Hunting the Muse: A Creative Writing Blog.

Tools for Writers

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:48:00 +0000

As an aspiring writer, I have, over the years, collected several books on writing and a fair amount of links to writing tools that are available on the Internet. Since most of my readers are writers, I thought it might be helpful to share some of my finds.

If you have stumbled upon some other useful tools in your travels, please feel free to share your finds in the comments below. Beware, however, I will be filtering spam posts. If I determine that your link isn't a helpful one or if it is blatantly self-promoting in nature -- it's getting the kibosh! That's a promise. (You aren't using this blog to sell your eBook or software.)

yWriter5 is a free software program written by novelist Simon Haynes. It is designed to help organize your writing down to chapters, scenes, and characters. This software won't help write your novel for you, but it can help you keep track of what you've written. From what I've learned from playing around with it, you can even find out how much "page time" your characters have. Looking for a minor character to some into the story later on and looking for one that's been around "just enough" for the reader to be familiar with? Or thinking about deleting a character, but unsure of just how much you've written them into the story? This program will tell you how involved they are with the writing you've done so far, nothing like making an educated decision! Of course, you've got to use it properly in order to get the added benefits, and some would argue that it's more work to add on top of writing. I liked what I saw when I was playing with it though, and at the low, low price of free... well, it's worth taking a gander at.

Analyzer is a neat little utility that will scan through your document and scan for word occurrences. This is particularly helpful if you find that your writing often includes an abundance of a particular word. One that I am plagued with is "that" and, of course, "as". This is a beta program and I haven't really tested it out yet. Along those same lines, there's also a series of Utilities for Microsoft Word by Robert J. Carlson available for free as well.

If you don't have an office software suite such as Microsoft Office, you can always get OpenOffice for free. It includes a word processor, spreadsheet, drawing program, database, HTML editor, multimedia presentation program, and much more. I do use this on my laptops and I have had no problem whatsoever. This is a great suite for writers with a budget or not.

And last on my list, The Literary Machine - a nifty software program that helps generate writing prompts based on snippets you enter in to the database. Have a bunch of seemingly random thoughts swimming around in that creative mind of yours? Enter them in and allow the program to mix and match to create entirely new prompts from the items you enter. It goes without saying, the more you enter in, the more possibilities. In other words, this program is another way to help "connect the dots".

Writing and the Library

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 18:35:00 +0000

I don't want to beat the notion to death, so this is the last time I'll mention it, but I have been having a really good time writing at the library lately. Now, I know I'm not that old in comparison to the average life span and all, but back in my high school days the library was a stereotypical hush-zone where I learned how to make free phone calls from pay phones. Don't get me wrong, I also picked up quite a few good Fantasy novels which fed my addiction to reading as a form of escape from the world.

I knew some kids who would go into one of the sound proof study rooms to play Dungeons and Dragons, but that was about all that the library seemed to offer at the time. Books and DnD. Unless you count copies at, what, 10 cents a sheet?

As I got older, I learned something else about libraries. In contemporary fiction, at least, librarians were secret hotties that could rock your world. This made me think a bit, were librarians attempting to take over by shifting public opinion? A sexy library? Are you kidding me?!

But I suppose it isn't far off-base. No, there aren't any librarian strippers... instead, libraries have modernized. I've recently commented in my posts about my trips to a few of the local libraries and how I've been using this 'away' time to focus on writing when I'd much rather just sit and stare at a wall, mimicking a near-vegetative state. But I'm seriously not kidding. Who would have imagined free Wi-Fi Internet connections, coffee shops, and Saturday movies for the kids a decade ago? I would be willing to wager that the first thought that comes to mind to the average Joe when someone mentions going to the library is "SHHHH!!!!". And that's probably where that stops. That is, unless they read this paragraph and caught the reference of librarian strippers.

A blog post about libraries... I never thought it would come to this, but come on! You NEED to realize how cool these places can be. The Pleasant Valley library even has stations where you can control the outside security cameras! And yet, with the movies, the coffee shop, the free internet, the booths where you can hook your laptop video-out to a monitor to share with those sitting with you... it's still quiet! I can sit and listen to nothing, or I can plug into my iPod and listen to a playlist geared for the type of writing I'm about to immerse myself into.

Have you been to your local library lately? Is it still the same old stereotype, or has it modernized?

NaNoWriMo and the Snowflake Method

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 05:00:00 +0000

November is known by many writers as the birth month of first drafts. National Novel Writing Month has always seemed like a very fun -- if not stressful -- idea to me. While I have often weighed the benefits of joining in, I've ended up skipping out on the event for the last two years. There's always been something else in the way. I've been too pressed with work, too bogged down. But this year will be different. I'm going to give it a shot. If you're running the gauntlet as well, be sure to add me to your friends, my user name is BradyBones.

Is this the first time you've heard about NaNoWriMo? Well, simply put, it's a writing event spanning the entire month of November. The goal is to write 50,000 words during that time. There are varying degrees of involvement you can subscribe to. Perhaps just knowing you are joining the cause along with countless other authors around the world is enough, maybe even all you have time for. But if you need to feel like part of a group, to get and give support to your comrades, you can participate in forums and even join regional groups. For some, this support network is the true spirit of NaNoWriMo, and the networking resources to be gained are worth the effort. And the writing? Icing on the cake.

What happens if you fail to produce 50,000 words by midnight on November 30th? Nothing. The world will not end. You won't be pointed out or ridiculed. In fact, you'll most likely get a pat on the back. Your 20 or 30,000 word effort will be yours to keep! And if you succeed, if you meet or surpass the milestone with your first draft intact? More of the same, really. The congratulations of your peers and the knowledge that you were able to meet your goals is yours for the taking. I can think of nothing short of publication that would fill a writer with more pride than setting a seemingly impossible goal and deadline and then rising to the task.

Does your novel have to cut off at 50,000 words? Not at all. In fact, 50,000 words is considered to be on the lower-end of the spectrum for novels. Some writers choose to omit minor scenes for their first draft, others opt to set their word goal without modifying the pretense of how long the piece should be. Either way, a finished draft that requires fattening up or a draft that is 50,000 out of 70,000 words is still an incredible milestone.

It's a good idea to start out your month of writing knowing where your novel is going and who your characters are. A tip from the leader of our now defunct Speculative Fiction writing group referred me to the Snowflake Method touted by novelist and theoretical physicist, Randy Ingermanson. Hey, I took physics in high school and Mr. Yahne's class was one of my favorites, so I'll bite.

The Snowflake Method is a way to develop the premise for your writing, work up the backgrounds for your characters, and expose the gears of how your story will unfold. It promotes character-based progression and helps to grease the gears of your plot to ensure that the engine of your novel will purr. In short, it is a method of outlining.

There are, of course, infinite methods of outlining and it may or may not be appealing to your style of writing. At the very least, I would recommend checking it out, even if you don't intend to work an outline into your routine. With the post-dating of this entry to my blog to mark the start of NaNoWriMo, it may be too late to go back and outline. But even today, two days before the event kicks off, I found it to be an illuminating read, one that I will likely refer to after my draft is complete to help organize my novel and give it more definition.

I will admit, I pulled up the page and intended to read it several times. But after working all day staring at a computer screen, I just couldn't convince myself to go through it. It wasn't until I finally printed it out and tucked it into my bag that I finally got around to giving it a read. Even then, it was on my second trip to the library as an intro into starting my writing. In the end, I'm glad I took the few minutes it took to read through it. What's more, aside from the paper and ink, it didn't cost me a thing!

Who knows... maybe I'll break it out a few times during November while I'm writing to remind myself just how much work I've already got done. I don't have an outline yet, and there isn't a whole lot of rhyme or reason to what I do have. But I've got my two very rough chapters, my notes, and the voice recordings I captured when my fingers didn't feel like typing out the waterfall of thoughts gushing out of my head. It may not be as intrinsically beautiful as a snowflake, but it's a start.

My Second Writing Day

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 03:24:00 +0000

For my second official "Writing Day" I spent a few hours at two different libraries. My wife and the kids were headed to a Halloween party so I had her drop me off at a smaller library on the way. Then, after the party, we headed up to the Pleasant Valley library in Ogden. I'm telling you, I think I'm falling in love with that place.

Imagine a library with a coffee shop, a sitting area with tables and booths galore, a large flat screen TV playing movies (with directional speakers that you can't hear unless you're sitting underneath them), a kid's area with computers and lounge chairs, and free wi-fi. The list goes on, but it turns out that this place is perfect for me to get some writing done.

In preparation for NaNoWriMo, I wrote three blog posts, including this one, that will be post-dated to help clear my table for my novel-writing efforts. I also managed to get a bit more work done on my short story, "The Viability of a Seed". It's really coming along and I should have the first draft done soon.

I am really enjoying my Friday writing time, and I think that it's really going to end up being a life saver when it comes to getting my NaNoWriMo writing done. I'm definitely not going to use Friday's as an excuse to skip out on my writing during the week, but I'm a realist. I know there's going to be at least a few days where I'm going to end up being too mentally exhausted to do much of anything once I get off work. I have thought about waking up earlier to try to get my writing done before I start in the morning, perhaps I should think about that a little more seriously. I'm not a morning person by any stretch of the definition, but sometimes writing is about making things work - because that's what we need to do.

I'm also happy to report that I recently bought a book for my wife that seems to be an incredible hit. I haven't read it yet, but I took my netbook with me to the store when I bought it and read several raving reviews. Boneshaker is a Steampunk novel based in the civil war era in Seattle, Washington. My wife really seems to like it, too, which is awesome! There's nothing like the joy of finding a book for someone and finding out that they enjoy it, well... unless it's writing a book for someone and seeing that they love it, but that's another story altogether.

Starting a Writing Critique Group

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 23:55:00 +0000

I would like to start this post off by sharing a youtube video of a song I recently caught on the radio. If you have a few minutes, check it out. It might not be your thing, but you never know.

This song is called Firefles, it's by Owl City, and I like it. I like it in the way I want people to enjoy my writing. I can only imagine someone reading one of my stories or a book of mine and immediately thinking, "Whoa, I want to read that again."

We can dream, right?

But let's talk about now and the path from here to there, shall we? I've been kicking around the idea of starting up a critique group. I was thinking something along the lines of an email based group where you send a sample of writing for critique by a certain date every month and get feedback from the other members. In return, you offer constructive feedback on their pieces.

I don't have a whole lot of time where I just sit around waiting for something to happen, so I figure that I'll need to keep the group to a manageable size. I've got 3 other people lined up so far, but I was thinking that maybe 2 or 3 more people would be fine. Absolutely no more than that or we'd all spend as much or more time reading than actually writing.

So, what are some other considerations that I should keep in mind?

Submission Length - Having a max length specification would ensure that people don't get too bogged down with one author's work. So what should be the max? 2,000 words? 4000 words? Probably no more than that. 4,000 words x 6 members (excluding self) = 24,000 words + the time it takes to write sincere feedback for each. (Yeah, 7 people is definitely the max for a critique group.)

Date Specifications - If everyone is going to be emailing their work for feedback each month, there are going to have to be some specifications. Such as, when pieces will be emailed, and when feedback should be given by.

Content Guidelines - To keep people from being offended, it won't do to have sexually graphic or overly violent pieces submitted to the group for review. Besides, are you really going to get a thorough review if someone is too focused on the controversy?

Now that I think about it, people tend to like to send out emails they receive to people in their address book. I suppose some sort of rule should be set as to what is and isn't acceptable to send out. For example, I might enjoy a good post about plot design or rewriting techniques, but I really do hate those chain emails and hoaxes telling me that IBM and AOL have teamed up with Microsoft to send me money for every time I pester everyone with an email address that I know. I suppose that's one of the issues with having email-based submissions. A forum might be better, but what forum solutions are there? I've only ever ran a forum from a site I had hosting for.

Anyway, while I'm pondering over the specifics, would any of you be interested? I only ask that you volunteer if you can submit at least one piece per month and offer constructive feedback for other writers. What you stand to gain is a group of writers of various skill levels that can help you focus and shape your writing, rejoice in your successes, and comfort you in your moments of defeat.

Have any lessons you would like to share from your previous experiences? Feel free to chime in!

Hunting the Muse: My First "Writing Day".

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 13:53:00 +0000

Today was definitely a case of hunting the muse as I set about the task of dedicated myself to working on my writing. Funny enough, the muse struck in quite an unexpected way -- I found myself resisting at first, but then I just let go and went with it.

My intention was to spend time on finishing up my short stories and maybe working on my novel. Can I call it that? My novel? Sure, why not. (NaNoWriMo is right around the corner and I've been thinking about joining in this year, so I guess that would qualify my project as a novel rather than the ambiguous term of "book-length project"...) But as fate would have it, I ended up writing several articles instead. I think the total number for the day was about 10. The minimum number of words for each was 400, but I wrote at least 500 words on most and some went over 1,000. Even at 500 words a pop, however, that's still at least 5,000 words for the day, which isn't a bad shake by any account. Granted it isn't fiction, but it's still paying work.

I suppose by some standards that means that I was a professional writer for my first scheduled "Writing Day" and that's nothing to frown about. At the very least it means that I spent my day as a Freelancer, even if the pay isn't the best. Some of those articles, however, were worth an upfront payment of two dollars, plus whatever residual ad revenue they bring in. To put that into perspective, prior to writing these new articles, I'd already made $1.61 for the month. Yeah, it's not much, but it didn't take any extra effort to make that buck sixty-one either. My highest paying article to date has made a paltry $4.18 USD, but it continues to pull in a little extra every single month.

The important thing, though, is that I did spend my day attached to the keyboard and I spent that time working on my writing. That's definitely a step in the right direction! With my monthly article submission goal met, perhaps I'll be able to focus my next session on my fiction work.

Now, as far as what I've learned lately about my writing, well... it's been a rough to realize how "purple" my recent prose has been. I've also developed a lazy "as" problem. My writing has been saturated with it, and it really is a nasty habit that does more damage than it does good. I'm going to try not to get hung up on it while throwing down my initial draft, I'd hate to stop the flow of words, but it is definitely something that needs to be fixed in the first revision.

I've also decided that posting first drafts of my work is generally a bad idea. As such, I will work to run my draft through at least one revision before posting it, taking special care to refine any overly purple sections and killing my "as" infractions. The last thing we need is for this blog to turn into a bloody "as"-tray.

Also, I have started to wonder... What is it that you all come here for? In other words, what content would you like me to provide? Thus far this blog has been a recording of my hunt for the illusive muse, my journey toward becoming the published author that I've dreamed of being. Is that enough for you? At one point in time I was naive enough to think that I had what it takes to offer writing advice, but the further I progressed, the more I realized that this is a journey and that I can only teach my own experiences. As of yet, I can't really consider myself a professional. My writing resume is paltry and scant. To pretend I had any inkling of professional advice to offer would turn me into nothing more than a fraud. So, I present you with this question: What is it that you would like to read about when you visit this blog of mine? Are my experiences dealing with my writing journey enough, or do you expect to see something else? Help me help you to help me -- or something like that.

Developing a Writing Schedule

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 16:34:00 +0000

As writers, many of us struggle to find to time actually sit down and write. There are full-time jobs that gobble up at least 40 hours a week, and for those of us that are married, loving spouses that require more attention than an electronic tamagotchi pet. But we love you, we really do, and we didn't just compare you to an electronic toy that pleads for affection -- I promise!

So how do we make time for it all, and still manage to work on our writing projects? Because that's what it's like to be a writer for many of us, isn't it? We don't just work on one piece to completion, no that would be far too reasonable... Many of us dabble. We start projects, and switch up our creative endeavors to avoid boredom and resentment or to scratch a new creative itch that threatens to drive us insane if we don't acknowledge it. The muse comes as it will and does not take kindly to being asked to wait.

Of course, I'm no exception. I've been quite busy with my non-fiction writing lately, and I've added a fair decent number of articles to my online inventory. Some of my more notable articles dealing with writing are book reviews for writing advice books, The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman and On Writing - A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. Since I already have these books in my collection, it was rather easy to put the reviews together. It does make it easier when you get some use out of a book. I imagine that a responsibly written 'bad review' is a bit harder to write. It also made me realize just how many of these types of books I've got on the shelf, which is one part sad and one part opportunity to write more reviews, most of which will not be recommendations for purchase. I also put together some quick articles based on our experience with the Disney Land and Sea vacation we took back in May to celebrate our 10 year anniversary. I plan on expanding my articles on this topic as well, since it is an area of broad interest and I wish we'd had some of the information I've got locked in my head before we'd made our travel arrangements. That has to be useful to a fair amount of people planning their vacations, so why not? If there's an audience... might as well sing. Here are two of my 'songs' err -- articles -- Review: Our Disney Cruise and What You Can Expect on a Disney Cruise.

The short stories I've got in the works are both on an 'as-I-get-time' status, though I do feel quite compelled to finish them. For those of you who have been with me for a while, the titles I've still got 'in-play' are "The Viability of a Seed" and "Chlorophyllium 9".

There's so much that I feel I need to do and only so much that I can tackle at any one time. Life is demanding more attention from me as well. We're half-way through painting the basement, which must be done before the workers can come back and finish the rest. Of course, taking a queue from Jim's ( The Truth About Lies ) recent comment to my blog, I'm putting a little extra effort to personalize the paint job in my office to help create the perfect writing atmosphere. It's going well so far, and I'll be sure to add pictures soon, but the process is time consuming.

Working 10 hour shifts and getting off at 6:30 PM has also put a bit of a strain on a recent goal to write something non-work related every day. I get off work, spend a few minutes trying to get my mind right, then it's time for dinner and I try to spend a little time with the kids before they go to bed and then the night just seems to melt away before I realize what's happened. So last night I decided that writing every single day may not be the best approach right now. I'll only beat myself up if I miss a day and that doesn't help the writing process in the slightest.

What I need is a workable writing schedule, a set block of time where I do nothing but write. Any other writing I may be able to churn out at other times during the week is bonus. I've decided that Friday is a good day for me to carve out time for my writing, and that will work for me. What type of writing schedule works for you?

If I'd have been asked that question when I first began writing, I would have scoffed at you. How can you schedule time to write? How can you expect to tame the wayward muse? The concept would have been insulting. Yet now, mellowed by time and experience, I know that a schedule is the only thing that can guarantee that I will sit down and write, and to not write seems a crime against the very core of who I am.

That begs the question: Who are you? As a writer, as a person, as someone with dreams, what will it take for you to accomplish the tasks you feel drawn toward? These are questions you will need to answer when it comes to balancing your creativity and your responsibilities. The great test has been laid before you, what tools will you use to ensure you pass? A writing schedule may not be the razor-bladed sword of a mighty hero, but a sword must be wielded to be a legend and a hero must do something heroic to be a hero made. So too must a writer write. Will you schedule your time on the battlefield to hone your abilities for the battle to come, or will you allow life to schedule your practice for you?

Are Creative Endeavors a Product of Pain?

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 21:04:00 +0000

During my mid-teen years, arguably some of the hardest in my life, I was prone to expressing myself through creative means. I made up little ditties such as The Poppy Seed Muffin Song on the spot, a brainchild of improvisation. Of course, this song, and many others like it that I have long forgot, made me an instant hit with a lot of the girls my age and, unsurprisingly, instilled some resentment with some of the more physically expressive guys looking for their share of attention. The truth of the matter was that my antics were a product of the pain I felt inside and an effort to bridge the gap that I felt between myself and the rest of the world. The outcome, however, was quite unfortunate: I found that despite all of my efforts, I only seemed to amass a large amount of fair-weather-friends. These friends were happy to have me around, just so long as I didn't allow my pain to show through the grand charade. Always being quite intuitive, I picked up on this fact early on, but couldn't help but play along... some contact, however shallow and trivial, was better than none at all. Making people laugh made me happy.

The writing I did during this earlier period was mostly just letters and notes. The majority of my time was spent reading. How could I not? On most days my life consisted of going to school, coming home, and spending the rest of the night hidden away in my room except for phone calls and dinner. My only friends after school were my animals. To be lounging around the house during those years was dangerous for me. I couldn't just head off to my friend's houses, we lived out away from the subdivisions and I was often denied my requests for parole - though my siblings had an easier time of it. My mother felt that she was losing her relationship with my father, and he blamed me for destroying their marriage. No, I wasn't an only child, I was just the only one that they didn't really get along with. It's a long story, and one I don't feel like delving into for this post.

It is no real surprise, then, that I took so readily to writing as a form of expression. My poems and short stories were a hit, yet here too I encountered resentment. Even though my stories and poems were the hit of my Creative Writing and Advanced Creative Writing classes, I was turned down for publication in the school literary journal during both my sophomore and junior years in high school. I'm not sure if I finally made it during my senior year or not, but the rejection cut quite deep at the time. In each case, one of the Creative Writing teachers told me that they had really tried to convince the student committee in charge of selecting the pieces for publication that my submission belonged, and both years the outcome was the same. Apparently being on the committee was a sure-fire way to get your work in the publication, and though I did consider joining for that sole purpose, I just couldn't stand the idea that my writing had been published for that reason alone.

I can't imagine that all writers are hurting, or have a history of pain in their lives, though I am sure there are a fair number with their own demons to bear. Whether the majority of writing is the product of pain or just a form of expression that some people are drawn to, I can't say. Perhaps for me it was more an avenue of escape; one that was replaced with overt responsibility when I joined the military, and washed over with the countless hours I spent playing video games to ease the burden of a choice I made to give my wife and my little girl a better life. After all those years I want that avenue back, not so much to escape anything, but because I feel like it is a part of me that I have denied for too long.

How about you? Whether you write, paint, knit, sculpt, or carve: why do you feel compelled to create?

I am a Published Author

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 15:31:00 +0000

I have spent the last year and a half debating whether or not I can call myself a writer or if I should more readily accept the term 'writing enthusiast', but today I have better news. I was asked several months ago if I would like to participate in an inspirational book with writings of bloggers from all around the world. For my contribution, I offered one of my short stories that I felt very close to. In fact, I pulled it from consideration with a magazine that I had submitted it to in order to use it for this publication.

At first, I will admit, I was not sure about whether I should join the efforts. Many years ago I submitted a poem of mine to a poetry contest that I saw in the back of a writing magazine. Imagine how excited I was when I was notified that my poem, one that I had a special connection with, was selected for their anthology. As the time for publication drew near, I noticed that I was starting to receive a lot more promotional mail concerning things that I could buy from the company. After a while it really started to get ridiculous.

I can't remember how much I paid for the anthology, for the honor of seeing myself in print, but I think it was anywhere from 20-30 dollars. That was a lot for me back then. I cannot explain to you in words the agony I felt when the book finally arrived. The best I might offer you is an enraged howling or a demonstration of fingernails on a chalkboard. My poem had been mangled, severely. It was not done so in a manner of editorial improvement, something that I may have understood on some level. No, the edit was clearly to better fit it into the page as the book itself could be compared to a flimsy tin can teeming with sardines. And that was it, my poem, the bleeding of my heart, was turned into nothing more than a sardine.

This time around, I am receiving a contributor's copy for the donation of my story and any money earned beyond the cost of producing the book is to be distributed equally among the authors. Have I really come this far? Can I finally let go of that experience being burned so many years ago? Sometimes it seems like we want to hold on to the pain. Is it because it makes us remember our failures so that we do not repeat them? Is it because we have some kind of delusion that pain somehow makes us human or that it makes us better writers? I'm not sure, but I can tell you this, if ever I was a hoarder of anything, it would be my agony that I hold onto most.

So here's to a new day, a new beginning. In celebration of this event, I would like to share with you the poem that broke my heart. I was young, and so the writing may also seem young, but with it came my heart -- as unrefined as it may have been. As a bit of a warning, it was eight days before my 17th birthday when I wrote this:

The Healing

Lives lived in simplicity
Are simply things we'll never see.
For a man will sow just what he reaps,
And in his heart those things he keeps.

So with heart in hand he walks to you
And gives those things in plainest view.
When he then does speak a word,
He's bruised and beaten and never heard.

After that he pulls away,
Even if you wish he'd stay.
For mortal wound his heart acquire,
And your hate becomes a blazing fire.

With head hung low he starts to leave,
And sees again he is naive.
But now he holds his broken heart,
So once again the healing starts.

-Brady Frost © 1997

Now, if you wouldn't mind, would you check out the book and at least consider if it is something you might be interested in? There is no obligation to buy, just take a look and comment back to offer your support. If you decide to buy a copy, make sure you do so because it's what you want to do and not because you feel like you need to buy one to make me happy. Just let me know you're proud of my accomplishment.

The story that I submitted is called "The Boy in the Window". It is a story about a boy who discovers that he is not alone and finds his path through hardship with the help of an old man on the other side of a window. Here's the link.

The New Internet Dilemma and Writing.

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 23:20:00 +0000

It's been boiling to the surface over the last few years, this new internet dilemma. The world wide web has been known as a place for both spiders and flies for well over a decade now, with problems ranging from copyright theft and infringement, piracy, and of course the no-holds-barred realm of the electronic red light district with any palette satisfied, yet left darkly desiring more, legal or otherwise -- to name just a few. But I've recently realized another problem, one that even I have participated in and will likely perpetuate for some time to come.

Do you ever stop and take a good look at the people around you? What do you see? What is your impression of what and how people learn in the post-educational environment of work forces and every day life? Newspapers, Radio, Television, and even libraries have long been major sources of information - some truth and some propaganda most assuredly.

One observation, felt personally by many writers and the industry that currently supports the majority of the professionals in the sector, is that print medias are waning in today's society. Less people take the newspaper, visit libraries, and/or buy books. Therefore, the ever-evolving writer, and publisher, must look to new electronic means of publication: the internet.

I was just thinking to myself the other day that I really need to write more Triond, Helium, and Hubpages articles. So far I think I've done the best with Triond's passive article income generation, as it doesn't require star ratings for writing and rating other articles nor does it necessitate massive promotion or social networking in-site. All that aside, I started thinking about the nature of the articles on these sites and how it all comes together. I blame Helium the most for this, since they make you rate articles in order to get paid your share of the advertising revenue, and thus exposed me to a lot of the content that gets posted that I wouldn't normally read.

Ladies and gentlemen, this may or may not come as a big surprise to you, but there is a large amount of utter crap that gets published on the internet and passed off as an information resource these days. Anyone can be an expert on anything, regardless of their actual expertise. This kind of bothers me. Not in a holier-than-thou kind of way, because I know I'm guilty of perpetuating it as well, but as a conceptual whole. It's one thing if you take what you read with a grain of salt, but it just seems like so many people take things at face value and that's just plain dangerous.

While rating some of those Helium articles, I just couldn't stop myself from feeling a great sense of loss. Now, theoretically these articles would be rated down by the masses, but in truth, I've started to wonder just how accurate the ratings system is. Either something is amiss on some of these articles (usually submitted by channel stewards) or people are really starting to get dumber. But it isn't just Helium. Everyone these days has to have a voice, and the internet is humming with conversation. Ppl tlk lk dis on da w3b nd smehw it ok. That just makes my brain hurt... I spend more time trying to decipher what the heck that says and by the time I put it together I really don't care about what you may or may not have meant by it. Can we blame cell phones and texting for that? Probably. But the thing is that many of those people don't shift gears when they sit in front of a keyboard. Nope, it the sme ol gme ya no?

The sad thing is that I start to wonder, if people are growing too lazy to check facts when they write or too lazy to write in actual words, what does that mean for the effort it takes to read? How long will it be before there is no more intellectual reading, only opinions expressed in quasi-syllables and grunts?

/rant off.

A Glimpse of the Storm

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 04:28:00 +0000

**Edit: This is a snippet of my current Fantasy novel project. The scene that takes place below belongs a couple of chapters into the story. As this segment pertains to a blog post, there is a bit more mystery here than in context, but just because you don't have some of the background that has unfolded before this point. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this insight into my project and that you find its merits worthy of a standalone piece. **

The storm raged low in the sky, menacing and sinister. Thunder crackled and boomed and the rafters of the small cottages on either side of the lane trembled. Flashes of spidery lightning crawled across the boiling surface of the angry clouds, piercing the darkness and illuminating silhouettes of the buildings and the rain-soaked cobbles of the street below.

Ethan stepped out from the shelter of the eave and into the pelting rain. The stinging drops were bitter cold as they struck the exposed skin of his cheeks and hands. With the sound of the storm raging around them there was no real need for complete discretion, but he took to the shadows out of instinct. He could only catch snippets of what the two men were saying, without solid evidence he could do nothing. He had to get closer, but being closer, even in the midst of a storm such as this, meant the possibility of exposing himself. With everything at risk, the capture of the man who had betrayed all of Darion, Ethan took a deep breath and crept through the torrential rain, stalking his elusive prey.

"When will the next supply convoy depart?" The fat watchman asked the cloaked figure.

"They expect to depart the capital city two nights hence, with enemy forces gathering near Gildaes it could be months before they arrive."

"That's unacceptable!" The watchman bellowed before his words were muffled out by the sudden vice-like grip of his mysterious companion.

His hands reached instinctively toward his neck as he struggled for air, then his limbs shuddered and quaked as he was lifted from the ground with a strength that did not seem at all natural. His chubby fingers turned white as he gripped his companion's arms, trying to alleviate the agony without success.

After a few short moments the man dropped him, gasping, to the hard cobbles and landed a swift kick to his mid-section. Whoever this hooded man was, he had no patience for ill-founded demands.

"You delivered your end of the bargain, Watchman Simms, for that I will not kill you for this insolence tonight. But nothing you say or do will make that caravan travel any faster through a land besieged by those... creatures. Your payment will depart in two days, whether it reaches you in time or not, I can not and will not guarantee."

Simms sobbed. Unable to look his assailant in the eye, he picked himself up and stumbled backwards. A loud crash of thunder set him further off edge and he landed hard on the cold, wet cobblestones.

"So what will it be, Simms, have you any other secrets of Darion that you would like to sell to the Empire?" The man asked with venom in his eyes and a playful smile dancing across his lips.

The watchman slithered back into the shadows of the alleyway and the man took a step in his direction before stopping and looking back at the cleft where Ethan stood. A sudden crash of alley debris brought his attention back to the fleeing watchman and his grin widened as he turned to pursue his informant.

"On second thought, I'm not at all convinced that this relationship of ours will remain beneficial much longer," he laughed.

The muscles in Ethan's arms and legs bunched as he prepared to launch himself at the mysterious agent of the Empire. Whoever this man was, he would bring wave upon wave of the arachnid armies down upon the city state of Darion. They would amass like a shadow outside the gates, clicking and gnashing their great fangs until the night held nothing but nightmares for even the boldest of soldiers manning the defenses. Then, once all hope had been extinguished, they would tear the walls apart stone by stone.

Gritting his teeth, he felt the energy surge within him. The muscles in his back rippled and quaked and his eyes gleamed in the darkness with the ethereal madness that washed over him. Bellowing his battle cry, he burst from the shadows like a fiery dart aimed at the silhouette of the man now standing over the limp body of Watchman Simms.

Out of nowhere a large, muscled hand clamped down on his shoulder, suspending him in the air like a broken marionette. The untamed rage that pulsed through his veins surged anew and he watched with dismay as the man turned to face him. The element of surprise was lost, but the energy flowed through him now and would not let go. It would be a fight to the death.

A distant flash of lightning lit the small courtyard long enough for Ethan to make out the blood-tinted stream flowing from where Simms lay. The watchman was dead, which meant that before he killed this man, he'd have to make him talk. This secret of Darion, it was their undoing, yet it could be their only hope. And now this man, this agent of darkness, was the only one who could tell him what he needed to know.

The sky itself seemed to cry in agony as a bright light made its jagged descent, arcing and tearing downward. He felt the air around him buzz and crackle as he struggled against the restraining arm on his shoulder and a blinding flash banished the shadows. An immediate explosion of sound followed, pinning him to the ground. When the light faded, he looked up to where the man had stood. All that remained was the smoldering remains of Watchman Simms. The cobblestones were shattered and etched in ash and the man, the key to Darion's survival, was gone.

"No!" Ethan screamed into the night, trembling as the ethereal energy drained from his limbs.

He could have had him. He could have saved countless lives, if only... And then he remembered the hand that had stopped him, that had cut short his attack and ruined the element of surprise. Whoever it was that had followed him into this storm had ruined everything. He spun around to face the man now standing behind him and felt his heart sink as he recognized the worn, muscled palms of the hands raised up in peace.

"What have you done?" he whispered, his tears mixing with the pouring rain. "Why?"

If These Walls Could Talk

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 04:11:00 +0000

We're in the process of having our basement finished; two more bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the rooms will be for my wife, which she'll use for her craft room and as base command for homeschooling our kids. The other room will be my office.

Over the last few weeks we've watched these rooms take shape and have been eagerly anticipating the day that we can finally move in and get settled, finally able to seize our aspirations for this once empty space and make each newly defined area mold to our imaginations. It's been hard at times, looking at the rough sheet rock job and then watching the nicks and dings melt away as the surface is refined with tape and mud.

We started this project a year ago with framing the walls and fixing a lot of the crude flaws left by the builder. After several months of schedule conflicts, we decided that it was time to collect bids and have the job contracted out. There were still a few things that we decided we could do on our own, of course. With my prior experience in Comm while in the military, I decided I would run the wiring for the phone and internet for both rooms and tie it all together in the new furnace room. It basically allows me to have computers and multimedia devices connected throughout the house without relying too heavily on wireless or stringing internet cables all over the place. That was my brainchild, but my wife had a much better one.

Once the workers had installed the insulation, my wife suggested that we take the opportunity to participate in a tradition from the Victorian era that she'd heard of. Sometimes families would write letters or tuck trinkets or other things into the walls of their homes while they were being built. These priceless treasures would stay hidden and forgotten for many years; some were found, others were not.

The idea struck me as particularly brilliant and I decided to print out one of my short stories and quietly snuck down to the basement and slid it behind the insulation in my new office. I figure, this is going to be the new home of my writing endeavors once it's finished, why not set the mood?

I know, in a way it sounds kind of dorky. But if those walls could talk, they'd have a story to tell.

Technical Writing for the Creative Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 02:03:00 +0000

This last week at work involved a lot of technical writing with Statement of Work documentation for various processes and services that our department offers. At first it seemed to be a very daunting task. After all, technical writing is essentially devoid of flowery or descriptive text for a reason. But in the end it worked out fine.

I just wish I could spend 10 hours a day writing the stuff I want to write. You know what I mean? And it kind of stinks feeling all written out after spending that much time sitting in front of the computer researching and typing, researching and typing.

But of course, life isn't as simple as just work and hobbies is it? The neighborhood I live in is dealing with some tough issues. I'll tell you what, I'll never move into another Home Owner Association community ever again! I'd basically given up, washed my hands of the matter and decided to just pay the bill and move on with life. But then the Board tried to push through some new covenants, restrictions, and bylaws that effectively stripped the homeowners of their ability to regulate the Board's actions and remove Officers from office. I'm not sure what it is, maybe the fact that I spent 6 years of my life in the military "defending freedom"? Or maybe it's because I just don't like other people trying to infringe on my rights, but when I saw the new proposed changes I couldn't help but stand up and get involved again. To start off, that meant writing up some posts to the community blog explaining some of the things that had happened behind the scenes with the Board before I tossed in the towel. More writing, but not exactly the type that I was hoping to do if you know what I mean.

Even in the face of all of this, I am determined to make some time to write this weekend. And look at this! I've already written a blog post about some of the issues that technical writing can create for the creative writer. So what are some of these issues?

Writing fatigue is a major one. When you spend all day writing technical documentation, it can be hard to sit and write more. If you do your writing on a computer, you might experience pain or discomfort staring at the screen or typing on the keyboard. I guess the best thing I can recommend is that you try to get some air, step out of the room, maybe go outside, but get out of the environment to help clear your head. In my case, I just put off my writing for the weekend, but do whatever works for you.

Mixing technique. By virtue, technical writing is much different than creative writing. Technical documents are straight to the point, they spell out the ins and the outs and they leave no room for creative interpretations. A technical document is written to be the law. A creative document is much different, it isn't the law per se, but a story. It could be creative fiction or creative non-fiction, it doesn't really matter. The creative part is only a description of the style of the writing - or perhaps a better explanation is that it is a description of the relationship between the writer and the reader.

Another issue that I find is that it is actually sometimes easier for me to write technical documents for the company I work for because no one really cares about who I am when they read them. The writing is generally accepted because the information is correct and there is no relationship to be established like when I write as a hobby for my creative endeavors. I'm not just writing a story, heavens no. When I write, I am building a relationship with my reader - a person that I may never meet. I don't know their background, their interests, and yet I take upon myself the task of writing a story that will touch a part of their soul and make the read worth while. After long sessions of technical writing, it can be daunting to work on that relationship and switch gears from omnipotent overlord to a weaver of tales.

One Word at a Time

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 19:06:00 +0000

I've been trying to think of what to say lately and nothing really seems to do the trick in my mind. You see, there's this awkwardness here, like an impervious silence in a full room. Of course, I can't wait for you to say something. It just doesn't work that way. Besides, you don't even know what's happened.

Life is full of decisions: how we decide to react to circumstances both within and outside of our control, what we decide to take ownership of... these decisions define us. The choices we make become who we are.

Instead of taking responsibility for his shortcomings, one of the individuals that lost his job earlier this summer decided to place the blame elsewhere. Apparently that means that taking my pictures off my blog and posting them to various places on the web with defaming comments is justified. I won't get into what was said, but it was enough for me to open up a case with the local police department. That in itself says something. I'm not one to be bothered by run-of-the-mill slander attacks, but this was above and beyond what might be considered within reason.

Where does it go from here? I'm not sure. They've assigned a detective to the case but I haven't heard anything yet. They said it could take a while to subpoena the websites where the content was uploaded. The process isn't fun, that's for sure.

In other news, I burned the skin off my right ankle this weekend. Whew! I'll have to post a picture, it's a bit gruesome. No worries though, I can still walk around just fine - it's a bit uncomfortable, but I'll manage. When I lit the pile, it went up with such force that some of the splashed gasoline was propelled from the flame and caught the nearby grass. My foot, I'm afraid, was also a victim of the explosion.

It was weird, though. It wasn't like you might imagine. There were no fireworks or grand plumes of flame.

I lit the lighter wand and there was a resounding BOOM and WHOOOSH as the vapors caught. I guess I was somewhat prepared for it because I instantly closed my eyes. Good thing, too, since I'm missing half of my eyelashes. The next few seconds are a blur of stumbling backwards in the perpetual dance of trying to regain my balance. Of course, it usually ends up the same way despite your efforts with you landing hard on your backside. This time was no different and I lay on the grass for a moment focusing my thoughts to the pain in my burning legs to stave off the looming shock that threatened to wash over me as I struggled to catch the wind that had been knocked hard out of my lungs.

There were no thoughts of Stop, Drop, and roll. I'd done well enough to get back away from the flames and other than the burning sensation on my legs, there was no reason to believe that I was on fire. I am not usually a shorts wearing kind of guy, but had I been wearing pants that night I would most assuredly caught flame. Instead, I stood up and walked over to a patch of grass that had been struck with flaming petrol and stomped it out.

It wasn't until after my wife walked out and admired the fire and the thought of sitting outside with me watching the dancing flames that I took the time to survey the damage. My leg hair was burnt off to the follicles, my skin pink from the burn. It hurt when I walked or moved and my shoe seemed to agitate a burnt spot on my ankle. It wasn't until I walked inside and got a good look in the light that I noticed that the top layer of skin had apparently melted off.

Luckily, the bottom layer wasn't as bad as it could have been. I was quite fortunate to get away with such minor injuries. Next time I think I'll toss a lit object into the fire from a safer distance, rather than attempting to light it so close. Lesson learned. :)

Coffeeshop Confessional - Overdue

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 22:10:00 +0000

The first part of my confessional is that this picture was actually taken 2 months ago. I got a new netbook (I love my toys) and I had intended on writing up a post when I got home and connected up to my wi-fi, but I guess I forgot.

What's worse is that this isn't the the final version of the drawing that I left behind. I also included a bit of text that indicated what my current project was. The jagged pill is that I'm still working on the same project. This wouldn't be so bad if it weren't such a simple short story, but it is what it is and I've gotten done what I have. I tend to berate myself over the time constraints I have to deal with, but that isn't really productive either.

The best thing to do, I find, is to let go of the excuses and just move forward. You've got to have your mind right when you write - at least in my case. Sure, I could do better when it comes to getting right and getting to it, but that is neither here nor there. I've set my mind to trying harder to get into that zone and getting things moving again. My usual excuse it that work encompasses so much of my time and bogs down my mind so much that even in my free time I feel exhausted. That might be the case, but I've got to find a way of taking back my free time and using it more productively. I mean, otherwise dreams stay dreams and reality slowly melts away into a battalion of yesterdays ready to march onto the battlefield of tomorrow. I don't want to become a slave to procrastination. I've got too much left to do. You can't wait for life to be right for you before taking action and moving forward.

My current project is still "The Viability of a Seed" but I expect to have my first draft done by the end of the week. Then it's back to working on my book. I have more short story ideas that I would like to work on, but all in good time.

Writing: When Your Strengths Hold You Back

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 23:26:00 +0000

I would have to say that one of my biggest writing strengths is my power of description. I love to imagine that I'm painting a picture so vivid and real in someone else's mind as they read my writing, but the truth is... too much description can kill pacing and leave some readers feeling robbed of imagining events the way they would like to.

That is a hard realization for me. To suddenly see what you considered to be your strength as a potential pitfall can be disheartening to say the least. Of course, the extreme is to avoid descriptive writing altogether, but that too would be a mistake. A beautiful composition has a perfect balance that can draw a reader in and provide a foundation for their own fantastic interpretation. We run into trouble when we get so engrossed in the scenery, the details of the items on shelves and the way shadows flicker across the twilight-kissed leaves in an otherwise transitional scene, that we forget that we are in the midst of a story about our characters.

Have I gone that far? I don't think so. I mean, at least no one has ever mentioned it to me. Upon further meditation, though, I do realize that the second chapter of my current project does have a bit of a problem in areas where I struggled to measure the perfect quantity of detail into the scene. It leads me believe, looking back, that if you have to ask yourself if you are including enough detail, you might just be including a bit too much in some cases. Of course, that's the beauty of rewrites. I know this is an issue now, but I have to focus on moving forward. I will keep notes as I go about things I will want to change on the next revision, but I've got to keep moving ahead.

I guess that's the biggest thing for me -- slowly getting in touch with my own personal writing process. I've said it before, time and time again, I have always had this odd prejudice against rewriting and cutting. I truly expected that I should be able to cough up each story or poem perfectly formed and in the final state. Of course, this caused a lot of tension and a lot of setbacks where I deleted pages upon pages of decent starting material simply because it did not meet my expectations. I have since learned that this starting material is not as bad as I had thought. Sure, it must be sifted and refined, but there are

still rough gems to be found. It is only a fool who tosses these castings, hoping instead to find the perfect diamond or shimmering nugget.

The Boy in the Window

noreply@blogger.com (Brady) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 05:57:00 +0000

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, come one - come all!!! Or, should I say, go.. all of you!

Check out my story The Boy in the Window over at Jena's blog.

I know, I know... I haven't gotten to post much lately and I am very sorry. With my current job, summer is always very hectic for me. I end up working shifted schedules and quite a bit of overtime here and there. I will do my best to do better, but in the mean time... go read my story and let me know what you think!

-Brady

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.