I didn’t do any work on my illustrated children’s book this year at all. Last year in Year One of the Covid-19 pandemic I took my rough notes and wrote the story out in full, and then also rewrote it two more times, along with a few character sketches, but then I’ve just left it sitting untouched. Mind you, I did then go and write a full book of short stories in its stead. Now however I feel like I should resurrect the project for 2022. Alas, in the few golden months I had since both of my kids were attending in person school I tackled home diy projects to improve or finish off rooms in the house, rather than devote myself to an illustrated childrens book. I haven’t drawn by hand in a very long time, and I haven’t painted in watercolours or acrylics in nearly the same amount of time. I think I’m nervous about the artwork being terrible, more so than the story not being entertaining. But wave #5 and the end of Year Two of the pandemic are nearly upon us all. Part of me is still chasing the high from actually writing a full book of interconnected short stories set mostly out in space, along with some non-fiction autobiographical stuff mixed in. Funny how a lot has happened while nothing has happened. A very strange feeling. I think what I’m missing is, I used to come and work/write every day from 12-2pm while my kids napped, and then the youngest gave up naps, and I had to resort to working at night and then I dropped off my writing habits because I was focused on the paid work for my day job, and my brain was a tad fried from several weeks where I wrote 5 or 6 thousand words over some very productive days, week after week. Not always that many, but I know my cognitive skills dipped on any day that I wrote more than 3,500 words at once. A fugue state, brain fog, brain fart, mom brain, synapse fatigue or what have you. Odd feeling, that. Oh yeah, and I devoted more time to wood working, and I scaled back my sculpting too this year. Perhaps a more rounded dabbling in all of my hobbies will make for a better choice next year. Glad I am alive and well enough to consciously make that decision.
Tag: Honesty
Starting to get annoyed with myself…
After a very strong start to the year for creative writing I am finding it damn near impossible to formulate any kind of coherent story in my mind that I could even try to commit to paper. Went back through some of my micro short stories to try and jog something free, and it just isn’t happening. Which makes me both sad and angry. Angry because I have the time to write at this point in my life, and I’m not really doing so, and sad because I had thought back in early 2020 that I might actually crack 100,000 words of creative writing this year. Not that just shy of 60,000 is terrible, but I haven’t produced anything of note in several months. Not only that but I haven’t sculpted much of anything this year either, not completed either of the two model kits I assembled. Read fewer books this year, and haven’t watched anywhere near as many new films (the pandemic hit Hollywood, so that isn’t really a surprise). But still, the void can be felt. No painting to speak of either. Have done a few minor wood working projects so I’ll count that as a plus, but now that we’re into December the likelyhood that any items will get finished or be good enough to give as gifts are slim to none. As a creatively minded person I have very little personal work to show over the last five months. Did some exciting paid work, which I am proud of, but beyond that, very disappointed in my output and subsequent apathy. Not going to sit and stare at empty paper or screens as that doesn’t help. Tomorrow is a new day, and perhaps I’ll clue in to something I can work with then.
Feeling creatively blah…
Haven’t done much of anything creative for myself in a while. I have been trying to game out some story plots and losing track mid way through. Haven’t painted or sculpted anything in several weeks either. Completed a few paid projects but beyond that haven’t felt compelled to do much of anything really.
I did start my corn hole game build, and picked up my allotment of cedar for a front porch bin for garbage can, green bin and recycling boxes. Damn raccoons get into everything. Still in the early planning stages for that particular house hold item. I made a step stool several weeks ago, which was fun and easy. But haven’t felt like doing anything with all of this pause time.
Mind you our house has two kids at home, whom are exhausting. Keeping two kids five and under occupied, entertained, exercised, and educated is proving to be a monumental task. Plus my wife is working from home, and I had paid work going on daily up until recently. Fatigue is a mother fucker, believe you me.
On the upside I have done a fair bit of reading. I read the third installment of John Scalzi’s The Last Emperox (Great, by the way). Marcus Heitz’s fifth Dwarf book in his series (a very pleasant read), a book about the New Horizons mission to flyby Pluto in 2015 (just incredible!). I have started a book about the Mars rover Curiosity, but I’m only a handful of pages in, so I can’t say much about it one way or another.
On a side note I managed to get my Brad nailer and pin nailer up and running, so I don’t have to use so many wood screws on everything anymore. That was exciting. Cleaned up the garage so that I can actually move around in there. Cleaned out the rain gutters after a huge downpour. Poor timing on my part, but in my defense when I put up our Christmas lights they were fairly clear, so I didn’t think they would be clogged. Good thing we didn’t flood because of it. Got up there and pulled several pounds of decayed leaves out of the downspouts, so checked that off the list.
Would like to paint the downstairs hall, and wash/sand/stain the back deck this summer. That is unless some events come back online with heightened pandemic health protocols in place, and I can get back to producing event audit marketing reports, instore signage and sales catalogs and sell sheets and other branding materials again.
That heatwave was rather unpleasant, but it’s been such a crazy year, the fact the weather is wonky doesn’t surprise me much at this point.
A toddler becoming a three-nager is a very real and frightening thing. She’s lovely, but good lord. Dealing with attitude from a five year old and a nearly three year old, is something else. The struggle is real y’all. Hod love’em, but they test my patience.
The USA is burning. Racism is alive and booming all around the world. That sucks, a lot. Don’t be a cunt to other humans. Work to bring around the change you want to see. Donate, volunteer, or take a moment of self reflection and introspection. Help those less fortunate than yourselves.
It’s chaos, be kind – Michelle Macnamara
“That is quite the bruise you’ve developed there…
Kelvin, perhaps you need to visit a med pod down in the sick bay?” Croons the orange EDU bot I’ve nick named Ed. I know, I know, not exactly the most original thing I could have come up with, but Cunty Mc Cuntface or Sir ShitTeeth just don’t slide off the tongue so gracefully. “Oh this?” I say pointing down to the purple and yellow cluster that rings my left elbow just below the bicep. “It’s just an artefact of the reattachment surgery. I set it to leave a noticeable scar so I would know that the accident had actually happened and I didn’t dream it up one night. I suppose part of leaving a scar meant leaving some issues in the blood vessels or capillaries or some shit. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. Doesn’t hurt though, so that’s nice.” We are currently in the massive and wide open commissary. The scrubbers keep this whole ship immaculately clean. Plus with no other people alive on board besides me and the Educational tutor bot Ed, it doesn’t gather up much dirt. A vast white walled room with massive round tables bolted to the floors with permanent stools surrounding them. Spartan and very utilitarian, designed to keep servicemen moving, so they don’t linger after eating. A place to rest your backside long enough to gorge on a meal, but not something you want to hang on to for hours on end for social calls. The outer most portion has a bank of floor to ceiling windows that look out to the stars, with a portion of the vessel splayed out below it in a rather grand vista. Dotted with blinking running lights, and radar dishes and a few other observation domes. Just at the very edge of visibility is a massive grey bulge. Nothing beyond that point can be seen from this vantage point. Part of my daily routine is coming in here to eat and chat with Ed as I float in front of the enormous air vent with the output set to maximum. Imagine floating on the edge of some bluffs as you are perpetually buffeted by gale force winds rushing in off of the coast. Makes me feel like I’m back on earth. Although it makes carrying on a meaningful conversation with Ed a challenge. It’s starting to feel like a residual habit from an earlier, and less successful coping mechanism. As an early attempt at escapism, bury my face in a windy vent sounds fairly stupid, but it was the best thing I could come up with that offered me even a sliver of comfort. Drinking was what got me a long, arduous crawl into the sick bay while carrying my severed arm in my teeth in the first place, so I cut way back on the booze. Seemed like a prudent thing to do. It was a total fluke that I discovered Ed in the science departments largest lab. Gaining access was, and still is a disquieting and upsetting task. My collection of ‘helping hands’ has grown over the years. As new needs and requirements made themselves known. For example, as I wore out my slippers from three years of walking all over the ship, and doing extensive maintenance tasks across all of the various departments. I had to gain access to the procurement depot and upgrade my footwear, harnesses, jumpsuit, the inner body sock, oh, oh and I even switched over to the new fangled Nanoparticles that removes the need for a colostomy bag, and catheter for urine collection. That was an amazing day, let me tell you. Removing the catheter for the last time was a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life. The technological upgrades that materialized in my wrist communicator and biometrics was nothing short of dazzling. Like it now has the ability to project a three dimensional holographic display. My eyes can adjust to near total darkness, and I just don’t feel cold or hot anymore. I feel like a god. It’s truly remarkable.
With the sound of drive wheels whirling, and the harsh patter of tank treads hitting the metal grating on the floor, I’m pulled out of my reverie by Ed moving to position himself directly below me, and closer to the exhaust port of the central commissary fan. Opening my eyes makes them water in the down draft, so I pull away from the stainless steel vent hood, and float back down to the floor. Once I make contact the magnetic locks contained in my jumpsuit keeps me firmly planted on the ground, but free to move about without too much lag. “Hey Ed, i have a strange question. One i wouldn’t really have ever thought much about.” Standing face to face with the EDU bot, or what I approximate as a face for Ed. A plate at chest height, that can extend upwards on a neck like column, full of lights, lenses, a speaker and various sensor arrays. “I’d expect no less from you Kelvin, the lack of questions that is.” Blurts out the bot. “Gee, thanks Ed. My question is… what the fuck is the name of this ship anyway?” I ask in as casual a manner as I can muster, seeing as how I’ve been employed, and deployed on this vessel for little more than three years now. “Well, Kelvin. We are on The Company research vessel The Lark Song. How does that make you feel?” Chirps the lump of orange tech on tank treads. It is rather disjointed how such a formerly stuffy grad student science tutor has started to look so drab and beaten up around the edges after two years of being my daily companion. I’ve put him through his paces helping me run maintenance jobs around the ship. “The Lark Song huh? That’s not anything like what I thought you’d say. Not even close. Ha.” I chuckle to myself. Thank god for the BOTKEY and the command codes that I discovered only months ago. Being able to trigger real time conversation in psychiatric mode has really brought me out of my shell. Though, I prefer being introverted on a busy ship, and not being extroverted with a machine because I have no other choice. See the difference there? It’s subtle, but meaningful. “Ed, I’ve been thinking. I have looked through every deck on this ship and I can not for the life of me figure out where, or what that massive blister is that you can see from the commissary windows at the very edge of visibility.” Pointing back through the brilliant white room to the black empty windows. “I would have to observe it for myself, and I could extrapolate approximate coordinates from the schematics I downloaded when I hard wired to the ship. Since I don’t have GPS, I will have to guess rather than give you a definitive answer.” Ed turns about on a zero radius, a space saving feature thanks to his tank treads. A neat feature we didn’t initially know was that he has a two tonne towing capacity. Would have come in very handy when stacking the bodies of the dead, but I digress. Taking the forty or so paces from the central vent out to the windows we stand motionless shoulder to orange coloured chest cube. “Kelvin, that particular portion of the ship is not listed under any directory I have seen or accessed. But I estimate it to be about twenty one hundred meters forward of us, and possibly eight to ten decks below. Near the waste water treatment sector, on top of the sanitation department faring.” Turning to look at each other Ed speaks before I have the chance. “Kelvin, not to be morbid but we might need to go aft to dig up an extra ‘helping hand’ to gain access.” His low tone is somber. Snapping my fingers I say “Beat me to it. Yeah, but who do we borrow from? Sanitation? Water works? Engineering?” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “Might I suggest we use the commanding officer, and bypass any extraneous jury rigged surgery.” Beeps Ed in response. “Good call, nice to know that at least one of us is on the ball.” I chuckled, to which Ed whistles in rapid succession. “Well Ed, we don’t have any scheduled maintenance tasks for ninety six hours, so let’s bag some food, and go-go juice, and have ourselves an adventure!” Looking back to the boundless void beyond the windows I guffaw wistfully while I clap my hands once, loudly.
PART THREE of The Company : Chronicles of Kelvin.
Overview of March
Bit of a strange month as you all can imagine. I didn’t do anywhere near as much writing, but I turned to sculpting and painting for a spell. Needed to do something less mentally taxing, since a lot of my waking hours have been spent in one form or another worrying about the global pandemic COVID-19 / Coronavirus. But, I did do a few bits of writing once a story caught my eye, and I turned to a subject that I know well. Being socially isolated, feeling lonely, stir crazy and just being desperate to talk to someone. All things I had a fair bit of experience with in my last year of High School, then working a full calendar year prior to college, my initial Sheridan college experience, then later on, as a freelancer working from home. But I’m more introverted than ever, so it doesn’t bother me as much now that I’m into my forties. With age comes some sort of wisdom I suppose. Ha. Plus I felt as though that twenty one chapters to my interconnected series was enough, and i didn’t want to write anything too topical, so I had to sit, wait and ruminate on a few ideas I had jotted down in the last few weeks, and let those ideas percolate through my brain. I decided to use the same universe, but all new characters, a new ship, and I steered clear of the large scale war building up in the background, that I tried to cover in one or two extra stories, but ultimately gave up on. I’m not good with writing scenes of that scale. I prefer to have two or three characters who do most of the talking, maybe one peripheral character to add exposition, if i don’t feel as though I have set the plot up well enough. But yeah, character heavy, dialogue and only a little bit of action, even if it tends towards large sweeping events that kill lots of people. Broad strokes here people, I’m aiming for quick, decisive broad strokes. I also like the format of trying to stay between six hundred and three thousand words. Short fiction. Evocative, if missing a few pieces of finer detail around the edges. Keep the story moving, if that’s what it calls for. Though I do like to linger in the quiet spaces between major events. Hurry up and wait, right? Something huge is on the horizon, but you have to wade through the usual tedium of your every day life to get there. The stuff often behind the scenes in a major movie. Boring to watch, but interesting to explore in writing. Since most of us read in isolation, or to ourselves even in public. Anyway, to those who have read any of my stuff, thanks! To those who might find it in the coming months, thank you too! I wish you all the best during these awkward and trying times. Stay safe, stay healthy, and I hope to keep writing more until we make it on to the other side.
You know, I’ve been down into
The deepest depths of the ocean on a year long solo mission, I’ve been left stranded on a rocky out cropping of an island somewhere in the south Pacific for what I later learned was nearly three years, and now I work hauling minerals and ore for The Company out in deep space on an immense refinery freighter. Do you know what these three things all have in common? Isolation, misery and a total lack of any kind of quality amenities. Put those locations together with a vivid and increasing sense of impending doom and you’ve got yourself a recipe for disaster. You know it’s kind of funny how we always assumed that our salvation would come in the form of a generational colony starship that could shuttle humanity off deep into the cosmos. But, as a species, humans we aren’t very well equipped to deal with the dread and despair associated with the isolation that accompanies deep space exploration, and trans generational travel. It takes a certain type of psychopathy to be able to deal with those particular stressors found during extreme cases of isolation. I for one, am just the right kind of crazy to pursue those types of careers where these issues are present. I’m as close to a recluse as you can get. Like a full on level ninety nine introvert. Nothing makes me happier than to spend time alone working on all sorts of shit. I also have little concern over tight spaces, like those found in the void between a star ships double hulls. To perform such pleasures required of me during regular maintenance I get to play BDSM dress up in various harnesses and tight fitting gear over top of my jumpsuit and poke around in these labyrinthine crawl spaces that criss cross these massive vessels in a lattice work of dead ends, bolt holes and conduits full of cabling and pipes. Deep, dark and for the most part endured in entire radio silence. The captain of my last vessel said that when his ship runs out of coolant they will ask me for a blood transfusion so that my life blood could keep the transport running ice cold. My nick name is Zero K, the K is for Kelvin. People who don’t like me much call me absolute zero, but eh, fuck them. I enjoy hard labour away from crowds of people. I’m the guy who volunteers for shite details so I can work off peak hours, and all alone. Or at least with minimal supervision. I have one friend. An angry, short & hirsute fella who doesn’t know how to speak in anything other than a yell, or monotone. We usually sit in silence and drink until one of us slinks off to bed without saying good bye or goodnight. A lot of guttural grunts and groans pass between us as a kind of idiosyncratic language. He’s great. Likes the same beer, works similar shifts doing the same work as I do. We have matching burns and scars. We’d have made an excellent couple if either of us were gay. Well, you know we would have if he hadn’t of gotten killed during an ammonia leak from a pierced pipe. What do you know, done in by a random sharp edge on our industrial strength PPE. You see, technically we’re considered to be inside the ship, even if we are actually between the inner and outer hull plates where all the majestic inner workings of the ship are contained. That means we don’t qualify for the over the head fully encased respirators with individual environmental controls. We just get an over the mouth and nose mask with change out pads for dust, debris and moderate airborne contaminants. He stood no chance against that leak. It blew aerosolized ammonia right over his face at point blank range. Hell, at 8 PPM, that shit kills, let alone a full jet stream dumped over the back of your head. After that I filed down every hook, link and carabiner on my tattered, dusty red jumpsuit. No point in repeating the sins of my only friend. Crawling in there after him and having to drag his cold lifeless body through the darkest reaches of the ship was not something I ever wish to do again. As it would happen, I would never have to. As all of them, the whole crew that is, all seven hundred of them just up and died while I was doing maintenance on the main bus panel wiring underneath the bridge several months ago. A fucking dick of a job too. The sort of job that requires about sixteen hours of crawling, bending and twisting to contort my body through the minimum sized access ports that are located around a massive water bladder just to get to the appropriate junction, then only needs forty minutes of upkeep performed on it. Like, what a piece of shit. Then you guessed it, another sixteen hours to extricate myself. All told – with food breaks, sleep and an abominable amount of crawling, that job was fifty two hours on. I went in and everything was hunky dory, I come out to a ghost ship with nothing but the dead bodies of the crew laying around. Mysteriously, with no known reason that was readily apparent. And just like that, I find myself in isolation again. For what it’s worth, our course through the stars was predetermined, and we will come home after our five year mission is completed. I have enough resources for seven hundred people over a five year term, so I shall not starve, nor will I be dehydrated. I just have to remain sane, and do my scheduled tasks, and pray. In the sage words of the twentieth century philosopher Jean-Luc Picard “You can do everything right and still lose. This is not a personal failing, but a fact of life.” I read that quote every day at the start and end of each shift. I have it etched into the bulkhead over my bunk in my crew quarters. Really makes you think – huh.
The loud hum of the air vent is echoing deep in my ears as I float, eyes closed, with the gale force breeze blowing into my face. The ship as a whole gets very quiet these days, and the loudness of the moving air makes me forget the ominous lack of activity aboard. I can almost imagine the sound of passing cars, birds or the far off indistinct muffle of an overhead conversation. When you spend years alone you learn to developed methods of finding inner peace and forgetting the banal repetition of your average day. My current trick is to crank up the lights, close my eyes tightly, and bury my face in the central air vent in the commissary. It moves the most air, and offers me enough room to just float in place while my imagination runs wild. Auditory hallucinations abound. Sometimes I can even feel the sensation of my communicator buzzing or hear an alarm sound. As I while away my time, face buried in the vent, the ship continues to perform the vast majority of it’s automated tasks. I keep to my work schedule, and eat the same things on the same decks as before. I know all too well the dangers of getting trapped somewhere strange by myself. That is not something I wish to repeat. I made a tough decision that weekend, and I still have the scars and emotional baggage associated with my extrication. Crawling three kilometers through the bowels of the ship to reattach my left arm at the elbow in the med-bay medical pods is not something I will likely ever forget. The trail of blood was gone by the time I felt well enough to leave that pristine white pod. The ai infused scrubbers had removed all trace of my nightmare. I kept the scar so that I know it really happened and I didn’t just dream it up. I do that a lot these days. I leave notes and etchings and drawings so that I remember having been there, and not run around the whole ship thinking I’m not actually here alone. When I am. Entirely alone. Isolated. With another three years and eight months left to go. In the cool cacophonous hum of the air vent I almost feel normal.
******
And for something different in these odd times, you can listen to me narrate this short story.
Plans for March.
Writing stuff took me to just over 43,000 words for 2020, which is kind of insane. I have some stuff being edited, so that’s cool. But I think I will turn away from writing for a bit and work on some sculpting projects again. I have had an armature sitting waiting for me since New Year’s day. I think another giant or ogre is on the books. Still slow going with the piano stuff, but I enjoy it so I don’t care that it is taking me a while to learn my first song all the way through. Ten to fifteen minutes a day keeps it fresh but doesn’t really build up much memory. Hope you are all keeping up with your challenges or resolutions or what have you. A huge thanks to anyone who read my short stories, or the micro stories that didn’t take place in space.
Although, now that I’ve said all that I am having some thoughts about a couple of new shorts to write. I am worried that I am starting to write stuff just for the sake of views, likes and such. That’s not really a good way to complete a hobby. Plus, I find they have started to get long. I think I will focus more on the under a thousand word mark, to tell an evocative, compelling short story. Not try to pad it out for the sake of an interconnected series. Say what needs to be said and then move on.
This all came at me while I was sorting and folding laundry. Plus I enjoy the short fast spurts of creative writing. It’s not as visceral as sculpting, but it scratches that creative itch, and fits around working my day jobs. Part time graphic designer, and full time stay at home dad.
The porch door opens with a gentle squeal…
Masked in part by the large crowd of gathered children playing road hockey in the street right out front of the house. The shadows are slowly growing long along the front yard. Birds are chirping, and a subtle wind is rustling the leaves of the two large maple trees obscuring the view of the street from the porch. Stepping out of the house onto the wooden deck, she carries a glass of red wine, a cold beer in her manicured hands, and a box of crackers under one arm. Seated in a wicker chair, her husband is engrossed in the game going on with the children. “What’s the score?” She asks. “I have no idea, but you just missed an epic collision. More of a pile-on really. The girls are watching the ball and their sticks instead of where they are running. Going to have quite the knot on their heads tomorrow. Ha.” He says it nonchalantly, we’ve always given the girls the space to play, and ultimately hurt themselves with the pride of knowledge gained in the disaster. Reaching over his shoulder he takes the proffered beer. Sitting down gingerly, her glass held in her finger tips so as to not spill she pulls up the matching worn white wicker chair. The cushions are well weathered, and covered in maple keys and pollen. She’ll have to dust off her bum when she heads inside later. “Cracker? – no. Suit yourself.” The children are running about, it is semi organized chaos. Children strip the ball from teammates, kids run into one another. Tired kids fall over on the curb and wrestle on the manicured lawns. “So, can we talk about this now – or?” The question left to hang in the hot humid air between them. “Yeah, I guess so. Not like the girls will be able to hear us from here. Look at those muppets, it’s pure melee combat out there! Keep your head up! Look around you! See who’s open.” He shouts in a sudden lively burst. The girls, red faced, continue to battle it out on the street vying for the ball. The neighbourhood kids are all in a giant tangle of limbs and hockey sticks. “So, what’s the deal then. What do her teachers say?” He blurts out the question. Angst writ large across his creased forehead, his greying hair cut short at the temples, with a longer mop on top. “That’s just it, they love her. Say she’s just lovely, a real helper, a good listener, and she’s one of the better students academically.” She says it with a huge rush of outward breath, as though deflating with the sentiment. “Well – fuck. So we get the asshole at night, everyone else gets a lovely child. That’s just perfect.” He says it with a hint of a hysterical laugh underneath. “According to what I’ve read, it means they’re just really comfortable at home with us. They feel our unconditional love, and can drop the goody goody act and be more natural. Or so some child psychiatrists said. I don’t know.” Swishing her red wine around the glass, she looks down the front lawn to the two menacing, but beautiful daughters playing hockey, for keeps. “Good thing they’re cute. I could just strangle those two some times.” “Eh? You fucking think! You saw me, last summer trying to teach her her letters and numbers. Like pulling her god damned teeth out of her head. What a pain in the ass. Then she gets tired at night, cuddles up next me and says she loves me. I melt. Adorable. I love her so much, but what an asshole.” The last part is said in unison. A common refrain among the two parents. “Ok, girls. Ten minutes then you gotta come in to wash up for dinner, ok!” More of a statement than a question. The girls bark back in answer. “Was that a yes?” She asks. “Fuck if I know. They’re still growing, so we must be doing something right. It’s tacos tonight, so I don’t foresee a huge fight to get the youngest one to eat.” Standing up, he dusts off his beige cargo shorts, slips on his berks, and wanders down to the curb. His white plain t-shirt almost amber in the waning sun.The late afternoon sky is a lovely rich blue. Squirrels can be heard chattering in the large fir tree beside the driveway.
“Ugh, good god, was that you?”
She says sitting up from her lounged position on the soft brown leather couch. Her face ashen, with just a tinge of green around the edges. “Of course not.” I laugh. “It’s the damn dog. You know your mother feeds him raw hamburger all the time.” Getting up from the couch quickly, the stench wafting through the air between them. To avoid a second breaths worth of horrific stink, I bounce over to the fridge to grab a cold drink. The door jingles as the jars inside clink together with the motion. “Jesus, Dog! that’s rotten! You foul little beastie.” Waving both arms about, moving foul jetties of air about the adjoining kitchen. It’s enough to make the nostrils sting, and your eyes water. “Babe – do you need a refill on your drink while I’m up?” Peeling her eyes from her novel, she waves off the question with a limp flap of her hand. “No, I’m good. I have a glass of water over here that I haven’t touched yet, from earlier.” The hour is late, the hall lights are off and only a few sparse beams from headlights can be seen playing down the walls of the living room. The trailing red fading off the tiles in the kitchen as the cars pull down the street. The house is small but cozy, settled on the corner of an intersection. Outside the moon is large overhead, and the street lights have been on for awhile. The sounds of kids playing in the street has long since stopped. Called in for dinner by harried mothers and rushed fathers. Now the muffled shouts of teenagers takes it’s place. It’s a Tuesday night, and our show is about to come on. With a soft whimper, the dog fidgets and shakes as though chasing prey in his sleep. A soft hiss, a subtle wag of a tail, and another wave of the dogs gut rot permeates the couch and its occupants. Suburban bliss at its finest.
I have a lot of respect for editors
Now that I am face to face with nearly 30,000 words worth of short stories to review and correct. I do not have an exceptional grasp of high level grammar, syntax and the like. My writing style is pretty pulpy or plebeian. I did my university papers with the same layman’s appeal that I use today. I think I was accused of using purple prose once so I don’t try to get too flowery or “cerebral”. That’s not who I am. But I digress. Editing, and editors. You must have a fairly wide continuum in the quality of work you see. Although I couldn’t imagine there being too many commercially successful writers whom turn in work that requires too extensive a review. But I don’t know. I’m a graphic designer who also dabbles in sculpture, so my knowledge of the ins and outs of the world of paid writing is woefully underdeveloped. Looking at forty plus pages to go through a few times is more daunting to me than writing anything. Mind you, I write micro short stories, so if I keep it succinct I can probably write four hundred to one thousand words and be happier than a pig in shit. Creating something from nothing is simpler to me, than making sure what is written follows all the appropriate rules of the english language. Kudos to all you editors out there. And to any writer who takes on the task themselves. Brave souls, the lot of you.
Greatwall Studios Graphic Design 
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