Archive for writing

Be creative. I dare you.

July 9, 2012 brainmeats, writing No comments

Do you want to do creative things in your life? Do you want to write, paint, draw, make music? Do you want to know the Big Number One A-Plus Secret Technique that will make all your dreams come true? I can give that to you:

Do the damned work.

Just… write / draw / play. That’s it. Do the work and, when it sucks, do more work. Writing, for example, is at least 90% failure. That’s how you learn. There is no magic montage that swims you forward. If you want to gain a serious skill you have to be ready to pay a serious price.

If you don’t do the work – the work will not get done.

Ever. No matter what. You have to put in the time and then put in more time and it sucks some nights and you just keep pushing because this is what you want. If you want to get into a creative thing seriously because you think it is some kind of short-cut or easy times – well you’re so wrong I almost feel bad for you.

You’ll never feel ready, you’ll never get over the fear, you’ll always find excuses to put it off – this holds for everyone! That’s ok. You do the work anyway and you get better and you’ll grow.

But still! You want to know what it is really like. What working in creative fields really feels like, day after night after day? Fine.

Imagine taking the thing you love so dearly you want to tell people about it endlessly. And then taking that thing, nightly, and wring its neck until it dies before you, its eyes pleading for mercy even as it shits itself in fear and death.

You will do that every single night.

If you can do that and still love that thing, regardless of how you have to treat it and how it treats you, because let’s be honest the little fucker was asking for it, then hey good news!
You can maybe have a career in the arts.

Enjoy it.

Pop Culture Is Dead

June 25, 2012 brainmeats, comics, humor, idea file, movies, music, original writing, stuff and things, writing 7 comments

Please note: This was originally supposed to the be the end of the show I just did. So it’s a bit way long when written out and may be a bit rambly. I’ve edited it down some and tried to make sure it seems focused but you’ve been warned…

I was talking about Saved by the Bell the other day. And well, thinking about it really brings something home for me. First of all, we really need to stop making live-action TV shows with minors, because there has never been a cast, I think, on earth, that was not horribly scarred by this. Neil Patrick Harris survived. We can maybe call Danny Bonaduce a survivor NOW, but that’s about as far as you get.

Diff’rent Strokes, of course, were all criminals at one point, or on drugs, or both. And, funny story, Diff’rent Strokes, the two black kids, they’re did all right in the end, mostly. White girl? Dead of an overdose. That’s the reality of Diff’rent Strokes for you right there.

Punky Brewster, I don’t know whatever happened to her. She got tits, that’s the last thing I heard, maybe she was swallowed by them, I don’t know, haven’t heard much about her.

Winnie Cooper went on to get a degree in math. Her and Neil Patrick Harris should little have survivor clone babies together.

But, man, most of these shows, and you look back at Saved By The Bell — you have Dustin Diamond, who, of course, has become Dustin Diamond, which is not a fate I’d wish on most people I meet. Then you have Elizabeth Berkley who thought she’d have a movie career if only she’d stripped hard enough, and was proven wrong by the universe… not that all of us didn’t figure that one out early, but she had to prove it to herself.

So, we really do need to stop putting minors in TV shows because no good comes of it.
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Barn Burner.

June 4, 2012 brainmeats, free fiction, writing 6 comments

Thanks, twitter. Thanks to you I got inspired to write the start of a 1940′s Amish noir romance story. Thanks a LOT, twitter.
————–
BARN BURNER
By Adam P. Knave

I sat in the corner of my barn, whittling. Whittling the way my father taught me, the way his father taught him and so on, down a long and proud line. Jacob, my neighbor, came racing to get me.

“Jebediah!” he exclaimed, skidding to a halt with loose hay sliding under his hard black boots. “You should come see this.”

I may have acted faster, if I didn’t know that Jacob often fell prone to panic. Why, it was only last summer when he roused many of us in the middle of the night because of a bird that had assaulted a dog. Granted, that wasn’t something you saw every evening, and the dog belonged to Jacob, true, but still. I followed him out, regardless, because he was my brother in our Lord and I would endure his behaviors as he bore mine – in silence.

As I rounded the corner, I forgave Jacob all of his indiscretions. I saw her. I felt the urge to take my hat off, press the brim to my chest and stare. She influenced me in ways I would have to beg forgiveness for, from our Lord. I thought the type of thoughts that only lesser men, or boys, are allowed to think.

Was I not a community leader? Was I not proud, Amish, and of age? These things were all true. I, Jebediah Wyse, was the town’s blacksmith, a horse owner and the keeper of my bother. I would not find myself be-fouled by an outsider’s illusions.

And yet.

And yet she transfixed me as if witch-like. She churned the very butter of my soul. She invented, and used, zippers on my mind. I was useless.

For his part, Jacob simply tugged on his sleeve and cleared his throat. I came back to my senses, whispering prayers of forgiveness to myself and glanced upon her form once more.

She stood tall, six feet at least, a giantess in our midst, as she stepped out of her automobile. Her long blonde hair bounced around her upper arms, curved and be-magiced by some process I could not fathom. Around her form she tightened a dress, I assumed it was a dress, of some material that looked both wet and dry at the same time. The red of it was distracting without the tightness to remind all creatures great and small of her physical sex.

Along the back of her dress, I saw as she turned to slam the door of her car, lay a long straight black zipper. I knew, without hearing, that it would hiss when opened. My fingers ached to tug at that forbidden technology, to reveal the skin underneath, to explore the prohibited fruits before me.

No, self-control reasserted itself. I nodded at her, forcing myself to look elsewhere than her cloth constricted form. I settled, instead, on her dark green and mud-splattered automobile.

“You like the car? It’s a new Buick Eight,” she said, mistaking my location of gaze for interest, “it’s the new ’41 model,” she finished, sounding clearly as if this was something to be admired.

I nodded in response. “My horse is around eight years old,” I offered in return.

She laughed the laugh that only heathens can master. The sound that bubbles care-free from the pit of their being. Of course, with her, I could choose to watch the air expand and fill her flesh. I forced myself not to, but my mind’s eye chose otherwise.

“So, then, Ma’am,” I asked. “What can we do you for?”

“I was sent here,” She walked, carefully, over to me. Her long red heeled shoes didn’t wobble. She was a pro. Taking a factory rolled cigarette from a small silver case and lighting it, she inhaled and stared down at my own five foot ten frame. “By a dead man.”

(There might be more – but it isn’t easy writing 1940′s Amish Noir/Romance, guys…)

Hey, Who Turned on The Lights?

June 1, 2012 humor, writing One comment

Hey, Who Turned on The Lights?
or
The Autobiography of God

Everything started to go downhill, if I’m honest, on day eight. But I get ahead of Myself. It happens. Let Me go back a bit.

I’m sitting here, in my office, writing this with… you know I don’t think I’ve ever influenced anyone to get the pen exactly right. Let’s start with the basic clicky-top / twisty-bottom / cap problem.

Clicky-tops are, to initial feelings, far superior. You get a nice clicky sound from it and whammo your pen is ready to use. It’s like using a pen of the future. Which, yes that might sound odd considering I exist in all time and no time, but I’m trying to be relatable. And anyway we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about pens. Anyway, looking at the downside, clicky-bottoms tend to get mucked up. you know that glob of ink that will stick to the side of the roller-ball and leave an unsightly glob on the paper? Clicky-pens do that a lot.

Twisty-bottoms should be a close second, you might think. They’re almost as fun as clicky-tops, really. though you need two hands to work them, which means you can’t carry a cup of coffee, grab a pen and start doodling. And there are many twisty-bottom pens that clog the exact same way that clicky-tops do.

Which brings me to caps. Pens with caps. Not fun, and you lose the caps. but while you have them they are really good at being pens. So I should, realistically, go with a cap pen.

I don’t mention fountain pens or quills or anything like that because, come on now, do you think I spent all that energy inspiring people to start the Bic company because I liked quills? No. I gave you all the push specifically to move away from having to dip a stem in ink over and over andover and over and over. Those of you down there who still do that because it’s “classy” or “old fashioned and cool,” I worry a bit, I do.

You weren’t put on Earth to move backwards. You were put there to… well that’s getting ahead of myself again. Still pens. Pens were part of the equation. And I realize how that’s going to play to a bunch of you. you were put there to, at least partly, be R&D. I like a good cheap pen. The kind that you can chew on a bit and really fidget with. It’s a thing. And I know, if you ever doubted you were made in My image before, well that’s done.

Though pens weren’t the actual reason I created the Universe. That’d be great, if true, but it isn’t. No. The whole thing started because of a goat named Earl.

Yes, like Me, goats predate the universe.

So, when I was a kid…

to Be Continued? Who the hell knows.

Writing is…

May 23, 2012 brainmeats, writing One comment

Writing is, as you probably already know, hard. It might look easy, and certainly if it is done well it can be designed especially to look quite easy and natural, but it is hard. Writing is, on some level no matter what, the process of taking the noise in your head and mashing up agreed upon symbology to translate pure thoughts into communicable disease.

This is, understandably, complex. And the more you do it the more some parts of it feel easier. This is because you’ve given up and allowed yourself shortcuts. It’s fine! We all do it. You no longer worry over every translation and let a short-hand take form. This is what we refer to as “finding your voice.”

So anyway, you create neural shortcuts and cram ten pounds of thought into five pounds of prose and after a while it seems like the whole thing is getting easier.

That’s a lie.

That’s a total damned lie.

Writing isn’t easy. Transmuting thought into accepted encoded symbology is always awkward. Then you have the tricks and trials of actual story telling and… look, it’s not easy. It won’t ever be easy.

But write enough and it will lie to you and make you think it is getting easier. It’s a danger sign. Oh, sure, some bits get easier, just as any skill you practice gets easier with time. But the basic silk spinning bit is something that isn’t easy. It, rather, becomes something you don’t notice. Any pain that goes on long enough, can become invisible and noticeable only in its absence.

The problem is, pain fires endorphins and when you don’t notice the pain part you’re left with some of the endorphin high and then writing makes you feel good. Which…

Look. Let’s be honest here.

Writing = hard substance abuse.

They just don’t regulate it, and instead teach kids to do it, and then they pay you to indulge yourself. Which is awesome.

Just not easy.

Write. Play. Repeat. (the live show)

May 4, 2012 awesome!, news, NY Life, writing 8 comments

I love writing. You know what else I’ve found I kinda love? Being up on a stage and telling stories to an audience, in person. It’s not something I almost ever get to do. Luckily, my good friend Juliana Finch (Singer, songwriter, smart person) has let me share a stage with her before.

We want to do it again.

Please note a few things about that poster:

THING NUMBER ONE: The time and date are not filled in.

THING NUMBER TWO: The show’s audio will be recorded and released on the internet.

These are both important. The show would take place in Atlanta. In June. We’re thinking June 22nd, it’s a Friday. But we have to book a venue. And when you book a venue for a strange show like ours, they like to know people will be coming.

Right now we don’t know if anyone wants to come to our show. Seriously, this is a problem. We really wanna do this, but we need to know if people are interested. It’s 2+ hours of Juliana singing and me telling stories and both of us discussing, with each other and the people around us (that’s you) the creative process.

HINT: The creative process often includes cookies.

This show will make us no money. Actually we’re gonna lose a lot of money doing it. I mean, to be perfectly honest with you – we will each lose decent money. There’s travel, set-up, time… it’s not the cheapest thing in the world. And we still want to do it. Because we love it and we thing you’ll love it. But you need to let us know that you want to see it, that you’re interested in our brand of madness.

As for why the recorded audio part is important, well… partly because even if you aren’t there you will get to hear the show! But also because this could be the start of something bigger. But it can’t be if we don’t do it.

We’re not asking for money. We’re not asking for anything other than people who are interested simply tell us they are interested. That’s all. If you are in the Atlanta area, or will be in late June and want to see a show that doesn’t come around often (we did the last one 2 years ago, lord) – just let us know.

Validate our existences, people! We’re needy artists! C’mon!

…ahem. I mean… You know… Whatever. We’re cool either way. No big deal.

…we love you…

How to publish

April 26, 2012 brainmeats, writing 2 comments

So here’s an odd thought. I am working on this new novel and having fun with it and all and … I see people doing kickstarter and such and I wonder:

Should I finish the novel (I mean I am in the very early stages of it here) and:

A) Look for traditional publishing for it

B) Kickstarter the novel, now/soon and go from there

C) Release it for free on-line and hope for donations

There are plusses and minuses to each of these. And I’m not sure what to do, here. I am a big fan of trying new ways of getting stuff out there. But I also feel like most people don’t read fiction on-line. So C feels like the weakest idea. A is the safest, of course. And B? Well… B is unknown territory.

I don’t know. I really don’t. What are your thoughts on all of this, I’m curious…

Would you fund something like this / pay for it / spread the word / give a crap? What are your gut feelings about all of this?

Character traits.

April 24, 2012 brainmeats, writing No comments

A funny thing happened to me on the way to the Plot Store. You know, the Plot Store, it’s where writers buy their ideas. Yeah, we make noise about how they just happen but really we buy them from the Plot Store. No you can’t go there and no I won’t tell you where it is (Yes you can and yes I will, it’s on the corner of Obvious Dr. and Shut Up and Write Blvd).

I was thinking about a story I’m working on, and realized I wanted to tie an idea from Over There to the one Over Here and that they just needed a hinge point. A character to be the go-between, to bridge the two ideas. Not a stretch, it’s already kinda in my idea set for that character to be the type of person who could be that bridge.

So far it was a normal trip to the Plot Store.

Until I thought about that bridge character, fleshing them out more and listening to the noise in my head about who they were. And I realized they were trans. This is, of course, not a big deal. It isn’t a plot point, even. It’s just who this char is. And I realized I hadn’t written a trans character yet. So time to do more research and talk to some people I know and really dig in. Because while it isn’t a plot point, it will in fact, come up, and at that point I need to do it right. Is this a big thing? Not in the book.

But come on. I write female leads a lot. And gay male leads. And white and non-white and … all sorts of characters, as they occur to me whatever and whoever they may be. But this is my first trans character. I wanna get it right, even if it is just something discussed once or twice in the entirety of the project.

The best part is, for me, it is in no way an attempt to put a trans character in a story. It just happened. It’s natural for the tale and feels right. Which means I’m in no way forcing it and having to sand edges to make things fit. I hate doing that, for any reason.

But when I find myself able to, and naturally moving in the direction of, having more diverse and realistic portrayals of humanity in my stuff it makes me happy. It means, for me, that my brain sees the world in so many different stripes and possibilities and uses them all to reflect the world I build from the world I see. It makes my fiction stronger, it makes the world a bit fuller and it lets me stretch as a writer and a human.

So yeah. I’m happy. It’s the little things.

Hidden Agenda

March 21, 2012 brainmeats, free fiction, writing One comment

I dunno what this is, what it’s for or if it will continue. But for now – here it is. If you want more, tell me.
———————-
We’re all around you. I don’t mean that to sound creepy, or anything, but it’s true. You have no idea how many of us there are. Hell, you don’t even think we exist at all. Which, mind you, works in our favor enormously. It’s so much easier to hide in plain sight when everyone thinks you don’t exist in the first place. It’s like, I could hang a sign around my neck and declare myself you the world. Wouldn’t matter. No one would believe it.

Within reason, of course. I mean, there are limits. That’s why we do keep things fairly low key as often as possible. Hell, back in the sixties, one of us (and no, I won’t tell you his name) even became famous for making up stories about us and telling kids stories. They were all true, in a sense, and untrue in a lot more, but it worked. It kept us sliding into the realm of the impossible. The more impossible we are, to you, the easier we have it.

The best part of it is, for me, that you do most of our secret keeping for us. Sure, you hear about bits and pieces: a mother lifting a car to save her child, someone who seems to catch fire for a second but suffers no harm, a guy who survives a nail through the skull, someone goes skydiving and lives despite their chute not opening. You chalk it up to incredible luck, adrenaline, whatever reason you can hang a hat on rather than look the truth square in the eye. And we thank you for it.

Look, let me tell you a story. I was walking downtown, heading back to work after lunch. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I’d stopped at a hotdog cart, after spending my actual break looking to see if the bookstore had any copies of a kid’s book my son wanted. No luck. So I walked down the street, my tie tucked into my shirt, hoping mustard wouldn’t drip and hit the shirt, even though I’d removed the chances of tie stains.
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Chances are.

March 16, 2012 brainmeats, NY Life, writing 3 comments

There comes a time in life when you are given a chance. It may happen a hundred times, or once every ten years. The thing of it is you aren’t handed a chance by accident. It doesn’t just happen. You can’t wait for someone to reach down from the sky and go “You look like you’ve been waiting a while, sitting there, here’s an opportunity for you.”

You make it happen.

If there’s something you want to do, then you do the work. You work as hard as you can as much as you can. You sacrifice when you need to and push harder than you want to on some days. You work at it. You bust your ass for it. Just keep pushing.

Also, it helps to be a decent person. People have to work with you, on some level, no matter what you do. If you make them not want to work with you, then that’s exactly what’ll happen. You treat people with respect, you go the extra mile and act like the professional you want to be. Get your shit together and really show you’re capable.

The work gets done, the work gets better. The person you are is always growing and improving. And it feels like, some days, no matter what you do it will never amount to anything. That you’re just exhausting yourself and getting nowhere. So you keep in the game, anyway. Because chances and opportunities aren’t just tossed out of moving planes like a Cargo Cult waiting to happen. That’s not how it works.

Opportunity isn’t a gift from above. It’s created on the back of all that work and who you are. It arrives because of your work and your relationships. It’s not in who you know but who you are.

And then it shows up on your doorstep. And you look at it and go “Wow, where did that come from?” because in that moment the work and the struggle melts away and it feels like a parcel from some magical land.

But you still have to accept it. Swallow the fear and look it over as critically as you would anything else. Push and handle the due diligence. Do the legwork, make sure everything looks right and the golden ticket isn’t tissue paper and marker.

And then say yes.

And then you work harder than you ever have before.

At first you’ll think “I have to work harder so I don’t let the people who gave me this chance down.” but that isn’t true. That isn’t your job. It isn’t why you work harder.

You work harder so you don’t let yourself down.

So when that chance comes along, remember that. If you say yes it’ll be even more work – endless work. And it’ll be glorious and exciting and keep you up nights and make you want to scream and dance and whimper and hide in bed and run through the streets – all at once.

So cherish it. Hold it tight, do the work and thank yourself for making it happen.

And then get the fuck back to work, slacker. You don’t have all day and you have ever more work to do. And isn’t that the best thing in the world?

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