT23unKvI4uEQfEAulz30zX2emmqn1qo-ylekAChWj6cxwAUzaM84M8KaK2qd6w_FVIekJ4O2132GBgZFzB1SsLTjJ8VP_noD9v1/s640/goa-logo.PNG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I will be at the Gathering of Authors event at the Texarkana, Arkansas, Convention Center on Oct 28, 2017! Come out and meet more than two dozen authors, enjoy snacks, and help us raise money for these two wonderful charities!<br />
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100% of my book sales will go to charity at this event! <br />
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="450" src="https://www.google.com/maps/embed?pb=!1m18!1m12!1m3!1d3328.1222316718254!2d-94.03628592082852!3d33.47216830299849!2m3!1f0!2f0!3f0!3m2!1i1024!2i768!4f13.1!3m3!1m2!1s0x8634698523cdbe8d%3A0xc19dc1a2c0ba2a9d!2sArkansas+Convention+Center+Texarkana!5e0!3m2!1sen!2sus!4v1509110652284" style="border: 0;" width="600"></iframe></div>
--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-21304141302439021492017-04-05T20:30:00.002-07:002017-04-05T20:30:38.182-07:00"Mirror, Mirror"Sometimes, I write bits of very short fiction (referred to a Flash Fiction). This is one such tale:<br />
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<b><i>"Mirror, Mirror"</i></b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Abby sings “Hakuna Matata.” Something darts from the underbrush. Should I swerve? I hold my breath. Indecision thrusts the vehicle forward. On its haunches, it turns to me. The steering wheel wiggles against a small bump. “Thudathump” echoes from beneath. In the rearview, the small, furry grey squirrel lays in the road – tail raised stiffly in surrender. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Did you kill him, Daddy?” Abby asks from the rear as our eyes meet in the mirror.</blockquote>
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--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-87890671821756298252015-04-15T07:19:00.003-07:002015-04-15T07:19:47.550-07:00"All This Digging" reviewed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Rod Richards, who owns "The Title Wave" bookstore in Portland, Oregon, has reviewed thousands of books and has been posting reviews on <a href="http://readerman.us/">readerman.us</a>. Recently, he reviewed my debut collection of short stories, "All This Digging and other stories."<br />
<br />
The link to the actual review is: <a href="http://readerman.us/201504_7039/">http://readerman.us/201504_7039/</a><br />
<br />
I wrote these stories while working on my Masters Degree many years ago. They were part of a larger project I was doing as part of my thesis. At that time, the loose collection was called "Unfinished Business," because I believe that all short stories are mere glimpses into a moment in time. We don't generally know what led us to the event detailed in the story nor do we often know what happens afterward. I also named it that because I had the start of a novel (then called "Summer of Seven" which later became "Summer Breaks") and knew that it was not even close to being finished.<br />
<br />
Some of the stories begin and end with roughly the same sentence. I was trying to develop a series of stories that I dubbed "Circle of Life" tales. That is, the reader is taken on a small journey that essentially leads the reader right back to where s/he started.<br />
<br />
For example, the collection's title piece, "All This Digging," starts off with:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I hate all this digging," the old man said aloud to no one.</blockquote>
As the story unfolds, the reader is drawn into a strange, ultimately horrific, tale. As the old man finishes his work, the story ends with the opening line above. <br />
<br />
As Rod says, each story shows, "the way people think in different situations. Some I don’t understand but I recognize them." That is the point of many of the short fiction that I write: get inside the protagonist's head, even if you don't understand what's in there. We often wonder what other people are thinking or what it would be like to be the proverbial fly on the wall. All too often, though, what we'd find would either scare us or confuse us.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, these are not horror stories (er, well, not all of them). But, I have found the line between laughter and fear is not always clearly defined.<br />
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Want to read the book? Click on "All This Digging" in the right column.<br />
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Thanks for stopping by!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*What does the bear picture have to do with anything!? Read the book to find out!</i></span>--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-81732011705890229512015-04-11T00:26:00.003-07:002015-04-11T00:26:47.199-07:00Work in Progress: Game-inspired novel #writing #novel #ootpHey, everyone! Thanks for stopping by to see what I've been up to. Right now, I am working on a novel inspired by the baseball simulation called OOTP (Out of the Park). The story centers on two brothers from Chicago: John and Carter "Dingus" Bailey.<br />
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I let the game create everything in a fictional midwestern league: team names, player names, birthdates, cities of birth, etc. Then, I went through all the players and found all those with the same last name. After that, I looked to see if any of those had been born in the same city. Sure enough, the Bailey brothers were discovered.<br />
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Carter was born on April 26, 1980. John was born on September 06, 1990. At the start of the novel, Carter wears #14 and plays left field for the Oklahoma City Mad Ants. John wears #5 and plays Shortstop for the Omaha Pumas. We'll see where their careers, and their age differences, take them over the course of their ball-playing time.<br />
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The cool thing about the game is that you not only get stats, but you get fun News Items, such as injury reports that tell you how the player got injured (say, accidentally shoots himself in the foot - an actual in-game event, though it was not a Bailey boy who did it) and how long the player is expected to be out. The game also picks Players of the Week and hands out various other awards.<br />
<br />
I chose to create an 8-team league because I wanted that small town feel. I'm sure there will be superstars on some teams and drama on others. Some of those players and events will have an impact on one Bailey brother or the other - or sometimes both, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
I've never tried to write a novel this way before, so we'll see how it all pans out. Wish the boys luck!<br />
<br />--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-17890227226584694552015-03-18T19:37:00.001-07:002015-03-19T04:30:04.327-07:00A "nameless" college<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
In the Fall of 1987, students learned that Loretto Heights College in Denver, Colorado, was being sold to Regis College and subsequently to the Japanese University (or vice versa).<br />
<br />
In any case, the Spring of 1988 was difficult for the students who had come to love attending the small, private Liberal Arts college. I took a creative writing class that semester under the leadership of Dr. Bob Johnson. He was, by far, one of the best writing profs I have ever had.<br />
<br />
We had an assignment to write about the closing of the college. I don't know what ever happened to my paper, and I hate that I did not keep it. It talked of crumbling sandstone and broken hearts. It also spoke of what I saw of my future.<br />
<br />
I wrote that I would ultimately graduate from some "nameless college." As life's irony would have it, not only did I not graduate from a nameless college, I graduated from a university with MY own name! Twice.<br />
<br />
In 1990, I transferred from University of Colorado to Henderson State University. I had not planned to graduate from there. I was enrolled in order to help get my grades back in line after majoring in "socializing" at CU-Boulder.<br />
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I actually came to enjoy attending Henderson State, met the woman who amazingly agreed to marry me, and in the Spring of 1993 I graduated with my Bachelor of Arts - Mass Media Radio.<br />
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In the Summer of 2003 (or thereabouts), I walked out with my Master of Liberal Arts - English (or, listed as "General") degree from Henderson State University.<br />
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And now, our son attends that same university.<br />
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Not only did I *NOT* end up at some "nameless" university, but the university with my own name has proved to be one of the pivotal points over the course of my lifetime.--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-2688303931223808712015-01-22T04:26:00.001-08:002015-01-22T04:26:21.143-08:00Not quite #750Words, not quite awake eitherNOTE: 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:<br />
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<i>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?</i><br />
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<i>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.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"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><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>**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><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>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.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Okay, time to shut this down. Sorry. I just couldn't make it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>--- </i>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.<br />
<br />--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-7207286912521902692015-01-11T19:36:00.001-08:002015-01-11T19:36:28.279-08:00Playing with #750WordsGreetings!<br />
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 "<a href="http://750words.com/">750words.com</a>" which asks you to write at least 750 words per day.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
All entries are copyright David W Henderson, Prescott, AR. Feel free to contact me regarding usage, etc if you are so inclined.<br />
<br />
Tonight's entry:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
(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?)--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-57586531915946365702011-10-28T07:48:00.000-07:002011-10-28T07:48:06.123-07:00"Summer Breaks" ReviewedI asked Rod Richards, author of "Readerman.net" and fellow card collector, to write up a review for my debut novel, "Summer Breaks." I respect his thoughts and insights and have enjoyed reading the reviews of the many other books he has posted to his site. <br />
<br />
One of the advantages to having Rod on my Facebook friends list: direct discussion. He let me read the review before posting, and I was able to explain some of my thoughts on his responses. He then had some follow-up comments, and the whole process showed me where certain weak areas might exist in the novel. <br />
<br />
The two main issues he had with the novel: time and age. <br />
<br />
I wrote the story without a particular time in mind because it was meant to have nostalgic feel without limiting the setting to a particular decade or specific year. I can see where that might actually detract from things in retrospect. In one scene, Decker opens a pack of baseball cards and tosses most of them away. As a collector, knowing just what cards (and what year of the cards) is a piece of information we basically thrive on. Did he throw away a rookie card of some guy named "Eddie Murray?" Was it Nolan Ryan? How about Derek Jeter or Albert Pujols or, heaven forbid, Mickey Mantle? Okay, well, the songs referenced in the story would prevent some of those names being opened in a fresh pack of dime-store cards, but hopefully you get the gist. The date is probably more important than I had given thought.<br />
<br />
The ages of the kids in the story, I thought, were self-evident. But, after reading back over it again, I can see where a reader might not quite be sure just how old these kids are. I did have one reader ask me, "Are you sure ten year olds would do this?" I then explained that though this tale was fiction, some of the episodes in it were based on actual adventures I had myself... when I was about eight. I figured no one in their right mind today would believe such things could happen to eight year olds, so that is why I made them all around ten. As an aside, the original story was called, "Summer of Seven" and was about a group of seven kids who were all seven years old. Again, I figured no one today would believe seven year old kids would be doing these things. Truth is stranger than fiction.<br />
<br />
There were a couple of editing errors as well. They are the kind that we make when we insert words mentally we know should be there physically. They even got by my editor.<br />
<br />
What I really enjoyed about the review, especially when connected with the follow up conversation, were the afterthoughts I had because of it. The story will eventually be included in a compilation of the "Decker Stories" once I finish the series, and some revision/reworking will certainly be in order.<br />
<br />
The review can be found here: <a href="http://www.readerman.net/201110_3388/">http://www.readerman.net/201110_3388/</a><br />
<br />
Thank you, Rod, for the review and the thought-provoking discussion! <br />
<br />
Two asides:<br />
1) Yes, there will be a series for this novel. The next book, "Lost Summer" is already in the works (meaning I have started writing it and will use it for my NaNoWriMo entry this year). <br />
2) I always wondered by authors re-released some of their books. And now I know why. After a story has left an author, it takes on a life of its own, and just like real life, as the story ages, it gains new character, deeper personality, and age lines. Sometimes, an author feels like they need to do a little plastic surgery to keep the story fresh - not really changing its appearance completely, but just enough for readers to see a slightly different side of it. I don't plan on going all "Michael Jackson" with it. But, maybe more like "Jennifer Grey" - just a nip to make the reader look twice.--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-85901394318880883972011-10-21T04:45:00.000-07:002011-10-21T04:45:57.749-07:002011 Fall Gathering of Authors!Want something fun to do this Saturday? Want to help the kids at St. Jude's Hospital in the process? Want to win some VERY cool door prizes? Would you like to meet some local (and some not-so-local) authors? Want some food to eat? Want some cool things for kids (of all ages!) to do? <br />
<br />
The 2011 FALL GATHERING OF AUTHORS is here!! <br />
<br />
When: Saturday, October 22 from 10am - 4pm (come and go, or stay the day!) <br />
<br />
Where: Four States Fairgrounds, Fine Arts Center, Texarkana<br />
<br />
Who, What, Why? For those answers, jump on over to here: <a href="http://www.tammydthompson.com/fall_gathering_of_authors">http://www.tammydthompson.com/fall_gathering_of_authors </a><br />
<br />
I will be there to sign books, chit-chat, and have a good time! Come on by and say "HI!" <br />
<br />
SHOW SPECIAL: 50% OF ALL MY BOOK SALES GOES TO ST. JUDES!<br />
<br />
You can also have a chance to win a signed copy of one of my books!<br />
<br />
Books I'll have on-hand include:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRYOzOYKjr5jJ0gwf33cEqMhLW3IFsnlsrZCFEPuNx4tOkTtz2xjhKxIHkIsoO7AgreXHHtVZme4UkdnlUy3sZFhoTC8oDSkBTeft7dCk_7PgR_k68VpdBec4shvRGv5EY03HiH8njlWW/s175/summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRYOzOYKjr5jJ0gwf33cEqMhLW3IFsnlsrZCFEPuNx4tOkTtz2xjhKxIHkIsoO7AgreXHHtVZme4UkdnlUy3sZFhoTC8oDSkBTeft7dCk_7PgR_k68VpdBec4shvRGv5EY03HiH8njlWW/s175/summer.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SUMMER BREAKS: a novel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0QT3eJMI_TqmXZLYp75_QjULHDXEzCYdTbmiSlEdHc8v46UzxbvPbH1sZSZwP8N-tVJDCxl4ksxo5OSLSrxCLsfsFyWlEA-Nk7CyhvImMlVsBWUUtN7DRbbguzfPfrf9Jay3O7cvuIo_/s175/digging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0QT3eJMI_TqmXZLYp75_QjULHDXEzCYdTbmiSlEdHc8v46UzxbvPbH1sZSZwP8N-tVJDCxl4ksxo5OSLSrxCLsfsFyWlEA-Nk7CyhvImMlVsBWUUtN7DRbbguzfPfrf9Jay3O7cvuIo_/s175/digging.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ALL THIS DIGGING and other stories</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-88756792994569595922011-07-26T18:11:00.000-07:002011-07-26T18:11:23.038-07:00A new project in the works!I haven't posted on my author page lately. Sorry about that, but I try to save posts on here for things pertinent to my writing (or writing in general), publishing, appearances, etc. <br />
<br />
Well, after more than a year's searching, I finally found the songwriter responsible for "Jesus Saves" performed by Hannah Blaylock and Eden's Edge waaaaaay before they were famous (or on the verge of stardom!!). Last Fall during the 2010 NaNoWriMo, I started a story based on the song, but wanted to be sure I had his okay before moving toward publication.<br />
<br />
Today, Steve Smith gave his okay and I hope to have the new story ready for this year's Gathering of Authors in Texarkana! This is my first "derivative work" venture and I am very excited to bring the characters from the song into life through the stories of their lives!<br />
<br />
Thanks so much to Mr. Smith!--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-20201342074962310802011-07-21T21:23:00.000-07:002011-07-21T21:23:45.204-07:00My Inbox had bad news (Borders Goodbye)The letter from the CEO was actually a series of images in my Yahoo! mail:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrxWs1AnGk1K1t-Z9FfeuXrP7OcIh2I0CHkkvR-BQnTJGOdhjT7UBR2W1iQ9p798YLawXIISuCkbPkf4Le8S3bIA49ND2MXzGHLn9EkfBR4eHGNfD69iGFITmQeNg4jODfiR5OyOCPEjT/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-07-21+at+11.13.27+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrxWs1AnGk1K1t-Z9FfeuXrP7OcIh2I0CHkkvR-BQnTJGOdhjT7UBR2W1iQ9p798YLawXIISuCkbPkf4Le8S3bIA49ND2MXzGHLn9EkfBR4eHGNfD69iGFITmQeNg4jODfiR5OyOCPEjT/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-07-21+at+11.13.27+PM.png" /></a></div>--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-467281753463025002011-07-04T06:52:00.000-07:002011-07-04T06:52:23.921-07:00STARSNSTRIPES - Gets you 20% off my books!Wow! Lulu.com is offering a special for the 4th of July! If you're looking for a fun summertime read, check out my book, "Summer Breaks!" And, if you use the coupon code STARSNSTRIPES when you check out, you get 20% off! PLUS, I am offering it at a 40% discount! That is a total of 60% off!! Wahoo!<br />
<br />
Get your copy here: <a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/summer-breaks/11904667">http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/summer-breaks/11904667</a>--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-32360969636910890662011-06-05T13:57:00.000-07:002011-06-05T13:57:56.354-07:00Let It Not Be Said - A poem of sortsOur preacher, Perry Johnson, examined what would be worse than going to Hell after we died. The answer: taking someone with you (or causing someone to go). That weighed on my heart pretty heavily. After all, I happen to believe that after we pass on from this world, our spirit (or soul or whatever word you choose) passes to either Heaven or Hell. I also happen to believe that the deciding factor into which place one ends up is based on the belief that God sent His son, Jesus, to the earth in order to teach and lead us to Heaven, then die on the cross and rise again. Jesus, and God through Him, also made it clear that those "playing church" were an abomination to God and Heaven. I have a lot of friends and family on many of the social networks I hang out on, and I never want it said that I did not tell them about the way to Heaven.<br />
<br />
Oh, I know a lot of my friends and family are not believers and will most likely never be. But, if there is something I say that happens to cause even one to stop and think, maybe even reach the same conclusion, then posting this and sharing my belief is worth it. I am not one to force my beliefs on anyone. In fact, I have quite a bit of enough "well-rounded education" to live by the creed: Question Everything. Why question everything? Because, only by examining various angles and aspects of anything anyone tells you, can you truly know what it is YOU believe and WHY you believe it. No one should believe that Jesus is the way to Heaven just because I say so, or because they read "John 3:16" plastered all over the walls of the world. By the same token, no one should suffer an eternity in Hell because *I* neglected the simple act of TELLING it.<br />
<br />
That is where this "poem" comes into being. Let it not be said that I never told my friends, family, friends-of-friends, or anyone else that happens upon this post, that I did not tell them about Jesus. And, if you want to know more about what I believe and why, or you want to talk to someone who is much smarter than I am about these things, let me know and I'll pass along your info to my pastor or our youth minister. Whether you agree or disagree, love me or hate me, if you've read this far, you cannot truthfully say that I never told you that believing in Jesus and His resurrection was the way to eternal Heaven.<br />
-----------------------<br />
"Let it not be said" - David Henderson<br />
<br />
Let it not be said<br />
From here on out<br />
That I did not say<br />
Or scream or shout<br />
That the way to Heaven<br />
Is an easy route.<br />
<br />
Let it not be said<br />
From this day forth<br />
That I did not make<br />
A stand of worth<br />
That the way to Heaven<br />
Is there from birth.<br />
<br />
Let it not be said<br />
Of my own blame<br />
That I did not share<br />
What is ours to claim<br />
The way to Heaven<br />
Is by Jesus' name.<br />
<br />
Believe in your heart<br />
That God loves you<br />
And He sent His son<br />
To show it true<br />
And that His son died<br />
And rose anew.<br />
<br />
Though the way to Heaven is easy<br />
The path is hard.<br />
Salvation is not<br />
An "easy life" card.<br />
Troubles and triumphs lie in wait,<br />
For even Jesus' hands are scarred.<br />
<br />
Let it not be said<br />
Of me in this life<br />
That I did not tell<br />
My friends, or family, or my wife<br />
Of the way, the truth<br />
Or of the Life.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(copyright 2011, David W Henderson. All rights reserved. Please contact me: davidinark@yahoo.com for info, interviews, usage, etc)</span>--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-43378117195304596402011-04-13T05:57:00.000-07:002011-04-13T05:57:26.590-07:002011 Fall Gathering of Authors!Wahoo! Just got the word yesterday that the 2011 Fall Gathering of Authors will be held on October 22, 2011. This will be your chance to head to Texarkana and meet authors from the four-state region as well as some nationally-known writers! <br />
<br />
The night before, there will be a benefit dinner for St. Jude's hospital and all money raised at the Gathering (through raffle ticket sales) will go to benefit St. Jude's. Many authors also make a portion of their book sales a donation as well.<br />
<br />
The event is tentatively scheduled to be held at the Four States Fairgrounds in Texarkana like last year, but we'll know more as the time gets closer. Of course, I'll keep you posted! Looks like some fun changes are in store, too!--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-30414626902300010912011-03-29T19:26:00.000-07:002011-03-29T19:26:49.061-07:00Gimmie Five!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXDGBVXv76Y3EoOtE6aGE0TRKT2U4mZOlY7biXfMtMfYAfRTPTjw94NxpC-D3Ol1onIgd8w3zrBalHCBT-IquxwYy9OUtfAfmSdSgMXh3a8t82U-1dGbbPbZB0JTaOs750AzOcG_qceZG/s1600/music-gig-five-minutes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXDGBVXv76Y3EoOtE6aGE0TRKT2U4mZOlY7biXfMtMfYAfRTPTjw94NxpC-D3Ol1onIgd8w3zrBalHCBT-IquxwYy9OUtfAfmSdSgMXh3a8t82U-1dGbbPbZB0JTaOs750AzOcG_qceZG/s320/music-gig-five-minutes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Five Minutes. How long is that? Not long at all, right? I mean, come on. Five minutes is probably about the amount of time you spend in the restroom. It's the length of about two commercial breaks. It's about the amount of time it takes to go from laying in the bed to falling asleep for some folks.<br />
<br />
<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=jupoinmyhe-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B00317G6YS&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>So, what else can we do in five minutes? I found out while reading "Immediate Fiction" by Jerry Cleaver. Heck, these days, the book is even available on Kindle! I digress. In the book, Cleaver gets the writing juices flowing with a Five-Minute daily exercise. The agreement one makes with oneself is that for 30 days, the writer promises to take just five minutes to write something. Anything. Actually, when first starting out, the writer isn't supposed to write anything - just relax and let go for five minutes.<br />
<br />
So, I am taking the challenge. Each day during my lunch hour at work, I am taking five minutes to write. So far, nothing of substance has materialized, but that's okay. I am jotting ideas, exploring characters, writing jibberish in some cases. But, I am writing.<br />
<br />
I challenge you to try it yourself. As Cleaver says in his book, by a year's time, you could easily have written 100-150 PAGES of text. For someone who "can't" write or who "doesn't" write, you may find yourself face-to-face with the start of a novel or a collection of short stories or a book of poetry!--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-27546392295976184052011-03-17T18:40:00.000-07:002011-03-17T18:40:46.316-07:00Word Play: Six-Word HeadlinesIf you enjoy writing, there's a pretty good chance you've heard of things like "The Six-Word Challenge." The most famous of these is Earnest Hemingway's "Baby shoes for sale, never used." It is amazing how just six words can bring such immediate and heavy emotion.<br />
<br />
As a twist on that, I thought I would jot down a six-word headline in which the acronym tells a different story. This has three components to it: It must be six words, It must create a "non-jibberish" acronym, and The acronym must contradict the headline being touted. Don't ask why. This is something I do when the urge pops in my head.<br />
<br />
So, quickly, I came up with this one:<br />
<b><br />
Hero Escapes Deadly Ice-Encrusted Dagger</b> (<i>HE DIED</i>)<br />
<br />
So, now you give it a try! Make up your own or feel free to improve on mine using the same six letters in your acronym!--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-63836068772874934702011-03-08T04:38:00.000-08:002011-03-08T04:38:38.445-08:00"Forgiven"This past Sunday, our pastor talked about "hope" and used the men hanging on the cross on either side of Jesus as part of his illustration. I thought I would share a story I wrote that's included in the collection "All This Digging." This story is called "Forgiven:"<br />
<br />
“Forgiven” (copyright David Henderson)<br />
<br />
“Did you hear that, Jak?” Markus asked. “They're calling out to crucify someone, Jak.” Markus pressed his head against the wall. The crowds outside the cramped little room shouted and screamed as loud as humanly possible. Markus ran back and forth between the wall and Jak. He grew more and more excited the louder the crowd yelled. He pressed against the wooden door, but commotion on the other side prevented him from hearing any actual words. The whole building was in an uproar. From what Markus could tell, the whole town was in an uproar.<br />
<br />
“Stop with yer fidgetin' afore I knock you one.” Jak made a fist at Markus, who cowered at the sight. Jak's massive frame took up most of the space in the room. It was only a room in the sense that it had a floor, four walls, and a ceiling. In reality, a prison cell. The only light came from a window high above their heads. Jak looked like someone had hung him out on the clothesline and forgot about him for years. His body and his face were heavily scarred, deeply bruised and severely beaten. He wasn't happy to be sitting in that cell, wasn't exactly sure how he got there, but knew he had to get out soon. He looked through furrowed brows at Markus, and shook his head. Markus bounced from wall to door and back again. He was much smaller than Jak, in both height and width. A simple-minded man, easily amused and easily controlled, which is why Jak liked him.<br />
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Jak and Markus met each other in a tavern not long ago. Jak convinced Markus that they should sneak into a neighboring town at night and take enough food to feed themselves for a whole month. Markus didn't like the idea of stealing the food, but the idea of getting the life beat out of him was much worse. They made a plan and hid out until dark. Markus went ahead of Jak to check for passersby and guardsmen and when he reached the shop where the bread baked, he signaled to Jak who burst the door open and the two of them took everything they could carry. Before either of the men knew what had happened, they were attacked. When they woke, they found themselves in this cell.<br />
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The crowds outside the small room continued to yell and scream. Markus strained to hear the words they chanted.<br />
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“Barabas! Barabas? It sounds like they're calling for Barabas, Jak.” Barabas had killed many people before the guardsmen finally caught up with him. He stole from anyone and gave to no one. The people of the town held a celebration on the day Barabas was carted off to the prison. Now, it seemed the crowds wanted him freed. “Free Barabas, Jak. That's what they say, Jak. Free Barabas!” Markus scurried back and forth, twisting his hands together over and over, a mad scientist in search of a lab. His pacing made Jak nervous.<br />
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“Would ya stop that? Yer drivin' me nuts!” Jak picked up a handful of dirt and threw it across the tiny room. Markus cowered as if the specs of dust weighed hundreds of pounds. “Yer hearin' it wrong, boy. No one in their right mind would free Barabas.”<br />
“No, Jak! That's who they want. They say 'Free Barabas' all the time, Jak. Now they are shouting 'crucify crucify,' Jak. They want someone crucified!” Markus made stabbing motions through the air as if murdering an invisible foe, then suddenly raced frantically back and forth in the tiny cell.<br />
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Frustrated and tired, Jak waved his hand at his cell-mate.<br />
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“So be it. Let 'em have whoever they want. They won't get me! We gotta get outta here! Do you hear me?” Jak raised his voice, and Markus stopped in his tracks, looked around, and then up to the window. He shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the light coming in from the outside and shook his head.<br />
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“Yeah, yeah, I know. Window's too high. Door's too strong,” Jak pounded his fist against the wall. “Walls are too hard. I won't go down, Markus. They can't keep me!” Markus shook his own hand in reaction to the pain his friend should have felt. The crowd roared with approval then suddenly seemed quiet.<br />
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After a few moments of silence, Jak finally asked, “What's goin’ on out dere?”<br />
“They're goin'. The crowd's leavin'. It's over, I guess. They've freed Barabas, Jak. He's a free man. I don't like it. Not one bit.” Markus sat in the corner opposite Jak, hanging his head in his hands. Jak spent the rest of the day planning a getaway, while Markus spent the day pressing his head up against the wall and the door. Finally, night came, and both men slept.<br />
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As morning light filtered into the cell, the lock on the door came to life. Markus leapt to his feet and cowered in the corner. Jak balled his fists and pulled back his arm. As the door swung outward, he ran to the door and forced it fully open. A scream and a grunt came from behind the door, but the door didn't open into the wall the way it was designed. Instead, Jak had pinned a guard between the door and the wall. Unfortunately for Jak, three more guards stood ready and immediately subdued the prisoners. The guards whipped them many times with leather straps sporting stone shards imbedded within, beating them until they were both just one gasping mass lying on the cell floor. Two of the guards grabbed Jak's arms and dragged him through the prison, the dirt on the floors filling his open wounds. Markus lay paralyzed through the power of his own mind so the other guard grabbed him, raised him up off the floor and pushed him down the corridor as the leader kicked open the door leading outside.<br />
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The bright sun blinded everyone coming out of the dark hallway and if Jak had been more fully aware of his surroundings, he probably would have gotten away from the stunned guards. Markus, recovering from his self-induced paralysis, cowered from the intense brightness but the guard behind him pushed onward. After a few moments, the two guards with Jak dragged his body up a steep embankment. Pools and streams of fresh blood painted the dirt road in front of the prison as they stumbled along the worn trail up the side of a hill. Many had come to this place long before these two prisoners and many would most likely come long afterward. Two young boys, in training to become guards themselves, carried large pieces of wood fashioned into a cross up the hill behind Jak. The third guard from the group, which had charged into the cell just moments ago, threw Markus on the ground and whipped him twice as he curled into a ball trying to protect himself.<br />
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“Get up! Get up and carry your cross!” The guard whipped Markus a third time and then a fourth for good measure. “Get up, I said,” and Markus stood wearily, reaching for his cross then falling under its weight as onlookers laughed and mocked him. He stood, stumbling as he dragged his cross up the hill.<br />
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“Jak! What're we gonna do Jak? Jak?” Markus barked out, but the only response he received was another shot of the whip.<br />
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“Shaddup! Keep movin', boy! Now Git!” The guard whipped him again and as he fell, the crowd erupted with cheers.<br />
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At the top of the hill, the two boys placed the cross they had carried onto the ground near a deep square hole. The two guards dropped Jak near the cross, rolled him over onto it so that his back was against it. Once his hands and feet were tied tightly, a guard grabbed a mallet and three spikes. He placed a spike at the place just below Jak’s wrist where his two forearm bones joined. He struck the spike once, twice, and it was through the arm and into the wood. The pain caused Jak to cry out loudly from his whip-induced stupor.<br />
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Despite feeling like a magician’s assistant in a trick gone awry, he tried wrestling himself free from the cross. The more he struggled, the more it hurt and the less he could move. The guard then repeated the not-so-delicate procedure on the other arm and finally at Jak’s feet. Several guards and the two boys lifted the cross and set it into the hole, and once again Jak screamed in pain.<br />
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Markus witnessed all of this and decided he wanted no part of it. As he turned to run, however, his guard whipped him several more times such that Markus was bleeding from every limb and from his back. He fell once again, and the other guards and the two boys picked him up and carried him to the place he would die. Two more boys charged up the hill and carried Markus' cross to the top. Markus twisted and turned, fighting the guards pinning him down. Despite struggling, he was finally attached to the cross just as his friend had been. And like Jak, he screamed and shouted in pain and horror as the boys picked up the instrument of death and plunked it down in its hole. The crowd lined the path to the hill as guards brought out yet another prisoner.<br />
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“It's the ‘Christ!’,” the horde yelled out.<br />
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“Save yourself!” They yelled.<br />
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“You're supposed to be from Heaven. Why don’t you call your 'father' down? Where are your angels now, you 'Messiah'?” The multitude continued to call out, dancing around, raising their hands toward the skies, mocking him as he struggled up the hill.<br />
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Blood ran down his face leading from a crude crown made out of ring of thorned vines that had been pushed down into his head, and his clothes had been ripped and torn on every inch by the guards’ whips. He looked as though he had been trampled by a thousand horses on their way to a watering hole. Markus called to Jak as best he could, barely above a hoarse whisper, “Jak. Jak. That - that's the one.”<br />
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The words hardly escaped his lips and above the noise of the crowd, his friend did not hear him. Jak, with sweat and blood in his eyes clouding his vision, struggled to see the man dragging up the hill. Exhausted from trying to breathe, he dropped his head and closed his stinging eyes.<br />
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When the other prisoner reached the top of the hill, the guards stripped off his clothes and tossed them aside. Some of the crowd raced over and began fighting over the torn fragments. Someone in the group yelled, “Cast for ‘em!” and another person tossed a couple small ivory-colored squares on the ground. The crowd quieted in anticipation and the procession halted until one man leapt to his feet, grabbed the pile of blood-stained clothes and danced around with the prisoner's clothes trailing through the air behind him. As he twirled his prize in the air, drops of blood splattered the faces, necks, and clothes of those standing nearby.<br />
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A few moments later, attention turned back to the activities at hand. The new cross was placed on the ground between the other crosses on the top of the hill as guards attached this captive just they had the other two. As the prisoner cried out in pain, another man bent over and nailed a large wooden plaque to the top of the cross. It read, “This is Jesus, King of the Jews.” Three guardsmen slowly raised the cross to a standing position and a moment later it dropped into the hole. The crowd surged forward.<br />
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Jesus, as he was called, tried to lift himself by standing on the spikes driven through his shins just above his feet. His neighbors on either side of him could have told him it was no use, that it wasn’t going to work, but they were too exhausted themselves from their own struggle to fight impending death. His chest heaved rapidly as he struggled and his face contorted in a mass of confusion, pain, terror and sadness. When his legs could no longer bear the weight, he relaxed his muscles and hung loosely by the stakes dividing each of his wrists like stumps in the middle of an open field.<br />
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Passersby held their arms out and hung their heads as they passed by the three men, mocking their gestures. Jak tried listening intently to the voices floating above the sounds of the crowd. He heard one woman cry, “He is Lord! He is Lord!” A deep voice bellowed, “Praise you, Jesus!” Jak hung there concentrating on this newcomer and his friends so as not to think about his own pain. Markus simply watched as the crowd yelled, his breathing labored and heavy, like a spear ramming through his lungs with every breath.<br />
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“Come down from the cross, if you’re a god! Save yourself!” The crowd yelled at the middle prisoner as they pressed onward.<br />
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“Come down if you're the SON of God,” others barked.<br />
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A solitary voice belonging to a boy of about ten years old called out, “He saved other people, but he can’t even save himself!”<br />
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Markus’ eyes darted around, taking in the scene of the crowd while sweat and tears rolled down his face and crossed his parched lips. He licked at the salty drink, hungry for more in the tension building around him, enjoying the crowds and the sneering laughter of the people. Despite the pain in his legs and arms and lungs, he drew a deep breath and called out, “Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself,” then quickly added, “and save us, too!” He stared wildly at Jesus, eyes still darting from left to right, to the crowd and back again.<br />
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But, Jak, swooning in and out of the periphery of consciousness, shook his head slowly back and forth, his chest feeling like it would burst outward or suddenly collapse inward, and his arms were tearing at the shoulders and the wrists. The salt from his tears and sweat ran down his body in streams which converged on the wounds near his ankles. He thought of the prison cell, the night at the tavern, the stars in the sky, and of wide open grassy fields with deep pools of crystal clear lake water, and of his mother; he thought of life and he thought of death. For a moment, his eyes focused on Markus.<br />
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He drew in a deep breath, battling pain and fear and anguish, then yelled louder than a child riding a coaster for the first time, “Don't you fear God!? We are the crucified!” The crowd cheered, not taking in any of the words except ‘crucified,’ and Jak released his breath.<br />
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The crowd hissed and threw rocks at him and he coughed and arched and spit a mouthful of blood at the crowd. Although he had no strength left and losing the sense of his surroundings, with one last raspy breath, he whispered, “Jesus, remember me.”<br />
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Jesus drew a deep breath, and despite the throbbing, answered, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Then Jak's head dropped to his chest and the crowd roared with approval.<br />
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Somewhere, a woman called out, “One down, two to go,” and the mob cheered. Markus drew in a great breath and gathered all the blood, sweat, and saliva he had in his mouth. Turning to the man hanging next to him, he spat on the “King of the Jews.” A roar of applause filled the air causing Markus to straighten himself on the cross and yell with all he had left inside, “Where is this Jesus?” The crowd pushed forward and Markus' body slumped but he refused to leave the ceremony.<br />
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Two guards came forward and struck his friend’s legs with a large club-shaped chunk of wood. Jak’s body, now devoid of any support, dropped from the cross, ripping his hands off at the wrists. Blood gushed and sprayed the crowd as his arms fell down and forward in front of his limp body. Then, the guards turned to Markus and did the same. He tried holding himself up by his arms and again the crowd cheered him. He felt proud and actually managed to spread his lips in a bloody smile, but weakened and beaten, he breathed his last. His lifeless body hung from the cross, suspended by his limp wrists.<br />
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The guards moved back toward Jesus, but his body was already limp, remaining on the cross only by the spikes piercing his wrists and feet. One of the two guards took a spear and stuck it into the side of Jesus. Blood and water and something that smelled like vinegar spilled out of him onto the ground. He made no sound and did not move any muscles.<br />
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“This one is done,” the guard shouted over his shoulder to the crowd.<br />
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After a brief applause, the crowd of onlookers turned around and started their journey back down the hill, slapping each other on the back for the job they had done so well. A small group of people remained at the top of the hill. They sat, wailing at the base of Jesus’ cross. They leaned on each other, held each other, and consoled each other. There were fewer than a dozen people gathered there. Except for those few, no one showed any sorrow for the lives lost or sadness that the ritual was over. For they knew tomorrow would once again bring others to the top of the hill.--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-77634316181218096632010-12-12T17:05:00.000-08:002010-12-12T17:05:44.468-08:00"Bad Writing" the movie, and the reason I will always write *something*There is a new documentary that was released on Friday in "select cities." It is called "Bad Writing," and it is done by a guy who wrote poetry only to "discover" he was really, really "bad" at it. I will post the video trailer below along with a link to the site, should you wish to check it out.<br />
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I have *not* seen the movie, as it is no where near me. Well, okay, technically, Austin is "close" should I wish to drive 8 hours or whatever. Which I don't. I have seen the trailer and I get the general premise of the movie. I have seen the guy sit in front of other authors and have them laugh at his work and tell him how awful it is. I see some of the humor in it. With that limited ammunition at my disposal, I offer up my take on "good," "bad," and "ugly" writing - though this applies to any art, really.<br />
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First and foremost, I abhor terminology such as "good" or "bad" when applied to anything artistic. Who the heck is ANYONE to sit in judgment as to what I write is good or what I paint is bad or what I sculpt is ugly? During the trailer, one author says something to the effect that we are not writing for ourselves. I say BALONEY. In a class, we are judged by what is expected within the specifications of the project - a poem, a short story, an impressionistic-style painting, etc. This is not really about that - the classroom tends to be a different environment, though some of this should still apply. After all, in my opinion, no professor or teacher should demolish the dreams of his/her students based on that teacher's own opinions.<br />
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I write because I like it. I write what I want because it is my way of expressing my feelings and thoughts in a way that I choose to do so. Frankly, I don't really care if I am the only person on Earth that enjoys it or is touched by it or understands it. I believe everyone that creates should keep that perspective.<br />
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There are a gazillion people that love to sit on high thrones in high places and look down upon those who live beneath them. The thing to remember is that many times, we are the ones who put those people up there in the first place. Let's not do that anymore. Seriously. Think about those you hold in high regard. How did they get that standing in your world? Do they DESERVE that standing? Most likely, they deserve at least SOME of the accolades we place upon them. There is nothing wrong with appreciating fellow artisans! The danger, I believe, comes from holding those same folks to such a high level that we compare ourselves to them and seek acceptance based on their accomplishments.<br />
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Maybe it is the nature of those who create to seek approval and acceptance from others. I dunno. All I know is that I find it ridiculous that certain people are lifted on high while others are beaten down into nothingness. What makes it even worse is when someone had been beaten down, ultimately took their own life, and then AFTERWARD are heralded as "amazing, incredible" after they are dead. Ludicrous.<br />
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As a writer, I have created many things that *I* think are awful. I'll write something, leave it for a while and then come back to it only to read it and think, "Man, that is just stupid." That is my opinion about my own work. At that point, I can edit it or trash it. Either way, it is my decision based on my own reaction. If I write something that I enjoy reading again later, then I file that in my works that might become part of a collection some day. That decision is based on my personal preference and whether or not it fits into the flow of the stories already going in the collection.<br />
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Now, you may be sitting there wondering how I, of all people, have the gall to approach such subjects and why anyone should even pay attention to what I have to say. You'd be right to wonder. I can only hope I am reaching one person (okay, reaching more than one would be great) that may be struggling with "acceptance" of their work. I say - quit worrying about it and judge yourself FOR yourself.<br />
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Now, does that mean we cannot improve on our work? Absolutely not! We can take classes, watch videos, examine other specimens of the things we'd like to create. Everyone can always get better (in their own heart and mind) at what they do. This is especially true if we see things in our creativity that we'd like to change or we'd like to improve upon. For example, if you are a painter and do not like the way you paint faces, then you can take classes or watch videos that will help you paint faces in a way that you prefer. As a writer, I find the information I read and the classes I've taken (and will take) extremely valuable as I continue to write. I've learned about various plot ideas, character interactions, etc that I might not have otherwise considered while writing my own stories. Likewise, reading those you admire can help you get a feel for how they write - what are common themes, objects, colors, places, etc? How can you then apply those things in your creative ventures?<br />
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I write song lyrics and poems in addition to my stories. I enjoy some of them and others I simply shake my head when I go back and read them again. I have submitted numerous stories, songs, etc to a variety of contests, publishers, etc. I have never won a thing. Does that keep me from writing? Nope. Does it mean I am a "bad" writer? I am in the eyes of the judges, maybe. Or, perhaps others were just "better" than me. Really, what governs that decision is what appeals to those judges. Maybe what I write does not appeal to them. Okay by me. I just keep writing anyway.<br />
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Think about the folks that have ever told you that you were "bad" at what you do. What reasons do you have for letting those folks influence you? Write them down. Really. Seeing the "why" in back-and-white may just help you realize that YOU are in control of what is "good" or "bad." Always remember that you judge others, too. We all do. We have things we like and things we don't. Are those folks going to quit creating because *we* don't like something? No. If JK Rowling asked me to comment about the "Harry Potter" series, she would not be happy with what I have to say. I am not a fan. Would that stop her from writing? I surely hope not.<br />
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I believe we SHOULD write for ourselves. Write what we like. Write HOW we like. If others happen to enjoy it as well, that's great. If what we create reaches *us* on a personal, emotional level and gives us the release *we* need, then we are creating something "good." And, if we are the only ones that enjoy our work, that should be enough for us. Who is anyone else to judge what I have residing inside us? No one on this Earth.<br />
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Here is the trailer:<br />
<object height="390" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/raWLS2_PEfI&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/raWLS2_PEfI&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="390"></embed></object>--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-70847117677970946432010-12-12T06:28:00.000-08:002010-12-12T06:28:05.653-08:00The mistake I made with "Summer Breaks"When I published my novel, I took the easy, short-sighted approach. That is, I published the book. There is nothing wrong with that in and of itself. If you are a writer looking to publish something just to have it published, then taking the path of least involvement is perfectly fine. For Lulu.com, that route is the "Marketplace" one. You get a serial number on your book, and you get to do all your own promotion and distribution. There is nothing wrong with that.<br />
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In fact, that is the route I one I chose for my first collection of short stories (always assuming there will be more of those). My main goal was "to be a published author." When I wrote "Summer Breaks," my initial intention was to just put it out there. That quickly grew into a desire for more. I created various ePub formats and found a variety of distribution channels for the electronic version. That, in turn, led to Kindle-specific versions and going through the iBookstore steps via Lulu.com.<br />
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When I published "Summer Breaks" initially, I took the same route as I had with "All This Digging." And now, I realize I am bit by the bug. The distribution bug, that is. So, now I have to fix this in two ways. First, I have to create a new project and select "Lulu-created ISBN" (I'll explain in a minute) and then I have to change my novel's format from its current "Digest" format to "US Trade, 6x9" format to fulfill the requirements of that distribution package.<br />
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My suggestion? If you are going to self-publish, START with that site's ISBN offering and work from there. Even if you only expect your family and friends to be the primary buyers, it'll provide a wider audience for your work.<br />
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Now, let's talk about getting your own ISBN versus the on-demand publisher's ISBN. You can pay a chunk of change and get an ISBN for your book and have it registered in your own name (or the name of a publishing company you make up, for that matter). Many POD's also let you create an ISBN in THEIR name (usually for free). What's the difference? Well, I found a site that explains it better than I can, so here is more info (below) that basically says, "Get the free one from your POD and save your money!" That's what I'm talking about!<br />
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BookLocker Guide to POD and ISBN: <a href="http://publishing.booklocker.com/2007/07/20/whats-owning-your-own-isbn-good-for-absolutely-nothing/">http://publishing.booklocker.com/2007/07/20/whats-owning-your-own-isbn-good-for-absolutely-nothing/</a><br />
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Now... off to create a new version of my novel *with* an ISBN...--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-80653187624382807402010-11-29T19:25:00.000-08:002010-11-29T19:25:36.467-08:00NaNo NoWri NoMoI ended NaNoWriMo this year with about 13000 words. That's really not even close to 50,000. I have only myself to blame. This year, I just couldn't find the groove or the want-to that would push my writing to the next level. <br />
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I can only imagine what other writers go through when they set their hearts on something and fall well short of the goal. For me, it is more than a bit heartbreaking. On the upside, I have managed to start a story based on a song written by Steven Smith, sung by Eden's Edge, "Jesus Saves." I am calling the story "Where Main and Maple Meet." It's the story of three lives connected by memories of growing up in a little house "somewhere down the street, where Main and Maple meet. A sign outside that just says 'Jesus Saves'."<br />
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Now, it's on to whatever life brings in the next phase of my writing journey. Thanks for tagging along!--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-69826245099450146692010-11-13T08:01:00.000-08:002010-11-13T08:01:19.997-08:00iBookstore Availability!Thanks to my 8-year old daughter, I discovered that my debut novel, "Summer Breaks," is available through the iTunes bookstore! I had applied for the book to be published through iBookstore via Lulu's publishing offering. They (Lulu) were supposed to notify me when the approval came through. I knew it would take 4-6 weeks to go through the process. I waited. And then I waited some more. And, waited even longer. I never heard anything back from Lulu, so I assumed my book had been declined for whatever reason.<br />
<br />
Well, last night (Friday), my daughter was checking on various books and their availability. She asked, "Is your book on here, Daddy?" I told her I didn't think so, but that I had applied for it to be listed. Not to be deterred by such trivial jibberish, she started typing, "Summer B" She didn't have to type anything else. Only one book showed up at that point: Summer Breaks. My book! Whoa! <br />
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To top that off, it had actually been downloaded twice already! Now, I have no idea when it went into the library of offerings, but the fact it was there and TWO people bought it is a great feeling! Oh sure, it's not on par with, say, Stephen King or Barbara Kingsolver, but everyone has to start somewhere!<br />
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I don't know who bought the books, but I want to THANK YOU for your support and feedback on the novel! Guess I better get to writing the follow-up!--Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471007119431887772.post-89278094267437411562010-11-09T16:09:00.000-08:002010-11-09T16:09:43.098-08:00A very late startInspiration comes from very strange places in very strange ways, sometimes. I began the month excited about NaNoWriMo and getting the follow-up novel to "Summer Breaks" out there. And then the wall hit me. I couldn't write, didn't want to write, didn't even care to write. <br />
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And then, I came home early from work, feeling sick. I took some medication, took a nap, and woke up with a story in my heart. It was time. In my medicated state, still not feeling 100%, I began typing. I simply let the words travel where they wanted. <br />
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I'd love to say that I churned out 10,000 words in one sitting, but that didn't happen. I did manage to write about 2,000 words though. Considering my very slow start, I count that as a blessing. I still have a way to go to reach the 50,000 mark, but I think I've at least kicked a few bricks out of the writer's block wall. --Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03884046413767054746noreply@blogger.com0