Hunting the Muse: A Creative Writing Blog.

Are You a Writer?

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 31 May 2009 00:27:00 +0000

I was asked if I was a writer the other day at the Barnes and Noble checkout. I was buying a writing magazine that I hadn't seen before in hopes of gaining a little more knowledge and, at the very least, something to blog about. He took a look at the magazine cover and then pierced me to the core of my soul with such alarming alacrity that I nearly stumbled backward in agony. This may seem like quite the overstatement, but in all honesty I can't readily remember a time when I was so completely floored.

"So, are you a writer?" The words were spoken with curiosity and kindness, but my heart crouched low in my chest in some barbaric, instinctual response.

I was completely embarrassed. The truth is that according to some, I am nowhere near being a true writer; a mere hobbyist, I only flirt with the idea of becoming a writer and haven't the slightest clue what it means to perfect the craft. While others would argue that, as a gardener should not only be characterized by one who plants in pots or carefully tended rows, a writer is any man, woman, or child who cares to throw words to the wind -- eagerly watching the tendrils sprout and take shape into a wild, wild forest of creative desire. I suppose that's a pretty way of saying that only the author themselves can determine whether they are a writer or a mere hobbyist.

And here I stand, a rope tied to each arm, surrounded by two angry mobs engaged in my own mental game of tug-of-war.

It was there in front of the checkout counter that I heard Peter's rooster crow three times as I answered. "It's more of a hobby, really."

As if a hobby would cause me to lust after a magazine filled with information I likely already know. As if a hobby would be enough to justify the dreams and the longing for acceptance or the constant desire to buy new notebooks and fancy pens to write with! But, for one reason or another, in that moment I lacked the courage to call it what it is... an obsession.

"Oh? Are you taking any courses?" He asked.

Courses? No. Did Mark Twain take a course? Did Edgar Allan Poe? How about Walt Whitman or Charles Dickens, did they attend writing conferences? Hell if I know... All I know is that I like to write, that I am unhappy unless I do write, and that I have a hard time reading many bestselling novels without noticing some apparent flaw that slipped through the cracks. Did your background character miraculously switch genders between some 150 pages or so? I noticed. (That goes out to you Brian Jacques - loved the books as an early teen by the way. You always made me so hungry with your descriptions of roasted fish, tarts, and cordial!) And the elitist writers look down their noses at me and mutter their disapproval. -- "Oh how the little man hurtles insults to the heavens," I hear one say in hushed tones.

It turns out that this kind fellow behind the counter just wanted to talk about a subject that he loved, one that he hoped that I obsessed over just as much. But I just couldn't find the urge to own up to my obsession. So I balked and shrugged it off as a passing fancy, a hobby to get me through the long work hours of the summer, I had said. Why? What's all of this about?

The truth is that I have yet to have anything published, save an article for the Hilltop Times when I was in the Air Force back in 2000 or so. (In which I spelled Stephen King's name wrong... Sorry, Mr. King...) I have recently submitted a flash fiction piece to Escape Pod, a science fiction podcast, with no success, and I sent The Boy in the Window to Fantasy Magazine last week but they weren't interested. This post and that conversation aren't about rejection, though, it just boils down to the fact that I haven't been published yet.

The turmoil I feel inside is a mixture of wanting to write a compilation of short stories that I can put into an eBook and offer for free - allowing for donations if readers feel inspired to do so, and the idea that I must prove myself worthy through the rites of publication. It almost feels like any deviation from protocol is a weakness.

"Sure, of course that sounds like a great idea, but only because you're afraid that no one will ever publish your stories. Just give them away and hope that a few people will throw some coin in your direction so you can justify doing it again. But why would they want to read your stories when you can't even get published?" Such is the internal dialogue that plagues me.

So I suppose when he asked if I was a writer, it was as if he echoed the question in my own mind. Am I a writer? Some people will say yes, others will say no. In the end it is only what I say that matters. To many people of his time, Picasso wasn't a real painter, and yet he painted and in doing so he changed the world.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Writing for Helium.com #2

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Thu, 21 May 2009 15:39:00 +0000

Here it is, the follow-up post to my experience writing for Helium.com. If you haven't had a chance to read the first post, you can do so here: Writing for Helium.com #1. Once you've caught up, come on back and let's talk!

I've been writing for Helium for a few weeks now and I've had a chance to learn more about how the system works. I have posted creative writing content, competitive content, and articles to empty topics. I have also participated in a writing contest and have submitted an entry for a Marketplace request. I've even successfully invited another writer to Helium.com and suggested a title for a new topic.

All of these things have been fun and I have felt very accomplished in my writing in the past few weeks. I have been working very hard on expanding my presence on the internet and adding content to my green living blog, www.OurGreenAdventure.com. I have even taken the time to write a few new Hubs on Hubpages.com. I mention all of this to illustrate the point that I am writing this particular review on well balanced experiences and not at all in a manner of being burnt out with Helium.com.

While this won't be a scathing review, I must admit that it isn't the best. Helium.com, for all intents and purposes, is a decent place for a beginning writer to start out and increase their presence.

It isn't as hot if you are looking for long term passive income from the articles you post. Unlike Triond.com and HubPages.com, Helium requires you to remain active in order to keep pulling in your share of the ad revenue earned from the content you submit. Any day in which you do not maintain at least one rating star will be a day that you will earn nothing from your previously posted content. That said, passive income for content is very limited.

The rating system itself has proven very suspect in the past few weeks, in my opinion. Some of my articles have been beaten by other submissions that don't even stick to the topic at hand. I have been given articles to rate in the same topics that I have submitted to, which seems a bit unbalanced as I can impact the ratings of my competition. This is a system where mob mentality wins, and I often wonder if half the mob is assigning comparative ratings without even skimming through both articles. So it begs the question, do you try to write for the rating system to get a higher number on display results for your topics, or do you write for the larger audience? My gut tells me that the rating system is a poor man's game and that the real money to be had is in the articles themselves.

That brings us to another point, ad revenue. Helium.com does not disclose the payout equation for revenue sharing. I am not sure what that rate is for Triond, but with less articles and all of them ranging in not-so-popular keyword topics I've made a comparable amount to my current earnings with Helium. The only difference will be in the upfront payment system that Helium has recently incorporated. Right now I stand to make probably around 10 dollars extra since I have 1 writing star and I've included some articles in empty titles. So if there is a system to making decent money with Helium, it has to be with accumulating enough published content to increase your upfront earnings and including a decent percentage of empty title submissions.

What about inviting others to join Helium? Well, I suppose it's better than Triond in that you can actually get referrals for other writers joining up with your invite. You earn 5% on their earnings out of Helium's cut. The bad news is that you can only refer other members through the Helium generated email. There is no referral link option like with HubPages tracker system. That means that the only way someone could show their appreciation for an informative post such as this by signing up under me would be to ask me to send them a referral email. How inconvenient! Most people would just type helium.com into their browser and sign up for an account that way, and that works out just fine for the site, it's 5% less they have to pay out of their share.

Back to the content. You maintain all other rights to your content, but Helium reserves first publication. That means that even if you delete your account, those submissions stay on the site earning them money. You could re-post them to your blog or website if you wanted to, but you'll take an SEO hit for duplicated content.

When it comes to creative writing content on Helium.com, your biggest reward is the warm fuzzies of the creative writing medals. Which, by the way, just so happen to do nothing other than provide warm fuzzies. I have made a few pennies from some of my submissions in the creative topics, but it definitely isn't a way to make money. These submissions also fall under the same rating system as the rest of the content. Rest assured that you will probably get a few einey-meaney-miney-moe ratings on those submissions as well, so gauging your writing ability off of how the rankings look isn't necessarily an accurate method of assessing talent. And this isn't coming from someone scorned by the rating system. Several of my pieces have faired nicely. It's just my observation.

The writing contest was disappointing. I was surprised to find out that the winners are determined not by the writer of the best article, but by a cumulative effort of as many articles they wish to publish to the select range of titles presented in the contest at hand. So, to stay competitive, you must write 6-8 articles to even have a chance at winning. I opted not to participate in one contest when I noted that one person had over 10 articles published with several previous contest wins stamped on her profile. I used my time, instead, to post to a few empty titles and to other topics I was interested in.

I just received notification that my title suggestion was returned, unapproved by the Helium staff. The topic was: How to Make Money in Military Basic Training. Apparently, this is too ambiguous as you already draw a paycheck while attending training. It's okay, don't feel bad. I already published a Hub with the article I had written. The piece illustrates that many of the fears that people have before they head off to Basic and many of the things they will encounter, but it does so based off my own, somewhat humorous, experiences. I just so happened to make quite a bit of extra cash when I was in boot camp, but then again I also sold wallet critters to other boys when I was in Junior High. What's a wallet critter? Keeping it as family friendly as possible, I suppose you could say it's a rubber band that isn't very musical - if you catch my drift. If you'd like to read the Hub, you can check it out here: 5 Ways to Make Money in Boot Camp.

I'm still waiting to hear back on the Marketplace request, but my overall experience with that was good. I entered a creative essay for the topic entitled: My Great, True, Personal Garden Story. It was fun to do and even though there were over 100 entries the last time I checked a few hours before it closed out, I had made it to number 7 in the rankings - which don't actually count towards the selection of the winning article. As long as you can find topics that interest you, the Marketplace can be a lot of fun. But then again, isn't that what AssociatedContent is all about anyway? The only difference that I saw from my limited experience with AC is that it adheres to stricter reporting standards for their writing projects than Helium does.

I will continue writing for Helium.com for a while as I work on my writing, but it will not be my sole venue for publishing content for money online. I don't think I will be publishing any more creative content, though, as I can't really see a benefit from it in the long term. I'd be better off just posting here, even though I don't get very much traffic to this blog.

But hey, don't just take my word for it. I was able to rummage through Jena Isle's older posts on her blog and I came up with this one concerning her writing experience with Helium.com.

Also, check out Marisa Wright's Helium Hub. Marisa was kind enough to share her insight in her comments on the first part of this review and I found her Hub to be both a good read and very insightful.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Writing for Love

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 16 May 2009 06:49:00 +0000

One of my first serious writing projects in my younger years was a story called "Fighting for Love" and like most early High School writing projects, it was... well, let's just say that it doesn't see the light of day very often. The whole thing was filled with clichés and other such atrocities, but if nothing else it had passion and enthusiasm. I wasn't afraid to write, I just did because it was fun, because I loved it. It is for that reason that I have kept it around, as a reminder that writing doesn't have to be hard. And even as horrible as it is, it is a memento of something much bigger.

As we grow older we find that there are many ways to love. We leave school behind and go to work so that we can do the things we love, so we can feed and clothe the ones we love, and so that we can afford the very pleasure of love. Sometimes on that journey of giving and taking, of mending and breaking, we get so tangled up that we forget how our journey really began and we forget what we're fighting for.

During this last month, my extended leave from my job, I was able to put things back into perspective. I have given so much of myself over the past year and it left me drained. I didn't have the energy to love much of anything. I wanted to write, but I was so exhausted... I was moody and grumpy, and many evenings my mind would turn to tasks left unfinished at work and projects always looming ahead. Writing seemed, at times, like just another chore that had to be done.

I stopped going out with my family on a lot of small adventures, opting instead to stay at home in the quiet and solitude of an empty house; an activity reminiscent of my troubled youth. That too took its toll.

During this break I have been able to readjust my perspective and I am so thankful for the many things in my life that I have accomplished and for my family for standing by me. My wife and my children are worth fighting for, and so too is my writing. It can be hard to see when there is no army looming in the dark beyond, but sometimes there are wars to be waged on another front. I cannot afford to allow my job to demand so much from me when it does not allow me to enjoy the life I have.

I write because I love writing. I would like to think that I am good at it, but I am smart enough to know that I can always get better. The trick is putting in the time to discover what does and does not work. And to do that, you must make sure that you are in the right frame of mind in order to get the most from your writing time.

Reflection is a wonderful thing. Just as I am writing this post, it occured to me that this is not the first time that I have felt extremely overloaded and at the breaking point. When I was in the military up in Alaska, there was a stretch of time when I worked full time, went to school full time, took care of the kids when Tara worked her part time job in the evenings, and somehow fit in a full time gaming schedule on the computer. I didn't try to write much during those years. But the primary difference I think is that we seized the opportunities to get out into nature and go camping and pan for gold with the kids. Last summer I felt trapped, often working 12-13 days in a row with an average 16 hour day and some at 19 or 20. Sure, I made a decent amount of overtime, but I also paid way more in taxes. With a rule against taking vacation, I felt as if there was no escape, and I often asked myself why I bothered...

My answer? I was fighting for love... to support the ones I love, to afford the pleasure of love, but forsaking the ability to do the things I love. And coincidentally, that was the reason I joined the military so many years ago. The good news is that life is about progression, if we choose it to be. So I will focus on writing, because that is what I love to do, and I will not forget where it all started, with both my writing and my family.

Recharging the Writing Batteries

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 10 May 2009 04:26:00 +0000

This is a picture of my wife and I at Disney World's Animal Kingdom. We just returned from an amazing Land and Sea vacation where we were able to experience several of the parks at Disney World before heading off on a cruise to the Bahamas!

The primary purpose of this trip was to celebrate 10 wonderful years of marriage and since family is very important to both of us, we decided to bring the kids along. Believe it or not, this was our first real family vacation! We tend to try to go camping as much as possible during the summer months, but we'd never done anything like this before. We haven't even made it out to Yellowstone yet.

If you've been following the blog at all, you know that I recently took a leave of absence from my job in order to relieve some of the stress that's been building as of late. I'm looking at a summer that could be worse than last year, if management projections are accurate, and all I can think about is the 16 hour average work days... that's not even counting the consecutive 20 hour shifts I put in for a few days in a row here and there last summer on the tail end of a 12 day work week. Fortunately, I was smart enough to save up some of that overtime pay in case I found myself on the brink of burnout.

Burnout, yeah, that pretty much describes it. Life isn't very good when you don't have the energy or the will to pursue the things you are most passionate about. Staring at the computer screen and being unable to write was more painful than I could possibly imagine. Some nights I wanted to want to write so bad that I wondered why I even bothered. Why allow a job drain so much from me? What was really to be gained?

But now I feel so much better. I feel like I have a new grasp on what's important to me. I've written more in the last few weeks than I can remember writing for quite some time. Sure, most of it has been in the form of Helium articles, but I'm still writing and I'm enjoying every minute of it!

Sometimes it's important to recharge the old batteries instead of running yourself ragged trying to assault the mount with an empty tank.

Writing for Helium

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 02 May 2009 11:15:00 +0000

Aside from writing my recent zombie story, which can be read here, I have recently put a fair amount of effort into writing for Helium.com. Helium differs from Hubpages and Triond in that it relies heavily on its rating system. It seems a bit strange and intriguing at first, but I will give you my overall impressions after I have a chance to see it in action.

After posting a few pieces in the creative section, I decided to throw my hand at snagging a few writing stars. By obtaining stars, Helium writers can start earning money from the articles they've submitted. There are different types of stars as well, one is for writing and another for rating. Once you've earned one star, you're ready to start earning some money.

Jena Isle, one of my frequent visitors, has always been a very big advocate of writing for Helium.com, and has done fairly well for herself with her part time submissions. She's always been very supportive and has answered many of my newbie questions. The truth is, for someone who is always fighting the clock, Helium can be very confusing at first. Therefore, it's great to have another member who has learned the ropes to mentor you. My only regret is that I had created my account before having the chance to sign up under Jena so she could earn the 5% bonus on my earnings (out of Helium's cut of the ad revenue) for all of her patient suffering while I picked up the in's and out's.

In a very short time I was able to earn two writing stars, a silver medal for Creative Writing, and a badge indicating that I'm a Marketplace Premier Writer. Not bad at all!

Anyone interested can check out my Helium.com profile.

I intend to write more about my experiences with Helium.com, so stay tuned! If you're interested in joining up, let me know! I can send you out a referral email to get you started. If you already have an account, but are as confused as I was, feel free to post any questions here. If I can't answer them, I'm sure Jena can - or one of us can point you in the right direction.

Check out the second part of this review:
Writing for Helium.com #2

Zombie Story

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 21:32:00 +0000

I wish I could tell you that today started out like any other day, but that isn’t completely true. I woke up with an itch in the back of my throat, the kind that you can’t satisfy by coughing. I took my coffee extra hot; no sugar, no cream. No dice. I kissed the wife goodbye and headed in to the lab, trying for the semblance of normalcy. I hate being sick. The train ride was uneventful, as usual, but the itch remained. I bought a pack of cough drops and a small plastic container of orange juice from the magazine booth on the crowded city street before ducking into the non-descript building that housed our research facilities.

I work for a no-name genetics firm, the daughter company of a shadow corporation deep in the bed of some big shot Pharma with even deeper pockets. As technical as the work can be, it’s pretty straightforward. I take genetic sequence A and couple it with seeded tissue sample B. Both of which are provided to me in a no-questions-asked transaction with a supervisor who doesn’t give me the time of day otherwise. That’s just fine with me, though. The guy couldn’t find his way around a laboratory if his life depended on it. The last thing I need is some buffoon plowing into test tubes and Petri dishes and fumbling my experiments while making small talk.

It wasn’t always this way. About six months back I worked for a guy named Burney Limkin, an outstanding supervisor and mentor. We’d chat for hours over drinks like a couple of fresh grad students about how our research was going to change the world. Sometimes we’d work long nights and into the morning until we were finally overtaken by exhaustion. But who couldn’t be excited during those days? We’d just isolated a major genome and we could all smell a breakthrough just around the corner. That is, until our elderly benefactor took the final dirt nap and his blushing twenty-seven year old bride got the keys to the bank. Turns out she wasn’t so hot about the idea of dumping her new gold mine into genetic research. When it comes to funding, no one cares as much about finding a cure to a disease than the man dying from it. When there’s no funding, the research stops.

Good old Burney caught a break running into an old colleague and found a spot working for some government watchdog group tasked with monitoring genetic research projects operating close to the legal line. The rest of us stayed on after the lab was sold. We were smart enough to figure out that we weren’t working to save anyone from anything.

You see, in this business, death sells. You won’t often see a cure for some crazy disease. It simply isn’t profitable enough. Besides, why cure something when you can sell medication to control the symptoms? Unfortunately for us, we didn’t have to deal with that particular moral dilemma. We knew that wouldn’t be a problem when the short, balding man with the clipboard called us in for the talk about lab security. The new company didn’t approve of us talking with our old boss; the connection to the Feds was too close. The gag order came with a hefty raise for each of us, so we didn’t complain too loudly.

With ties to Burney gone, none of us asked the questions we should have been asking. I think we all knew the answers anyway. Non-descript genetic sequences and prepped tissue samples that we never prepared ourselves? Welcome to the world of genetic warfare, where one hand never knows what the other is doing.

I’ve seen some interesting things through the business end of a microscope, but nothing close to some of the things in the last three weeks: rapid cell generation and mutations, cannibalistic cell structures, the works. We must have been on to something though. Dr. Dopple, the short, bald man with the clipboard seemed to smile much more frequently and we’d gotten a few large bonuses without so much as an explanation; all part of the benefits of secrecy, I suppose.

I changed into the thick, rubberized suit and chugged the last of my orange juice before donning the respirator and attaching the head piece with a large plastic window. Jennifer, another senior tech, was fumbling with her respirator. A petite woman, she’d never quite gotten the hang of the bulky protective suits we’d been issued. I walked over to her, fastened the straps, and handed her the head piece. She smiled a sad little smile and mouthed her silent thanks.

It wasn’t like Jennifer to be so closed off, but then again, that wasn’t the only thing that seemed different about her this morning. Pronounced veins in the eyes, graying of the skin on her otherwise rosy cheeks; it wasn’t just her cheery glow that was missing, had she been exposed to the samples we’d been working on?

I couldn’t help but laugh. We’d followed every possible precaution, maybe she was just coming down with the same thing that seemed to be on the horizon for me. I mentally reviewed my symptoms: the dry, itchy throat, loss of heat sensitivity indicated by the way I drank my coffee extra hot without pain, and in the mirror my reflection stared back with the same dull expression.

I methodically punched the keys to the air lock chamber and Jennifer followed me inside where we were showered with a spray of sanitizing chemicals and then smacked about with a torrent of nitrogenized air. Jennifer snagged a blue absorbent pad from the dispenser on the other side of the air lock and tossed it to me. I wiped down her visor and then she repeated the procedure for me before opening the door to the laboratory.

I caught the dim flicker of the fluorescent lights glinting off the seat of a stainless steel lab stool raised over Paul’s head as we entered the room. Paul had never been a violent man, so it surprised me when I finally registered that the red streak on the cold metal was blood.

My stomach wretched and a wave of nausea washed over me. My knees weakened and I slumped to the floor. Jennifer rushed to Paul and grabbed his arm, trying unsuccessfully to restrain him. The stool thudded down with a crunch on the twitching and barely recognizable form of the short bald man. His clipboard lay on the blood specked tile floor.

“Paul!” Jennifer shouted.

The sharp crackle from headset brought the urgency of the situation back to me and I rushed to help her restrain him.

“He’s killed us!” Paul panted. “He’s damned us all.”

I took the blood smeared stool from his iron grip and put my hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

“It’s going to be fine, Paul, we’ll think of something.” I reassured him, but with a man dead or dying on the floor and his assertion that he had somehow damned us all, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps all these coincidences added up to far more than any of us could handle. The body, yes, the bio-incinerator would do the trick for that, but these symptoms: Paul’s bloodshot eyes and the blue veins making sickly silhouettes on his face, the itch in my throat that could not be scratched. I couldn’t help but wonder how closely my reflection would resemble Paul’s now.

Jennifer looked as if she’d aged ten years as she slumped to the ground, staring at the blood pooling at our feet. Her ragged breathing crackled across the communications frequency that linked us together.

“What are you talking about, Paul?” she asked.

In answer, Paul removed his head piece and placed it on the table. There was no point in attempting to keep the lab sterile now, not with several pints of human blood splattered across several surfaces. I played along and freed myself from the bulky protective suit.

“What’s going on here, Paul?” I echoed.

“It was in the respiratory systems on these suits,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Jennifer and I demanded in unison.

The lab was silent and I could smell the coppery scent of blood. In answer, Paul walked over to the refrigeration compartment and snapped the seal on the handle.

“Are you mad?” I demanded. “Don’t open the samples; you’ve seen what they do!”

I struggled to pull my helmet back on but Paul just looked at me, the sadness apparent in his eyes.

“I’ve got a wife and two kids, Rob,” he said. “Look at me. Look at her.”

His finger shot out accusingly at Jennifer and she recoiled from his stare, slipping in the blood and then scrambled to her feet. She inched backwards and I could already see what she was aiming for. Paul saw it too, but made no move to stop her.

When she reached the emergency glass she clenched her right hand into a fist and glass showered to the tile floor with a loud crash. With the axe gripped firmly like a baseball bat she glared at Paul, taking her eyes off him only long enough to assure herself that I was staying in check.

“Step away from the samples, Paul.” Her voice was hoarse. “You’ve already killed one person; I won’t let you kill the rest of us!”

Paul’s laugh startled us both.

“It’s already been done, Jennifer. Don’t you get it? He killed us. He killed Burney. The samples aren’t in the refrigeration chamber anymore.”

And with that he swung the frosted glass door open wide. The sound of the axe hitting the floor couldn’t tear me away from Burney’s frozen face. His eyes stared at us with an expression of pure horror, as if he’d watched each of his friends murdered before his very eyes.

Then it hit me like a freight train, maybe he had seen it, if everything Paul had said was true, he might very well have watched the samples being loaded into our respirators on Friday. We’d been working on a new sample, trivial work. The other samples had stayed locked in the refrigeration compartment, or so we’d thought.

Paul sat down hard and struggled to remove his thick rubber gloves. After a few clumsy seconds he had exposed his hands and stared at his wedding ring before taking it off.

“So much for a trophy for slaying the beast,” he chuckled, amused at his own joke. But then his face hardened. “I’ll never see them again. Never again hold my wife in my arms, or watch my children grow and send them off into the world.”

“How did you know?” Jennifer asked.

“I got a call from Burney Friday morning, early, but my cell battery was toast. I bought a new one this weekend but didn’t bother checking the messages until today when I was getting ready to come in, but then it was too late.”

I looked at the crumbled body of Dr. Dopple and then back at Burney.

“If you knew the samples had been loaded into the respirators, why did you put your suit on this morning?” Jennifer accused.

Paul shrugged.

“How else was I supposed to get through the sanitization room? Besides, the damage was done on Friday, we’ve already been infected.” He spat back.

She looked away from him then, obviously feeling stupid for not thinking her accusation through. Of course, the sanitization system, it was designed to destroy all living organisms that might be clinging to the outside of the suits and the suits, in turn, kept us alive and safe from the chemical shower.

“Well,” she mused, “at least we won’t be getting out of here.”

“Wrong again.” Paul shook his head as he answered.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Dr. Dopple here has already arranged for us to be transported in a few hours.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jennifer shouted.

But it was true; I could see it in his bloodshot eyes. Our phase of the research was complete. The three genetic samples we created were loaded into our respirators and we’d been infected. It would be up to another team to poke us and prod us, test cell regeneration rates, dissect us, and then incinerate the remains, and then what? Once the alpha testing completed, would they become the beta test subjects? Or had we been the beta test subjects?

My mind was reeling and the room started spinning. I could taste the blood just before a red torrent doubled me over. The crimson vomit washed over the tile and raced to meet the standing pool of Dr. Dopple’s blood now coagulating just feet away. Everything faded to black and my mind filled up with the tiny racing ants I used to see as kid just before falling asleep at night. The last sensation I could recall was Paul’s firm grip on my shoulder.

“Hang in there, Rob,” he whispered.

I knew my face could not obey but somewhere inside, on the edge of conscious thought, I smiled. It was over, there would be no pain. Sometime later the specialized team would break into the lab and a scuffle would ensue as they subdued their quarry. Another doctor, probably a short man with a heavy German accent, would bend cautiously over me and shine a light into my eyes while holding up my lids with heavy latex gloved fingers.

“Strain unsuitable for human host environment, proceed testing with other known vectors,” he’d say.

Then one of them, maybe Paul – maybe Jennifer, would break free and sink their teeth into one of their captors. The blind rage of the genetic mutations would take over and the instinct to maim, to rend flesh, and kill would win over any remaining human sentiment. Would it be like the movies? Would a mob of flesh-craving zombies follow in their wake?

Was this what death was like: the slow, rhythmic sound of something dripping off in the distance, the insatiable hunger, and the scent of a grand feast around every unconscious corner?

It wasn’t until I heard the squeal of tires and the liberal baying of an automobile horn that I instinctively opened my eyes. I wasn’t dead it seemed, or rather… I wasn’t fully dead. My fingers automatically searched for a pulse, probing the pallid skin of my neck with no success. Some senses seemed unnaturally heightened at the cost of those remaining. My vision swayed in and out of focus in time with the dangling fluorescent light, but I could almost taste every individual scent in the room and some from the street beyond.

Paul and Jennifer had finished off Dr. Dopple and made it halfway through Burney’s frozen flesh before the team arrived. They must have been hungry.

I struggled to stand, frustrated at the realization that my muscles and limbs were slow to respond to the mental commands. Far from graceful, I flopped onto the still-warm corpse of the doctor with the heavy accent who had pronounced that I was an unsuitable host for the experiment. The blue latex gloves that had once covered his fingers were bloody and torn, revealing broken segments of bones that had been exposed by the gnawing of flesh-craving teeth.

“Damn, infected.” I managed to blurt out after desperately attempting to form the words in my mind.

Flesh tainted by the genetic mutation was undesirable, a pattern that had been exposed with the interaction between like strains during our preliminary testing in tubes and Petri dishes. Saliva of the infected seemed to spread the mutation; it was beginning to look like the movies weren’t far off. Detection of mutation seemed to be controlled by the olfactory system, or by smell in layman’s terms.

I clawed at my throat as a matter of impulse, tearing away chunks of skin that clung beneath my fingernails like dirt from the garden. The itch was overwhelming, burning, and choking to my core. The urge to claw away my own neck might be controlled with enough mental force, but I’d have to do something to sate the thirst-like hunger.

Burney had always been a good friend so I knew he wouldn’t mind. He was mostly thawed by now and his tasty red muscles melted like butter in my parched mouth. I was surprised, however, after sucking the last of his small toe bones clean that the desire to feed had not been quelled in the slightest, instead I craved more.

There was a flurry of movement behind me. The German doctor was reviving, ready to be born anew into this world of undeath. I smiled awkwardly, but he took no notice. His bones were broken in several places, no doubt a product of his impact with the wall and stainless steel countertops. He limped gamely onward and through a ragged hole that had been blown through the reinforced laboratory wall when the team had initially entered. I followed quietly behind, observing his movements with a keen scientific eye.

A primary difference, it seemed, between the strain that I had been infected with and the one that had this doctor had acquired was a distinct ability to interact with the surrounding environment. I picked up the clipboard as I ducked through the hole and started jotting down my notes.

“Subject suffers from secondary infection, does not interact with environment or other infected persons that come into contact.” I stumbled over the words as I wrote them, paying close attention to the doctor’s movements and looking for any indication of consciousness.

At once the doctor increased his speed, hobbling along like a three legged frog at a decent clip until finally lunging at a pretty young woman who had been doing her best to avoid him.

“Subject has acquired sustenance, possibility of contamination: high.”

Ignoring the doctor’s protective growl, I leaned in to smell the sweet violet fluid oozing from the woman’s arm and quickly corrected my prognosis, “possibility of contamination: absolute.”

It was in that moment, as I was crouched over the dying woman, that I heard the resounding crunch of bone. It took me a moment to realize that the skinny man now standing over me, wearing a tight fitting business suit and trembling noticeably, had struck me across the face with something hard. His briefcase dangled precariously from the nearly detached handle, and was growing bolder from the cheers of onlookers who were flocking to the scene.

They gathered like cockroaches in moonlight, slipping out from nooks and crannies that had been vacant only moments before. My mouth began to water. I could smell their blood pumping in their veins, the steady rhythmic pulses lulling me into frenzied stupor. I tried to warn them, to shout and yell for them to run, but my jaw hung uselessly -- disjointed from the blow dealt by the briefcase wielding banker.

The doctor continued ripping at the flesh of the young woman, seemingly oblivious to the mob now gathered around us. I crouched defensively and eyed the clipboard that had been knocked from my hands when I was struck. The banker saw my furtive glance and inched forward just close enough to scoop it up before dancing back to the protection of the group.

He laughed like a bully in a schoolyard and held it up for all to see.

“This zombie likes to draw pictures!”

I lunged at him, trying desperately to recover my stolen notes, but he danced lithely out of reach. The mob laughed and jeered.

“You want this?” He asked, showing me the clipboard and then yanking it back out of reach again. “Does the zombie want his coloring book back?”

It was as if I could see what I had written for the first time, not the intelligible sentences of a scientific disposition, but scribblings like those of a child filled the blood-spattered page. I groaned in agony, the realization of my delusion seemed too much to bare, and this man mocking me in front of so many strangers stirred an anger from somewhere deep inside. The whiney groan that rattled my lower jaw gave way to a throaty roar of rage.

And then it happened, like a dense fog rolling into a valley, screams from the rear of the mob joined my horrid battle cry. A hand flew through the air and landed at my feet. The emboldened banker looked down at the twitching fingers and his eyes rolled upward. Without thinking, I dove at him. Possessed with supernatural strength, I gripped the arm holding the briefcase and ripped it from his shoulder. His yelp of pain joined the chorus around us before I bashed his face in.

After taking a moment to pop my jaw back into place, I sunk my teeth into his warm flesh. It tasted much better than Burney’s had, but still lacked any satisfying quality that could quench the hunger tearing at my throat.

I looked over at the clipboard, saddened by the loss of my humanity, and then surveyed the area around me. Not a single person had escaped. Paul and three of the men who had broken into the lab, now infected, had taken the left side, Jennifer and two others had rushed into the right.

I tried to shout to Paul, to tell him thank you or congratulate him on a job well done, but my voice came out as a garbled moan. Feeling ashamed, I gave up the effort to hail my old friend and followed the pack towards the smell of fresh blood.

Free Writing Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 06:42:00 +0000

I just google'd the term 'Writing Advice' and among the links I followed I found several pieces of wisdom that I've grown familiar with over the years. Some good tidbits include reading your writing aloud, if you want to be a writer then start writing, don't worry about selling stories you write - instead worry about writing good stories, never pay to have your writing published, write what you know, show don't tell, and a lot of other things I don't really care to beat you over the head with at present...

Sometimes these little gems of knowledge can be true for different reasons. For example, reading your writing aloud has a primary benefit of making you focus on the words and allows you to catch typos and incorrect word usage that your brain may otherwise skip over. For me this morning, it allowed me to get inside my main character's head and see the story as he was seeing it. This was particularly beneficial because I was able to see that the section I was reading wasn't as bad as I was making it out to be. I've mentioned it before, but I'm very hard on my own writing.

I'm nearly done with my zombie story and I'm looking forward to putting it up for anyone interested. Tara really likes it so far, but then again she's my wife so her opinion might be a bit biased. I like it as a whole, which is exceptional for how I usually see my stories, but then again it's probably because I haven't spent that much time editing and I've purposely refrained from reading sections prior to what I'm currently working on. It seems that the more I reread a particular piece, the more it gnaws at me.

I guess that despite all of the writing advice books I've bought over the years, I've got to come up with my own methods for writing. It makes sense. The sad truth is that I used to want to write so badly when I was in the military that I'd buy and read book after book about writing, but I'd never actually commit to the act. It was a habit that followed after I was honorably discharged. I am happy to say that it has been nearly a year since I last bought a how-to-write book. I can't feign ignorance though, I've always known that the primary purpose of those types of books are to market to people who will likely never become successful writers.

That last statement may come across like a slap in the face to some people, but please realize that I make such a comment after admitting to buying several of these books myself. If you find yourself in front of the reference rack at the bookstore and looking at the "How to Write" books, STOP! Reread the first paragragh of this post. If you want to write, you've got to start writing. Does it really make much sense that you will learn how to write by reading about how to write? Can any of those books really give you the insight on how to pull off plot mechanisms? Can they really teach you effective dialogue? Honestly, you'd do much better reading the books of real authors, both good and bad, and learning what they did right and what they did wrong as it applies to your tastes as a reader.

The books I've purchased have ranged from helpful to insulting, from resource to junk. The stories I have written have provided me with insight and confidence. I know I've made mistakes, I know I will probably repeat some of the same mistakes for a while, but I also know that I will learn from each new experience and push myself to become better.

I hope you will visit again in the next few days to read the zombie story I will be posting. I've got to finish it off and then review it for any typos or mistakes, but I've almost got it done. I will warn you that, like most in the zombie genre, it is a bit graphic in spots but it does have a certain level of humanity in it that I am rather pleased with up to this point. And with all the hype I've been giving this short story, I sure hope it's up to snuff! Either way, I'd like to hear your opinion. You can let me know that I've done a bang up job, or you can really let me have it - if you think it's that bad.

Until then, keep writing!

The Zombies are Coming!

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 16:09:00 +0000

Watch out! In the next couple of days you can expect to see Zombies here at Hunting the Muse! That's right, I've been working on my short story these past few days and will post it up as soon as I get it finished. Also in the works is Chlorophyllium 9, a Science Fiction short that I'll be submitting to Asimov's Science Fiction magazine. It has a bit more work ahead of it before it's ready, possibly a rewrite of a page or two so I can line it up better with the ending that's been trapped in my head for almost a year now.

For those of you wondering, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Ethereal Wings! I'm still avoiding the rewrite of chapter one, and I'm trudging through chapter two while fighting a battle of wits with myself over pacing and narration. The horrible thing is that I know that I can smooth these issues out with a rewrite and that the first draft should be nothing more than a rough chisel that will be refined and polished as the process goes forward, but I'm stubborn and something in my brain keeps insisting that it needs to be perfect now. That ends up proving to be far too stressful.

I was writing a poem in Creative Writing class back in high school and another student looked over at me and cheerfully proclaimed, "You're trying too hard!" My answer then was, "This is how I write." These days I still don't think that I have problems because I 'try too hard', no it's probably closer to not having as much self confidence as I should. I'm willing to admit that because I know I'm a good writer, and not because other people tell me that I am. I know I'm a good writer because even though I may hate something that I am writing or have just written, if I hide it away for long enough to forget about the process of writing it I often make comments such as, "Wow, did I write this? It's pretty good."

So anyway, back to the zombies! Why write about zombies? Aren't there enough bad movies and probably a million more bad stories about zombies already? Probably even more than that, if we're being honest. But I got the idea for this story a few months ago and it really just sort of stuck in my mind, nagging me to write it. And if there's one thing that I've learned about aspiring to be a writer it's that to be a writer you have to write. And if you want the muse to stick around, you have to feed it, and lavish praises on it, and accept the gifts it brings, regardless of whether it is beauty immortal or the decaying flesh of a zombie.

Gimmie a Break!

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:02:00 +0000

No, I'm not looking for a Kit Kat Bar...

I just need one of those good, old fashioned breaks where I can kick my feet up and relax. I realized the other day that I have been more sick this year and have taken far longer to recover from each episode than any other year to date. I'm pretty sure that has a lot to do with stress. I've actually been eating better in the past few months and haven't been staying up as late as I normally would have in the past. I've even been making an effort to drink more water.

I've made an appointment to see the doctor this afternoon to take a look at this cough that's been around for almost two weeks now. I figured it would be a good idea once I started seeing a fair amount of blood when I blew my nose, despite my learned distrust of the majority in the medical profession after my time in the military... If blood were any indicator of emergency, which I doubt in this case, then I was right to make the appointment since I ended up getting two full-blown bloody noses last night.

The good news is that we have a vacation coming up soon. A real one. We're going on a cruise! I'm pretty excited, but it's getting close enough that I'm getting a little nervous too. There are so many things to plan and to remember to bring. We booked this vacation months and months ago but the closer it gets, the more I worry about whether or not we are forgetting something.

-----------

It turns out that I hit the jackpot! I've got bronchitis, a sinus infection, and inflammation of the throat. This won me the fabulous prize of antibiotics and cough syrup from the pharmacy! Yay! Wait a second... that doesn't sound like a prize at all! As my kids would say, "What the buttmunch!?" (No, I don't know if it's supposed to mean anything, and I simply do not ask... the mental picture is enough for me.)

I have also talked to my supervisor and he has agreed to allow me to take a 30 day leave of absence. At this point I think that if I had continued to push myself under these conditions I would have eventually puttered out and would have thrown in the towel altogether. At least this way I can lean on my savings and take a much needed rest so I can better handle the stress that can build up with this job. It just doesn't makes sense to fight mental stress while your body is under siege, probably due to a weaker immune system caused by all the stress. What a vicious cycle!

So, I hope to rest a bit over the next few days and then turn towards writing as a way to filter off more of the tension that has built up over these past few months. I won't expect anything great, what ever comes will come and that will be just fine.

Thank you all for stopping in to visit me from time to time. I really do appreciate each and every one of you!

Aren't bloody noses fun? Here's a pic of me looking very shabby...

Late One Night and the Joys of Homebrewing

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 10:13:00 +0000

Here I am, sitting awake in the wee hours of the morning. I imagine that it's only partially due to the coughing and hacking and intermittent throbs of a ninja headache that slips in and out of the shadows at will.

The other reason I'm awake?

Unexplainable restlessness? No, I'm sure there's a reason. I just can't put my finger on it quite yet. Who knows, maybe in the grand scheme of things all threads of this evening's unwoven tapestry have been engineered to lead me here, to post this for you.

Yeah, probably BS, but it sure sounded poetic -- didn't it?

I believe I caught this bug at my nephew's birthday party, though it does seem a bit strange that I'm the only one showing symptoms so far. I feel a bit better though, so at least I can hope to get feeling normal again soon.

It sure has hurt to talk, then again, maybe that's an improvement for some. Ha ha! I know my wife must be enjoying the break since I haven't been going on and on about the batch of beer I've been brewing.

The funny thing is that I've never been a big beer drinker. But I love the science of the process and I'm simultaneously taking on the goal of making a perfectly drinkable soda that the entire family can enjoy. That's the end game for me. So far the first batch of Ginger Ale turned out too bitter. I've got the next batch in the fridge now and it'll be ready in two days for testing. Here's hoping for something drinkable!

Oh, I'll keep brewing beer for a while... I've enlisted a buddy to join in the process with me and I think I've chosen well. Whereas I am not an avid beer drinker, he is. I figure this is smart for a few different reasons. First, we need the bottles back after each batch before we can reach the bottling phase of the next. Second, there's no way I'm drinking two and a half cases of beer in a week - especially if it doesn't taste very good (as is the case with some learning processes). Third, with a partner I don't have to worry about footing the entire cost of it just to enjoy the experience of doing it.

What I've found most interesting though, hasn't necessarily been the beer-making process, but more the history of the process. It used to be that all brews were home-brews. The same goes for sodas, which were often used as a sort of herbal tonic and treated in some ways like medicine by many homesteading families. A big difference, though, was that these beverages lacked the sheer amount of sugar or sugar substitutes that we've seen with modern-day sodas and they were most often made with ingredients that were readily foraged.

It was also very interesting to me to find out just how many people have taken these beverages back from the hands of large businesses and have started making their own sodas at home. Sure, it's more effort, but by making your own soda you can limit the amount of sweeteners and even the type of sweeteners used. Otherwise, if you want a coke made with real sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup in the States, you've got to look in the specialty aisle and pick up a glass bottle made in Mexico. Of course, it comes with that specialty food price tag as well.

I've got this Friday off. So far the weather looks pretty dismal this week but we've got plans to take the kids to the pool sometime this weekend. I'm also looking forward to climbing out of this mental fog by then so I can get some good writing time in. With any luck, I'll be able to enjoy a nice homemade Ginger Ale while I'm at it!

Rejection Letter - "Breakfast with Johnny".

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 22:49:00 +0000

I got a rejection letter for Breakfast with Johnny! Yeah, I supposed I could be a bit bummed out, but at least I tried submitting it somewhere. Check it out:

==============================

Dear Mr Frost,

Thank you for sending us "Breakfast with Johnny". We appreciate your patience as Escape Artists Inc. undergoes a major restructuring and expansion of its staff. I am the new managing editor of Escape Pod working under Steve (edited).

I've reviewed your submission, and decided not to purchase it. The story didn't grab me, unfortunately.

Thank you for your submission, and best wishes for you and your work.

--
Sincerely,
Jeremiah (edited)
ESCAPE POD - The Science Fiction Magazine (edited)

==============================

So, how shall I react to this response? I guess it would be easy to give up on selling anything to this outlet, or I could go the other direction and make it my goal to submit something that they'd accept. Either way, a rejection letter is better than not submitting anything at all.

In my own mind, I'm this great writer with vast reserves of talent that I have not yet put to work. I know that I have the capability of writing something uniquely great, but I often don't dedicate the time necessary to do so. How I see myself and how the rest of the world sees me, though, may be entirely different. :)

Do you guys have any rejections you've received lately?

-Brady

Flash Fiction #1 - Breakfast with Johnny

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 23:39:00 +0000

It was another cool morning at the Gerard homestead. John-X53 finished his internal diagnostic sequence and started making coffee. As transfixed as he was by technology, there was one thing that Tyler Gerard loved the old fashioned way. The smell of fresh beans being ground after a perfect roasting was the closest thing to an alarm clock they’d had in years.

Mr. Gerard was a self-made man. Taken to perpetuating the notion of safe robotics after the Machine Wars, he’d somehow found a way to get people to trust them again; most people anyway. Had John-X53 been human, he might have felt Pricilla’s glare burning through the back of his metallic skull. She could be tolerant at times, but for the most part Tyler’s wife hated machines and publicly proclaimed herself as his greatest moral opponent. It was no coincidence, however, that his greatest technological breakthroughs occurred during the times when their relationship suffered the most contention and he took to the long hours of a recluse in his lab to avoid confrontation. So in the end, he had only her to thank for his many triumphs, a realization that had only recently occurred to her.

Exactly one week prior, she’d enlisted the help of a covert anti-robotics group to help shut down Gerard Cybernetics for good. Their answer was a small virus that she could upload to one of the machines, which would then spread the code during the nightly server connection and update process. She’d selected John-X53 because he was her husband’s favorite invention, the perfect delivery system for the bug that would end it all. But now, one week after uploading the virus, he was still making coffee and performing his chores around the house as usual. She’d followed each and every instruction to the letter, and yet nothing had changed.

She sat at the table and scraped a layer of butter across the lightly browned surface of her toast. Tyler joined them shortly and sipped his coffee while reading the daily news on the electronic tablet he carried around like a clipboard. His hair stood on end and his bifocals perched on the tip of his nose. The perfect characterization of a mad scientist, she thought, and struggled to stifle a laugh.

“Says here that there have been attacks on almost every single cybernetics company in the last week,” he said, though mostly to himself.

“Oh yeah?” Pricilla asked.

“By the looks of it, they’re after the mainframes.” He mumbled and scratched the side of his head.

“The main-what’s?”

“Oh, uh… the servers, Dear. The code the government found was designed to corrupt the update software and push down new code to all of the machines that connected for nightly updates. It happens every few years,” He explained.

“So they tried to shut down the machines for good, would that be so bad?” She asked in the tone that always heralded an upcoming argument.

“Not shut down, Love. They tried to activate military protocols on friendly machines. Imagine the Machine Wars all over again. We barely dodged the bullet this time.”

Pricilla gulped and rubbed at her chest where a dull ache throbbed to life.

“Do they know how the security systems were breached?” She asked and wiped the cold sweat from her brow. Tyler was still scanning the tablet.

“Inside jobs, by the looks of it. Thank God no one else has access to our main-- er.. servers.”

“Yeah, that would have been bad.” She wheezed, her breaths now straining with ragged determination.

“Are you all right, Hun?” Tyler asked, concern evident on his wrinkled face.

“Fine, I think I’m just coming down with something. But what if?”

“What if… what?”

“What if they had gotten into the system? What if they had infected John-X53 with this code?” she asked, determined to fight the wave of nausea.

“John? Oh dear, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do much good. You see, I designed John to learn from his environment. He doesn’t update from any of the servers at all. Had he recognized a threat, he’s designed to neutralize it and defend himself.”

John-X53 smiled from across the kitchen and turned his attention back to cleaning the dishes.

“Seriously, Sweetheart, you don’t look well at all. I’m calling the doctor.”

“I’m…” she began, but trailed off. Her eyes rolled up and her head flopped down into the steaming bowl of oatmeal on the table in front of her.

Tyler was a blur of movement, pressing a few spots on the tablet connected him to the emergency line and an ambulance was on the way. He cradled the motionless form of his beloved wife until they arrived and accompanied her to the hospital.

John-X53 set down the dish towel and smiled to himself.

“Threat neutralized.”

© Brady Frost, 2009

The Blue Almond

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 01:06:00 +0000

I submitted a fun little poem to Triond yesterday. It only took me a few minutes to write, and I must admit that I was rather pleased with myself after putting it out there.

I entitled the poem, The Blue Almond. It is, in essence, about the quest an unwilling knight must take on the whim of a young princess. I intended the piece to be a bit of a satire, and I think I did quite well. But please, don't allow me to toot my own horn without taking a moment to gauge my efforts. Click on the following link to read The Blue Almond.

As of this post, I've gotten a mere 8 views, but I've got high hopes for this cute little bugger.

Let me know what you think!

The Passing of the ( Kidney ) Stone

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 05:12:00 +0000

I turn 29 in April, it's quite the milestone... the last year before the big 3-0. There are certain indicators of age that come along to show the world your wisdom from time to time. I have a few gray hairs mixed in with the odd pigment-less ones I've had for a while now. I'm not as fast as I used to be, and I've got a bit of a belly on me. But the one thing that took me by complete surprise was the piercing pain in my kidney on Wednesday morning. I tried to work through it, but like the persistent muscle cramp you just can't get rid of, it lingered.

Soon I found myself curled in a ball on the floor, thinking that I would just wait a few minutes and let the pain subside. A few minutes later I was on the downstairs couch, then the bed, then the bathroom. When my wife got home from shopping I asked her to get me a glass of water and an ALEVE for the pain. She was kind enough to oblige but within two minutes of downing both I was puking meals I swore I ate last week onto the bathroom floor.

Well my wife, being the superhero she is, was instantly by my side and damming up the barf before it could make its way to the carpet. With the slimy gunk dripping from my mouth and my arms shaking as they held me up just inches from the pool of yuck, I looked up into her eyes and she asked me the question I was happy to hear and afraid to ask myself. "Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

Prior to the vomit, I still held the wavering inclination that it was some weird muscle cramp in or around my kidney. I'm no medical expert, so I couldn't definitively say that it was my kidney. Now that I am quite familiar with the pain, I can tell you exactly where that little bean shaped scoundrel is. (Of course, you have two, but if you know where one is the other wouldn't be too hard to find.)

So, yeah, to the hospital we went. Each bump and jitter thrust a new wave of pain into my back. My brow was sweaty and cold, my skin was pale. I was praying for a kidney stone and hoping it wasn't something more serious. Some long hours and four holes in my arm later I got the news I'd been praying for. All my pain, all my nausea and trauma, was the product of a 4mm kidney stone.

I could feel my eyebrows crease in involuntary response and I observed, "That's a whole lot of pain for something so small." They picked it up on the scan and I headed home to let nature take its course.

Even after the stone took its leave of my facilities, my kidney pinged with the phantom pain as it let me know just how traumatic the experience had been. I could honestly compare the pain to that of being hit with a hammer in the back, not the first explosion but the lingering ache that stays with you...

This whole process had me out of the game until just yesterday. I might one day say that I am glad for the experience, but I attest to you here and now that I will never wish to relive those awful moments. (Nor the horrible exploratory surgery the nurse performed with the IV needle. I mentioned 4 holes in my arm, but I didn't mention the very colorful bruise I have as a souvenir...)

The Sick Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 01:27:00 +0000

Well, folks, I'm sick. All these bugs finally caught up to me. I feel like I spent more than I had to give on my technical writing at work today, but I slogged onward, focused on getting the mission done. Was it my best work? No. But, you know, it wasn't half bad. It was accurate, and that's always a huge plus when it comes to writing training and reference material.

After clocking out, I crashed on the bed for half an hour or so until the family got home. I could have slept for a week to be honest. I’m tired, scratch that, I’m dead tired! On days like these, man, it would be easy to retreat to the bedroom, snuggle up underneath those comfortable sheets, and call those 8 hours of research and technical writing my quota for the day. But I’m not going to do that, no sir!

As some of you may know, Jim Murdoch has been stopping by HuntingtheMuse for quite some time now. Putting it straight, I was absolutely floored this morning when I dropped by his blog, The Truth about Lies. It seems, unbeknownst to a lot of us, that the last few months have not been good for Jim. Every day this talented author has been fighting a plethora of maladies along with the depression he’s struggled with for quite some time. And yet, Jim’s writing transcends the murky abyss with all the lightheartedness of a conversation between old friends. It’s that welcoming aura that grabs hold of you and draws you in. Reading his post today wasn’t like sitting with that aunt who drifts off into dementia and relates all the illnesses and a few imaginary illnesses that she’s been burdened with. You know what I’m talking about. Those conversations that beg for attention and scream that we don’t suffer as they suffer.

No, Jim laid his humanity on the line and gave it to us firsthand. He told us of his struggle, not as a cry for attention and not as a means of perverse boasting, but as one old friend to another.

So, while I may only be dealing with a cloudy head that pulses with heat, and an achy back that screams at the slightest movement, even though my legs feel like boulders and my fingers think faster than my brain, and despite my ragged coughs, I will persevere today, and I will be thinking of Jim while I do.

Please take a moment to stop by Jim’s blog and take a look around. If you’ve never met him, today is a good day to get acquainted, he’s got plenty of archives to peruse through and many a fine read.

Vista Speech Recognition Blog Post

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 05:43:00 +0000

Tonight’s blog post will be a combination of efforts utilizing Windows Vista Speech Recognition and good old fashioned typing. So far my efforts have been using word to dictate this entry, however the learning curve is slightly greater than I would have hoped. Most of the problems I'm experiencing are rooted not in misinterpreted words, but instead commands overwriting what I wish to say.

This could be a viable way to establish drafts or quickly jot down an idea before it escapes into the ether. If only one were able to adjust to the commands and enunciate clearly, while still maintaining the train of thought necessary to keep the muse within arm’s reach. Though I must admit, as I continue on with this entry I am noticing that certain phrases cause more grief and others. It may be better, in some regards,to opt for one of the new, more technologically advanced, dictation devices that save recordings as .mp3 files which can be uploaded to your computer via USB cable. If you have a loving wife or husband or assistant, they could always help by dictating these wonderful ideas for you while you pursue the grandeur of your writing adventures or misadventures, whenever the case may be.

I will now stop dictating through the use of speech recognition, and return to the standard typing procedure. Thank you for bearing with me during this brief experiment.

I've been trying to think of alternate ways to capture my thoughts before they escape. Those of you who watched me suffer through last summer will understand when I say that beginning around the end of May through September I'm going to be very busy with work. I often refer to the three consecutive 20 hour days on the tail end of a ten day work spree where the fewest hours per day was 14 with an average of around 16.5... This wasn't exactly voluntary, now mind you.

While I do like the "niftiness" of Vista's Speech Recognition software, it seems like it might be too cumbersome of a process to adequately translate my musings. I will probably save up around 40 bucks and try one of the newer dictation devices with USB export function. It's important to me to be able to move these files over to my computer and organize them accordingly. Also, the portability would allow me to capture ideas while staring at the campfire if I can somehow manage to sneak the family away.

Why not just write it down? That's a good question. I actually think better with a pen in my hand. My dictation of creative endeavors is riddled with uhm's and uh's and swirling phrases as I turn ideas over in my head and think on the fly, pealing away layer upon layer of the onion that encompasses my creation. In honest truth, I would like to just write it down, and draw little doodles as my mind works out each process and develops each morsel into a crumb and each crumb into something more. But this summer will not afford such opportunity. In the hectic fight to get everything done in the seemingly impossible flurry of scheduling nightmares and admins who don't have their act together, there is little time for the creative musings. If you don't catch them as they speed through your thoughts, they go, they leave you feeling lost and alone and wondering what the future may have held if only you'd been able to grab onto them.

I fully intend to keep working on my current project, even through the tortuous schedule that invariably awaits me. I will do so through fatigue, and mental cloudiness. I will do so on the darkest of days when I fight for the mental fortitude to ask myself why I bother. I will do it because it's what I'm programmed for and anything else but writing is a step in the direction of something else. It's a winding road, but it is the road I travel and I have the power to change my course.

Thanks for 'listening'.

One Jet at a Time

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 02:27:00 +0000

It’s 5:40 AM and I can’t sleep. My wife and I are at The Alaskan Inn, she’s asleep next to me. The cabin is nice, a rustic touch of romance to celebrate an early Valentine’s Day. We’ll be getting breakfast delivered to the door of our cabin in about four hours and my stomach is growling in anticipation.

After I write this blog post, I’ll work on my current project. I’m still drumming away at chapter two. The changes I want to make to chapter one are fresh on my mind and nagging. I must move on, though, and leave the rewrite for once I’ve finished the draft. I suppose I could go back and rework it a bit if I get stuck somewhere, but I’m hoping that doesn’t happen for a while.

My responsibilities at work have been evolving as of late. It still seems odd to be the Team Mentor, but now I am saddled with producing and / or updating all of the guides for every operation we perform for the new training program that will be rolling out soon. I have client-facing work scheduled for all of this upcoming week and I’ve had to fight to get the old, outdated documentation. That is a hurdle in and of itself right there.

From time to time I get frustrated because it seems like I’m not being given the tools I need in order to succeed, and instead I’m forced to rely on my own resourcefulness to get the job done. That’s all well and fine when the day is over and all the tasks are complete, but it wears me down to some degree – more so than is necessary in most cases. I’m willing to admit that sometimes the extra stress is of my own making. Surely that was the case a few times during the summer when tensions were high and my nerves were on end. Working 14-20 hours a day throughout a normal work week and sometimes through the weekend and to the end of the next week, well that would be stressful to most people, I’d wager.

Up until this point, I’ve tried to keep most things related to business out of my blog in case anyone from that circle decided to make their way here to sate some profound curiosity. I do see this blog as a form of release, a bit of a way to vent sometimes, and I do enjoy posting. I’ve found that it becomes harder and harder to post when I’m not writing about what’s really on my mind. Right now I’m thinking about the mass of documentation I’ve got to produce while also performing my normal duties. Sure, I’m supposed to be the last one assigned, and any minute not used to perform those functions are supposed to be dedicated to this new venture, but two guys are out for training for the next week and we no longer have the staffing we used to. That puts me on the front lines.

When I was in the military, my first few years were really rough. There were many days that I was given the opportunity to spend my lunch hour on the flight line, snagging bites between aircraft refuels with jet fuel soaked hands. I’d finally come in off the line after my shift had ended to see a garbage can full of take-out containers from some of the local restaurants and as a lower grade enlisted member it was my duty to take those out to the trash before I could head home. It’s all part of the “rank has its privileges” game so many deal with on a day to day basis, but it didn’t make it any easier to console myself that I wasn’t alone. Whether warranted or not, I’ve always tried to take pride in who I am and it was quite humbling to be treated as a lower form of life, unable to enjoy the same courtesies that people around me seemed to take for granted.

I later learned that this environment was not necessarily reflective of my branch of the military as a whole, but it was too late. I’d already seen enough to know that any organization where power was abused so badly to the constant detriment of its members was not for me. But on those blistering days under the wavering heat of the sun and the bitter nights of the frozen North, where you huddled in front of the exhaust pipe of your truck for any warmth you could steal from the darkness, I comforted myself in the mantra that I could only do what I could do. No matter what the size of the list that I was given, I could only refuel one jet at a time, and so I did, and so I made it through each night – one jet at a time.

Writing habits

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 04:58:00 +0000

I wrote a scene today that I felt rather proud of. Of course, it’s still in rough draft format and will need some polishing but that’s part of the beauty. It was remarkable not for its completeness or refined elegance, but for the character interaction and development that took place within it.

I honestly felt like I was outside looking in on my characters interacting with one another as if they had no idea that anything from this world existed. That sounds odd, I know, but it’s the best I can do to explain it. I always enjoy those writing stints where everything just seems to work out and mesh, but I am learning more and more that I need to write even when it feels a bit forced.

The truth is, I can still come up with some decent ideas, even if they don’t seem all that brilliant at the time. Taking a moment or two to analyze the direction the chapter is going every now and again has given me great insight into my story and has allowed me to make some changes here and there that give the plot a little more dimension and clarity.

Throughout this process I’ve been able to avoid a few situations that felt forced and mangled and I’ve changed the order of a few chapters to put the plot development on the right track. I’ve still got some refinement and tweaking to do on Chapter 1, but I’ve done my best to leave it as it is and keep accurate notes on the changes I want to make. I think this is important because it helps me avoid being stuck in an endless loop of refining and rewriting the same material. Besides, who knows what minor details I might think to add in later chapters that will require even more rewrites?

I guess the major benefit to sitting down and thinking about all this is that I’m really starting to develop a system of writing that I can adhere to and use to propel my writing further. And that’s the point of all this, isn’t it: To write more and to write consistently?

Letters from the Front

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 19:15:00 +0000

It's been a while since I've posted. I have been working on my latest project and have finished the first draft of Chapter 1 and have since moved to Chapter 2. I find that I am fighting a battle against going back to revise again and again, instead I try to plow forward. Though, I have faltered on a few occasions.

I have looked at Helium as a place to post up The Boy in the Window, but I'm not sure how to do it best. The system isn't all that intuitive for placing a story you have written already. It won't fit with the contests and there are several story categories with hundreds of stories already competing.

Competing... for attention, for lucrative awards, big lights, fast times... Am I good enough with my craft to say that I am tired of competing? At what point does an author stop pursuing the small victories and begin aiming at something larger in scale? I promised that I would give this story away soon, and I intend to do so. First though, I need to focus on my current writing project because I refuse to be distracted and to allow doubt to set in.

Some people say that success is a frame of mind. They say that you can attain the highest heights, climbed the most impossible peaks if only you first visualize your goal. If only you see it clearly in your mind and take it. Okay, sure, I'll play along. But there comes a time when visualizing turns into day-dreaming and soon those dreams have withered away.

I don't much like the idea that I'm nothing more than a dreamer. I would like to believe that I've got something to say worth listening to. I would like to believe that I have stories to tell that people will be eager for, that they will enjoy and cherish, that they will want to read again and again. What does it matter if I believe it, though? I want you to believe it too. More than that, I want you to know it.

Some day there will come a time when I take down most, if not all, of the content of this blog. I decided this some time ago. But when that day comes, I hope that you will be as happy as I am because when that day comes I will have made it.

My goals might be lofty, but I've exhausted so many already. Every few years my wife and I sit down and write a list. Time goes by and we look at that list and mark off all the things we've accomplished. Again and again we write and then we mark off. With so much already attained, why not?

So here it is:

I am going to be a published author. Not just short stories, but books. That's right, books. Not just one book, but several.

And there you have it. One more thing added to my list of goals, officially. Mark my words, this goal too will be fulfilled.

Yep, I sound like an ass: just another aspiring writer thinking he has something special to add to the slush pile. It's okay. Time will tell. :)

Happy New Year!

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 04:23:00 +0000

Hello visitors and fellow Bloggers! The new year is upon us and New Year's Resolutions abound. I've been hard at work on my latest writing project and the progress seems to be going well so far!

I've also been having a bit of trouble with my desktop computer. It seems the motherboard is failing on me. I have the replacement parts waiting to be installed but I'm moving files to an external hard drive as I type this post. The ever-changing status report has me at 175 minutes before the transaction is complete but it jumps back and forth in an effort to torment me. As if to illustrate the point, I'm now looking at 209 minutes remaining.

Some of you may be pleased to hear that me newest project will be novel-length. I hope to spare some time here and there to ink out a short story or two if the mood strikes me, but my primary objective will be to have a draft finished by April. It seems a bit reaching, but we'll see how it goes. After all, famous books such as Twilight were written in less time, though I hope the fruit of my effort bears a taste far sweeter, if even at the cost of proliferation. In short, I would rather produce a literary masterpiece than a popular fanfare, if that makes sense.

Okay, okay, perhaps literary masterpiece is pushing it, but it does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it?

To compensate for my recent lack of posts, and as recompense for any such future lapses as I work on the task before me, I am prepared to offer The Boy in the Window for your reading pleasure. This is the short story that I wrote and submitted to the Bebo Author competition. I took it down from my blog to submit to a writing contest and to perhaps seek publication.

If I choose to place it on a site other than this blog, I will post a link instead. Let me know what you think. If you'd rather I just post it to the blog, let me know. If you think I should try publishing it on a site such as Triond or Helium, sound off! If you have a suggestion for a print publication, by all means, do tell.

I wish you all the best of new years, and may all your days be epic.

The Twilight Saga (he listened unwillingly)

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 21:51:00 +0000

I don't know why I did it. That's all I can give you, no more, no less. There are no words to explain why I listened to the entire Twilight Saga by Stephanie Meyer. At first I was curious, but a few chapters into the second book I started to question my own sanity.

The experience was an interesting one, to say the least. This bit of writing was odd, awkward, without compelling plot and included very anti-climatic resolutions which left me feeling ill. It was okay for one book, an amateur work with a glimmer of possibility, of promise. It should have remained a single book, a first step into something better, but it didn't. The inarticulate fledgling grew, began to take shape. The ugly duckling did not transform into the beautiful swan. No. This journey, though fiction, was wrought with the hard truth of reality. This ugly duckling didn't make it. Instead, it matured into.. well, an ugly duck.

I didn't read the books, to be completely honest. No, I listened to the audio books instead. I think that might have been a big factor as to why I saw the saga to completion. The voice of Ilyana Kadushin was probably the biggest factor that kept me going and only because of the relationship established with Bella during the first book, Twilight. Like it or not, I was invested in seeing how things turned out for her, much to my own detriment.

Twilight was unique. I can see what happened. A new author wrote a book, in a compelling first person narrative, a voyeuristic plot saturated with the inner thoughts and feelings of a teenage girl. The author did well. Then the unexpected book deal. Not only would this book be published, but they offered much more than had been expected. As indicated in wikipedia (a non-reliable Internet information resource), the deal had been for three books, 750,000 clams to match it. Well, what now? The first book was supposed to be over? How in the world could it go on?

Then there was the disaster that was New Moon. I hated this book. It turned my willing disregard of her adverb overuse into spite. Bella suffered several months of deep depression in this book, and I felt like it took just as long to slosh through it. I listened unwillingly, anger flashed briefly in my eyes, "Shut up and kill her!" I hedged. (Inside joke?)

Now, I know that there is a long line of avid fans who would fall on the dagger, so to speak, to save Meyer's work from condemnation. This isn't a rant from a jealous writer, I don't want to change your opinion, and I most certainly do not want to taint something that you may have greatly enjoyed. But this is my blog and in that I am entitled to my own opinion. From a writing standpoint I certainly believe that Stephanie Meyer is not without talent, but what she does have could most certainly be honed into a much sharper tool than the garden spade she used to chisel out this tale. I've read reviews and interviews that suggest she almost boasts that she never had any sort of creative writing training or practice before writing Twilight. Something along the lines of, "I may not be a good writer, but a good storyteller, now that would be something..." comes to mind. (Not a direct quote, now mind you.)

Why would that be okay? Why would you not want to do as well as you possibly could at something you obviously love? Here's an experiment. In Breaking Dawn, whenever Bella talks about being a vampire, glosses over her previous life and relishes in her new one, replace the word 'vampire' with 'writer'. Do you see what I saw?

If you read the Twilight Saga and now feel inspired to write please note the following as advice from a non-published author who writes a blog about writing.. well, sometimes about writing:

1. Your characters are people too. Don't make them do something they wouldn't just to expand a plot line. Don't make them leave when they couldn't. Don't make them fall in love when they wouldn't.

2. Do not interject yourself too freely into your writing. Your characters are not you. They may have some part of you inside them, but the journey is theirs, not yours. If you fail in this, the reader (or listener as the case may be) will be forced to live vicariously the life you are vicariously living through your character, the life you wish you had. That isn't pleasant for everyone. When we daydream we get what we want, not what we really need. Life often gives us what we need, it is whether we choose to take what is has to offer that makes things... interesting.

3. Try not to spend an unbalanced amount of time building up an oncoming threat in reference to the time you spend with the threat and its resolution. If you can't write confrontations and battles, don't. Don't try. Don't build it up for nothing. There are other ways to make your story compelling.

4. Not everything has to be hand-delivered, piping hot. Show don't tell? I think we talked about that once upon a time in this blog. It's horrid and over-used. It is a phrase tossed about with disregard and unearned respect. It's as cliche as it gets, and yet, it has merit. For one, if you turn unwillingly, well... someone else better be controlling your body because you don't do what you are unwilling to do, something has to give first and by that time you may be turning regretfully. But why adverb it up? Don't make your character turn anything-ly. Save those rare -ly's for moments when they will actually mean something. Strong descriptive sense will pay off in the long run. But don't show everything. Unless the scattered items on a shelf actually mean something, unless they give us insight into the character associated with them, or unless they will come into play later on in the story, don't bother making me read through it. A cluttered room for the sake of a cluttered room is just that. Don't make a shopping list.

5. If you would like to substitute storytelling for writing, don't write books, tell stories. The difference between writing stories and telling them is more than just money. Stories that are told are shared, passed on, they change with generations to suit the need for comprehension. Written stories, however, are solid, immortal; forever a glimpse into the culture of the time they were published.

Don't be afraid to write. Just do it to the best of your ability. Read what you've written and ask yourself how the next story can be better. As long as you do that, you should be progressing in the right direction. Don't forget to listen to your characters.

Chicken Noodle Soup?

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 18:36:00 +0000

Oh my gosh. I am so sick! It seems like I am catching bug after bug. Last week it was stomach aches and the flu and this week it seems to be in my lungs. That's a big weak spot for me ever since my time in the military.

I got pneumonia pretty bad in Basic Training. It was about a week and a half before Basic ended and we all moved on to our respective job training schools. I was so worried about being held back that I didn't go to the hospital. Not for another three and a half weeks, but by then it really wasn't an option.

I remember when it first hit me. It was a hot Texas summer and the hike back from the training ground was almost more grueling than the night without sleep that had preceded it. The TI wanted us back in time for chow but we'd gotten a late release from the instructors at the outdoor training area. It was up to us to make up for lost time.

One of the guys in our unit was in charge of assigning the door guard shifts. I don't think he liked me much. He had assigned me the night before the outdoor training, where we had to stay up all night, and then the night after. The shifts were scheduled on 24 hour rotations, so I often found myself scheduled for the last shift of one day and the second shift of another. That would only give me a few hours of sleep between shifts. I think that was a major factor in why I got so sick. My body just couldn't keep up, but I struggled on.

My wife was pregnant with our first child. I had joined the military as a way to get from where I was to where I wanted to be. Some of the old timers will tell you that's a selfish reason and a person should join for the sole purpose of serving their country. Regardless of my reasons, I was there and she was back home and pregnant with our first child. We were working ourselves out of a hole that we'd gotten into while trying to help out a friend. We couldn't afford to have her move out to my post-Basic training base, so it was imperative that I finish up on schedule with no hiccups. One bad step and I could be held back a week, which could impact everything in a chain reaction that could cause me to miss the birth of my little girl. I was driven, I had a reason to succeed, and I did my best to deliver.

That march back, at doubleplus speed, was the first moment in my life where my body truly screamed "I can't!" while my mind pressed it onward. Sure, getting a stitch in my side while running in gym class had been tough. But my mind didn't protest when the piercing pain suggested I stop to "tie my shoe". During this march, though, every fiber of my being was screaming to fall out with the select few who had already done so. I was already on thin ice.

One TI in particular (we had 4) wanted the guy who slept on the bed next to mine gone. He wanted his Carolina ass out of his Flight and on a bus back to mommy and daddy. The guy wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was a decent kid. So when it came time for the wall locker inspection, the clincher, the opportunity to make this kid go away... he couldn't. I had meticulously secured my own locker, ensuring folded clothing items met the required measurements, tucking away every conceivable thing into the correct spot. But he was having trouble. The end was in sight for him. Soon he'd be on his way back home with his tail between his legs. We'd already seen several guys pack up and go and had never seen them again. If memory serves me right, I think he started to cry. I worked with a speed I didn't know I had. I measured, I folded, I primped. I fixed his hospital corners on his bed. It was a lot of work, but in the end I had saved him from dismissal. I knew it, he knew it, and the TI that wanted him gone put it together when he inspected his locker. The dismay that flashed on his face had been quickly replaced with anger. He had torn through my locker, desperately seeking to find something, anything. The only thing he could find was a sticker on my toothbrush holder. I hadn't taken it off after the required purchase. No one had said to do so and I didn't bother. He held it up for the world to see.

"What is THIS!?" His deep voice had boomed. "Trainee Frost, why is there a sticker on your toothbrush holder? Is this an authorized addition to your required equipment?!" It went on for several tirading minutes. He had to make an example.

When he had asked what I had to say for myself, what possible reason I could have for failing to ensure my equipment was fully functional and up to standards, I felt all eyes on me. I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking I was a gonner. They were hoping they wouldn't be the next target of this man's rage. The same man who had, the week before, thrown the bed of the trainee I had saved from a failed inspection across the room, knocking several other beds aside.

In that moment I could think of only one thing to say.

"It was negligence, Sir."

He was at a loss for words. It wasn't what he had hoped for. He had expected a stammering list of excuses, most likely an "I didn't know" but what he got was intelligent, unarguable. He looked like an ass. He knew it, I knew it, and the rest of the room was catching on.

They say in Basic that the goal isn't to be a superstar. They say you have to lay low. They tell you to never give one of your TI's a reason to learn your name. That day, in front of everyone, my name had been etched in stone.

So I couldn't give up. I couldn't just Fall Out with the few who would probably get away with doing so. No. Trainee Frost had to finish with the Flight. Trainee Frost had to be called up to The Snake Pit to answer a barrage of questions, testing him on the rank stucture, the current chain of command, all the way to the President. Trainee Frost could not give up. So he didn't.

When we got back to the barracks I went to the bathroom and found an empty stall. I didn't have to go. I just needed to rest. I was burning up. My back was sunburned like it had never been before. It burned. But even deeper than that, I knew something wasn't right. I had a fever. My brain felt like it was shutting down. The water in the toilet gave off a cooling aura, a sensation I had never encountered while sitting on a toilet.

Almost four weeks later, Basic was finished, I had made it. It had been a month since that march. Three times a week I woke up at 4 AM to run three miles. I studied a lot. The training was boring and I had to make flashcards to remember all of the information. I always felt like sleeping. Things didn't get easier, they got harder. I couldn't eat. I couldn't drink. I always wanted to sleep.

I had just taken the test for Block 1. I thought I was dying. Somehow I had done it. I scored a 96 percent. We had gone to lunch after taking the test. I stared at the food on my plate in discust. The blue flavored drink didn't look the least bit appealing. I forced a sip. Someone told me I needed to go to the hospital. They suggested that I call. I was groggy, my thoughts were incoherent. I felt like I was burning up. I looked at the phone on the wall across the dining hall. For a moment I almost got up and made the journey over to it. Every single step was a journey. My body ached. My head throbbed. I just wanted sleep.

I got on the bus with the rest of the group and we headed back to our building. When we arrived, we all filed down the hall and waited until our room was unlocked. Once we were let inside, I gave up. I put my arms on the table in front of me and laid my head down to rest. It was a dangerous move. Sure, this wasn't Basic. This was Tech School. There were no TI's but the instuctors could still hold you back. I had just finished Block 1 and missing a day wouldn't put me behind. If I was going to give up, this was the only reasonable point to do so. It didn't take them long. A passing instructor burst into the room.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!!!!?"

I didn't answer. Someone did for me. "He's really sick. He's burning up. I think he needs to go to the hospital."

After a moment the instructor realized I wasn't trying to sneak a cat nap. He put the back of his hand to my forehead and the expression on his face sickened. He looked at me with pity in his eyes. The next thing I knew they had called a base taxi to come pick me up and take me to the hospital. I was in the bathroom splashing water on my face. I started to cry.

I had always thought that I could endure anything by sheer force of will. I had been sick for over a month now and it had finally won. I couldn't keep going. I was too weak. It was not a realization that came easy. I knew that if I kept going, kept running, kept marching in the hot sun, I wasn't going to make it. Eventually my body would give out. My mind was not strong enough to make it comply.

Then something strange happened. In the taxi to the base hospital I started feeling better. The air conditioning was a sweet nectar from god. I didn't just feel better, I felt good. That's when I started to panic. If I showed up at the hospital and felt good they might report me as faking. We had been warned not to try to use the hospital as a way to get out of things. This was a training base. They'd seen it all and punishment would be swift if it was abused.

I put on my game face. I tried to will myself to feel bad again, if only long enough for them to see that I wasn't faking it. I filled out the forms and waited. When I entered the initial examining room they asked me questions about my symptoms. I couldn't remember a lot about the haze of the last month but I tried to list off everything: the incredible fever, the aches, the weariness, the overwhelming desire to sleep. I did my best to look the part.

"Oh my goodness!" The nurse exclaimed.

My temperature was 104. I felt good and my temperature was 104. What had it been in the classroom? In the chow hall? What had it been when I felt an inch away from death itself?
They took me to see a doctor and lead me down halls and cooridors. My mind was still foggy and I just followed wherever they went. Soon I was getting X-rayed. The doctor showed me the water in my lungs and told me he would probably have to hospitalize me. I told him that wasn't an option and why. He squinted his eyes. "Okay" he agreed, but on the condition that I remain confined to my quarters for the weekend and take anti-biotics. Running was out of the question. He wrote me a profile so I could miss it for the next few weeks. No more marching the two miles to the training building in the morning. I got a bus waiver instead. The final gift was a strict warning that he would put me in a bed if I did not comply with every word of his instruction. Hospitalization meant missed training days. Missed training days meant that I would be pushed back to the next class. That was unacceptable. I agreed to comply.

Ever since then, any time I get sick, the cold, whatever. It seems to like heading for my lungs. Now that I have a better understanding of the world, I suppose I might have been able to get away with going to the hospital in Basic. But the problem was that I was no doctor. I figured that lack of sleep and the strain of training was wearing on me. I had no way of knowing I had pneumonia. Even to this day it astonishes me how long I fought it. I think about that moment when I broke down in the bathroom often. My body was trying to tell me something. Things were not right. My stubornnes could have cost me my life.

That's it for story time. Sorry if I rambled.

Article Submitted to Helium!

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 06:59:00 +0000

That's right. I took Jena's advice and decided to try out Helium, just to see what all the buzz is about. You can see my first article here.

This has been a very rough week for me. I've been having a lot of stomach problems and flu-like symptoms. I had to take a few days off work, and just as I thought I had to start getting better... well, I didn't. Nothing life threatening, of course. But it never feels good to be under the weather.

We finished up the framing of the closet in what will be my future office in the basement. It sure does look nice. My father-in-law has been a tremendous help. I've learned quite a lot from what we've done so far. My own father tried to show me how to frame when I was younger. It didn't go very well. I must have been around 10 or so, whenever it was that I moved into the basement of the old house. He thought it would be a great idea to put the responsibility of finishing my own room with him. I'm sorry, but at 10 the average kid doesn't have the ambition to learn how to frame a room and takes no enjoyment in hanging sheetrock. I've heard of grown men crying at the thought of it.

When we built the new house next door we had to do a lot of sweat equity. This happened when I was 14. Again, my dad thought it would be a great idea to make me responsible for finishing my own room. Just as before, I was in no hurry. I didn't take the opportunity to learn anything about what we were doing, in fact it was probably more the opposite. I resented it.

Do I look back at those times and think about how much I missed out on valuable life lessons? Not at all. There is a correct time in a person's development and I just wasn't ready. Besides, I'm not at all sad that I don't have a blue collar job building houses in the cold. Those guys are the unsung heroes of modern civilization and no one should look down on them. But not every man can wield a hammer as a gladiator in a grand coliseum of blood and subcontracting... it's just not the way of things.

What does all of this have to do with my article submission for Helium? Not a whole hell of a lot, but I hope you enjoyed the ride. Now go check out that article!

Creative Writing Prompt:

Someone stole my gas!

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 01:57:00 +0000

Someone stole my gas! And, no, I don't mean figuratively.Someone walked up my driveway and siphoned the gas out of my Jeep. They took half a tank's worth, sucked it bone dry...

What ever happened to not taking things that don't belong to you? I guess it would be one thing to have someone steal your gas in a parking lot. But to have it happen while your vehicle is parked at your own house, well... I don't know. It makes me angry. I guess it would have been a bit different if someone had an emergency and needed gas really bad in order to take someone to the hospital, in which case a note slid under the wiper blade would have been nice. Still... the audacity.

I suppose this means that as soon as the basement's finished I'll need to start parking in the garage.

It's unfortunate that my second blog post on the list of things to do had to bear such ill tidings. I discovered that the 2009 Writer's Market we picked up from the library wasn't going to be much help for finding a home for my short stories. So last night we went out and picked up a copy of Novel & Short Story Writer's Marker. I've only had a chance to browse through it but it looks like it may be better suited to my needs. It's a step in the right direction anyway.

I read the introduction and the first chapter of "The First Five Pages" last night. I bought this book when we discussed it in the writing group I was a part of. I say 'was' because it has since disbanded. I met some interesting people but I guess it just didn't work out. That's all right. It won't stop me from writing, that's for sure. And this book seems pretty decent, though in all honesty, reading about writing isn't exactly the same as writing.

I've also worked on my list of short stories. While staring at the page, scouring my mind for possible stories to add to the list, I remembered some ideas I had that somehow didn't make it into my idea book. A few weren't half bad, I suppose I'll have to be a little more diligent about writing those ideas down in the future.

Creative Writing Prompt:

(My mom's birthday was on the 12th)

Writing Efficiency: Making a List.

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 19:01:00 +0000

I've made my list and I've checked it twice. The holidays are approaching and I'm buckling down my resolve to keep writing. This week I intend to write another article for Triond.com, work on my short stories, find a place to query / submit "The Boy in the Window", write 2 independent blog posts (this is #1!), and start reading a book called "The First Five Pages" by Noah Lukeman.

So, while you shouldn't expect me to be hopping down your chimney with gifts galore, we can expect that I should get at least some writing done this week. And just so we're all on the same page, waiting until the weekend for this is out since I'll be working on my basement, just as I did this last weekend.

I'm looking forward to having the basement finished, though it probably won't happen until after the new year. Once everything is finished, I'll be moving my home office downstairs and the wife has already given me the okay to set up my own little haven for writing and whatnot. I don't expect that I will always be afforded the opportunity to work from home, which comes with its own caveat of responsibility, so having a dedicated office / den will secure my writing space well after I find myself returning to the regular workforce.

I think my manager would be a bit upset to read that. I'm not actively looking for a new job, I just realize that sometimes business decisions have to be made that don't always suit all parties involved. This post is only in reference to my writing, not my work during normal business hours. (That's my disclaimer and I'm sticking to it!)

The truth is that I'm very serious about my future and writing. I don't see myself ever losing the desire to write and I'm never really happy when I'm not writing in some form or another. This summer provided its share of... distractions. I would be a fool to try to convince anyone that I wasn't disheartened in the least to find that "The Boy in the Window" didn't receive even an honorable mention, though I realized that Fantasy / Sci-Fi didn't really suit the type of story it is. But I've got a copy of the 2009 Writer's Market on my desk, fresh from the library. So we'll see if we can't get another rejection letter or two before we find it a home. Of course, that will take some time between notices and responses. I'll keep you updated though, if you'd like.

I'm only looking to sell first publication rights to my short stories. I have a little something in mind for them in the months to come and I don't like the idea of having no control over something I've created. Sure, it's just a short story. But it's my short story. If I want to give it away for free, or put it into a collection of stories for a later reprint, or post it on a bulletin board on the moon, well... I want to have the option to do so. Is that so bad?

Anyway, what do you have planned for the week?

Creative Writing Prompt: