The woman's driver's license said her name was Cheryl Ann Socia. Thirty years old and blue eyed, the picture did not do her justice, of course. From what Daniel Thorgrave could tell, she worked out, took care of herself and did not use or need make-up. The license said she was five foot six, but her fetal position on the ground made height impossible to see.
"Her friends are all dead," the ambulance driver told him as he helped load her in the back. "Their car's wrapped around a tree about a half mile down the road from here. She's tough."
He slammed the door shut and bound around to the driver's side door and took off. Daniel hesitated, then grabbed the keys in his pocket. If her friends were all dead, maybe he could help her. Something in her eyes when they had their brief conversation disturbed him.
As he pulled out of the driveway, he shook his head and decided he had no sense whatsoever. Chasing after a near-dead woman he didn't know because of a gut feeling reminded him of numerous other mistakes he'd made in his life. Hopefully this woman would turn out to be normal.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Writing Enemies
Yes, writers have enemies. Our most formidable foe is ourselves. We run from our work like children from daily chores. Any excuse is acceptable if it relieves us of the duty that writing brings to us each and every day.
Idiocy, if you think about it. What do most all writers claim? "I LOVE to write." Yet we avoid doing it with distractions apparent and subtle. We play Spider Solitaire or War Craft. We decide the hedges we loathed trimming are now our most important priority.
Why? Why can't we simply sit down and do that which we know we love? I believe this fundamental question is what separates the Wannabe writers from the Gonnabe's and I Am's. I'm writing a paper called Wannabe's, Gonnabe's and I Am's.
Wannabe's talk about writing. They have great ideas for that blockbuster novel, the one that will sell millions of copies and land them on Oprah. They dog writers groups and established writers looking for that magic formula that will translate their words into gold. There's a home run waiting on them if they just swing that bat hard and true enough.
What Wannabe's don't know and often never get past is the fact that they are the PITCHER not the batter. Nothing happens, no ball gets put into play until they throw out that first pitch. Without a product, the Wannabe is going to die on the vine.
Let's not be too hard on the Wannabe though. All writers were Wannabe's at one time in their life. It's a stage that must be traversed. A writer must listen and learn and transition from the Wannabe stage into a Gonnabe.
The Gonnabe is a writer who actually begins to get it. This writer starts to get serious and sits down and puts words to paper (or electrons to screen). This writer still doesn't know quite what is involved, necessarily, but he/she pushes on, hopefully with a clear cut goal in sight.
It's critical that the Gonnabe completes a book. Too often the Gonnabe bogs down and switches to another "great idea" because the one being worked on has fizzled. Often, the Gonnabe deserts a project that is very close to a completed manuscript. In any case, it is a heck of a lot closer to complete than beginning from scratch.
The Gonnabe has to pursue writing with a more rabid mentality. The Gonnabe has to establish a "hell or high water" approach to completing projects. How the Gonnabe achieves this is not so important as simply attaining a draft manuscript. THEN, the Gonnabe has to weather the fact that he/she must go through many revisions, edits and rewrites to tighten up the original work.
This process, if approached from the right mindset, is very rewarding. As the Gonnabe works and works and works the manuscript, it becomes a living entity no longer needing life to be breathed into it by the writer's hands. Often, the Gonnabe gets sick and totally disgusted with the manuscript and just wants to move on to the next project. Here is where the Gonnabe must stick it out and polish the manuscript to its greatest potential.
Once that is completed, the opportunity presents itself for the Gonnabe to realize the transition to I am. I am is a tenuous pinnacle. It is far to easy to slide back into that Gonnabe stage where many projects make him/her feel like they are progressing but actually they've become stagnant. Or worse, the slide can go all the way back to Wannabe where all they are doing is talking writing.
I am is defined by confidence and a writing regimen of some sort. Without consistent writing in some way, shape or form, the I am is doomed to slip back. One advantage the I Am has over the other two is the knowledge that they were once there and can get back again.
I've run this gauntlet and I'm ready to get back to that point where I am producing once again. I slipped back to Wannabe for a while. I let the excuses build - I'm working so hard on Toastmasters, Publishing, running two other businesses in addition to working, taking care of four children, leading two writers' groups, chair a board of deacons at church and actually paying attention to the woman I love.
A near death experience (very, very near death) catapulted me to pursuing my writing dream. Michael Jackson's untimely death is another moment to contemplate. Forget whether we like him or loath him, he was my age. MY AGE. We were born the same year. He is dead. I have not achieved what I desire to accomplish in the writing world.
Therefore, I must pick myself up from my Wannabe ass, kick it into a Gonnabe gear so that once again I can realize I AM AN AUTHOR! The great writers get here and stay here, at least from my perspective. Once a writer defeats himself (his own worst enemy), he then has the opportunity to do great things. This is my rant, and you have heard me!
DarkThorn
www.michaelrayking.com
Idiocy, if you think about it. What do most all writers claim? "I LOVE to write." Yet we avoid doing it with distractions apparent and subtle. We play Spider Solitaire or War Craft. We decide the hedges we loathed trimming are now our most important priority.
Why? Why can't we simply sit down and do that which we know we love? I believe this fundamental question is what separates the Wannabe writers from the Gonnabe's and I Am's. I'm writing a paper called Wannabe's, Gonnabe's and I Am's.
Wannabe's talk about writing. They have great ideas for that blockbuster novel, the one that will sell millions of copies and land them on Oprah. They dog writers groups and established writers looking for that magic formula that will translate their words into gold. There's a home run waiting on them if they just swing that bat hard and true enough.
What Wannabe's don't know and often never get past is the fact that they are the PITCHER not the batter. Nothing happens, no ball gets put into play until they throw out that first pitch. Without a product, the Wannabe is going to die on the vine.
Let's not be too hard on the Wannabe though. All writers were Wannabe's at one time in their life. It's a stage that must be traversed. A writer must listen and learn and transition from the Wannabe stage into a Gonnabe.
The Gonnabe is a writer who actually begins to get it. This writer starts to get serious and sits down and puts words to paper (or electrons to screen). This writer still doesn't know quite what is involved, necessarily, but he/she pushes on, hopefully with a clear cut goal in sight.
It's critical that the Gonnabe completes a book. Too often the Gonnabe bogs down and switches to another "great idea" because the one being worked on has fizzled. Often, the Gonnabe deserts a project that is very close to a completed manuscript. In any case, it is a heck of a lot closer to complete than beginning from scratch.
The Gonnabe has to pursue writing with a more rabid mentality. The Gonnabe has to establish a "hell or high water" approach to completing projects. How the Gonnabe achieves this is not so important as simply attaining a draft manuscript. THEN, the Gonnabe has to weather the fact that he/she must go through many revisions, edits and rewrites to tighten up the original work.
This process, if approached from the right mindset, is very rewarding. As the Gonnabe works and works and works the manuscript, it becomes a living entity no longer needing life to be breathed into it by the writer's hands. Often, the Gonnabe gets sick and totally disgusted with the manuscript and just wants to move on to the next project. Here is where the Gonnabe must stick it out and polish the manuscript to its greatest potential.
Once that is completed, the opportunity presents itself for the Gonnabe to realize the transition to I am. I am is a tenuous pinnacle. It is far to easy to slide back into that Gonnabe stage where many projects make him/her feel like they are progressing but actually they've become stagnant. Or worse, the slide can go all the way back to Wannabe where all they are doing is talking writing.
I am is defined by confidence and a writing regimen of some sort. Without consistent writing in some way, shape or form, the I am is doomed to slip back. One advantage the I Am has over the other two is the knowledge that they were once there and can get back again.
I've run this gauntlet and I'm ready to get back to that point where I am producing once again. I slipped back to Wannabe for a while. I let the excuses build - I'm working so hard on Toastmasters, Publishing, running two other businesses in addition to working, taking care of four children, leading two writers' groups, chair a board of deacons at church and actually paying attention to the woman I love.
A near death experience (very, very near death) catapulted me to pursuing my writing dream. Michael Jackson's untimely death is another moment to contemplate. Forget whether we like him or loath him, he was my age. MY AGE. We were born the same year. He is dead. I have not achieved what I desire to accomplish in the writing world.
Therefore, I must pick myself up from my Wannabe ass, kick it into a Gonnabe gear so that once again I can realize I AM AN AUTHOR! The great writers get here and stay here, at least from my perspective. Once a writer defeats himself (his own worst enemy), he then has the opportunity to do great things. This is my rant, and you have heard me!
DarkThorn
www.michaelrayking.com
The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.2)
Cheryl stumbled past a decrepit gate and fell into the rocky yard. A scream of pain ripped from her lips despite her sense that she could not hurt anymore than she already did. She attempted to pull herself forward with her arms but could raise neither high enough to do any good.
She heard the front door creak slightly and pictured a little old woman afraid of her own shadow opening it. Instead, a burly man swung the door open boldly, pushed open a screen door and took the steps two at a time. In an instant he knelt beside her.
"What happened? Car wreck?"
All Cheryl could do was nod. She felt his hands probing around gingerly but with enough force that when he touched her ankle she cried out.
"That's pretty messed up. Probably broken. Looks like you've lost some blood too. Do you feel cold?"
She nodded again, thankful her mouth was incapable of betraying her. She wanted to scream, "I should have died too." Bastards. They were supposed to all die together. Her benefactor kept taking an inventory until he was sure there were no other major injuries.
"I'll have an ambulance here in a second." The man stood up, bound back up the steps and was swallowed by the dim lit house. His muffled voice trailed off into a silken mist as Cheryl lost consciousness.
She heard the front door creak slightly and pictured a little old woman afraid of her own shadow opening it. Instead, a burly man swung the door open boldly, pushed open a screen door and took the steps two at a time. In an instant he knelt beside her.
"What happened? Car wreck?"
All Cheryl could do was nod. She felt his hands probing around gingerly but with enough force that when he touched her ankle she cried out.
"That's pretty messed up. Probably broken. Looks like you've lost some blood too. Do you feel cold?"
She nodded again, thankful her mouth was incapable of betraying her. She wanted to scream, "I should have died too." Bastards. They were supposed to all die together. Her benefactor kept taking an inventory until he was sure there were no other major injuries.
"I'll have an ambulance here in a second." The man stood up, bound back up the steps and was swallowed by the dim lit house. His muffled voice trailed off into a silken mist as Cheryl lost consciousness.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
A Story by Any Other Name...
...would read as sweet. When I dream of writing, I dream of intricate characters intertwining their emotional desperations with the bravado's of strength they attempt to maintain. The problem quickly becomes - each character cannot get what he or she wants without exposing the vulnerability that consumes them.
When I practice writing, I do the same. I search for characters that feel. Characters that experience the emotional travails we all go through at some point in our lives. Rich characters make great stepping stones for stories marinated in passion.
When actually writing, I find these ideals elusive. The mission is to achieve that perfect story, the one that makes the young girls sigh and the old women cry. One day I'll write it. I'll know it, and you'll know it. Until then, follow my trek and let me know if I'm on the right path.
Each post on this blog is a rose petal peeled off its stem, falling to some destination unknown. Sometimes the petals will fall to the ground and rot like our bodies one day will do. Other times the petals will fall upon willing eyes that take in their plight and give them life through readership. Some will fall into the hands of evil and perverse people who would tear down all hope for the writer if his destiny lay in their hands. Others will nurture the petals with helpful comments and encouraging words. And so goes the petals that fall.
Walk with me through the world of writing. The stroll should be most entertaining!
DarkThorn
http://www.roguesgallerywriters.blogspot.com/
http://www.michaelrayking.com/
When I practice writing, I do the same. I search for characters that feel. Characters that experience the emotional travails we all go through at some point in our lives. Rich characters make great stepping stones for stories marinated in passion.
When actually writing, I find these ideals elusive. The mission is to achieve that perfect story, the one that makes the young girls sigh and the old women cry. One day I'll write it. I'll know it, and you'll know it. Until then, follow my trek and let me know if I'm on the right path.
Each post on this blog is a rose petal peeled off its stem, falling to some destination unknown. Sometimes the petals will fall to the ground and rot like our bodies one day will do. Other times the petals will fall upon willing eyes that take in their plight and give them life through readership. Some will fall into the hands of evil and perverse people who would tear down all hope for the writer if his destiny lay in their hands. Others will nurture the petals with helpful comments and encouraging words. And so goes the petals that fall.
Walk with me through the world of writing. The stroll should be most entertaining!
DarkThorn
http://www.roguesgallerywriters.blogspot.com/
http://www.michaelrayking.com/
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 1)
Dead wheels and lifeless bodies lay curled around an old oak tree.Crisp October air bit at Cheryl's throat as she staggered down the country road. The Milky Way shot silent stares at her as the heels of her shoes clicked erratically down the asphalt. Puffs of breath hung behind her like tiny clouds, slowly dissipating into oblivion.One moment they'd been laughing, whooping it up at Ted's expense.
In a blink of her eye, grim visages of death accused her of murder. All three men splayed around the car like discarded marionettes, lifelines cut by callous disregard for good sense. Why death skipped over her screamed of mystery or fate's cruel sentence.
Shock permeated her senses as she placed one foot in front of the other. Each step took patience and care as something felt broken. Maybe her ankle, maybe her leg, the pain when she placed her left foot to the road played pinball throughout her body. Dull light from a rickety front porch competed with the heavens for attention.
Cheryl focused her eyes as much as possible on that lonely bulb. If she ever wanted to pray, this moment begged for it, but she managed only a low, guttural keening. Perhaps fate desired that she live. After all, she tried her best to kill them all, including herself. Yet, she crawled from the wreckage and struck out for life. If another life awaited her, surely these three men would seek her out, if for no other reason than to find out - why?
This piece of fiction brought to you by:
DarkThorn King
To read more, check out DarkThorn's blog by clicking on his name in the links section
In a blink of her eye, grim visages of death accused her of murder. All three men splayed around the car like discarded marionettes, lifelines cut by callous disregard for good sense. Why death skipped over her screamed of mystery or fate's cruel sentence.
Shock permeated her senses as she placed one foot in front of the other. Each step took patience and care as something felt broken. Maybe her ankle, maybe her leg, the pain when she placed her left foot to the road played pinball throughout her body. Dull light from a rickety front porch competed with the heavens for attention.
Cheryl focused her eyes as much as possible on that lonely bulb. If she ever wanted to pray, this moment begged for it, but she managed only a low, guttural keening. Perhaps fate desired that she live. After all, she tried her best to kill them all, including herself. Yet, she crawled from the wreckage and struck out for life. If another life awaited her, surely these three men would seek her out, if for no other reason than to find out - why?
This piece of fiction brought to you by:
DarkThorn King
To read more, check out DarkThorn's blog by clicking on his name in the links section
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