Mace's Writing Blog

750 Words

2011-09-08T02:55:00.000-07:00

I don't update this blog as often as I'd like to but hopefully, I'll update more from now on :). Recently, I heard about this great writing site: 750 Words. It basically tracks your writing stats and you can have the site email you every day to make sure you write 750 words about anything you'd like to. I've only used it twice but it seems good so far to get people to start writing- somehow that word count really helps, even more so than annoying noises or flashing screens or deleting what you've written until you reach your writing goal a la Write or Die. Anyhow, I'm hoping to (finally) do NaNoWriMo this year and am using 750 words to get myself warmed up.

For this post, two short pieces: the first one I see as part of something much longer. I'm sure every writer has an inkling to write a post apocalyptic piece of some sort at some point, here's mine. Or maybe it's just me.

The other one is a snipit and that's all I will do with it. I'll probably tweak the end at some point because currently, it is pretty weak.
**
(No title yet)

She visits him from time to time. Less so now, now that there's been so much to do with the paper. People like the stories, even if they aren't true, and she's written about all of the memories of the really lucid, good things she's seen people do, wonderful things she'd experienced. Like the time when she came home from a shitty day- bad haircut, delayed packages, coffee spill, and finally, her boss’s mistaken wrath at her (but Veronica wasn’t the type to apologize and only says "oh" when she realizes she'd received the report weeks ago but had accidentally archived the email), and there he is, waiting for her at home, with his delicious signature ratatouille. She's even been using cheesy platitudes and fragments of stories to make new ones- anything to satisfy their (and her own) ravenous need for more good news. Like that ballet company where everyone shaved their heads when one of their own was balding from chemo- or was it a football team- no soccer -no, maybe it never happened.

She used to go regularly. They'd sit her down alone in a room with one of the machines, and she'd strap herself in. It always amazed her how much detail she’d absorbed. There were even a few times when she missed how things were so badly that she didn't even focus on the memories, just the details everywhere. Like what her library looked like- messy but ordered. Books roughly grouped by how much she liked to read them. For a while, she noticed that she would put her favorites all the way on the top shelf so that she'd quit reading them, but it didn't work. She'd just keep going all the way to the basement to get that step stool, the one that always wobbled.

There were also the sounds. Like how there were still so many animals around. She used to hate bugs until they all disappeared. When she was feeling particularly nostalgic, she'd go back to summers long ago at the Lake, camping with her family. She'd hear Jen crying and her own squeaky voice complaining about the itchy rashes, but that would all be in the background because she'd be focused on the mosquitoes buzzing and how LOUD (croaking, chirping, chirping) summer nights could be.

In the end, though, she'd always go back to that same memory. It's not a particularly special one but it's the last time they see each other. She'd like to think that he and everyone else were still out there, doing the same thing she was, going to the picture houses to remember, but it gets more and more doubtful each time someone new appears at the Haven. They're fewer and fewer new ones arriving (the last one was months ago), and the ones that do almost never make it.

She knows the words exactly, and sometimes she says them, but most of the time, she's thinking of what it would have been like if she'd stayed or if he'd decided to come along. The earlier never goes longer than a few days of them two and her closet circle (Antonia, Benj, and Scottie), all huddled in Antonia’s crowded apartment around her ridiculous radio from the 1920s after her slick, 82-inch plasma TV stops working.

She stops going because she needs to be happy, and, she thinks, feverently, because she’s the one in charge of the stories so she has to stay happy, positive, and hopeful. And it's not that the memories make her sad- it's that they remind her of the reality that they’ll never be able to make new ones.

Unnamed

It’s been years since I’ve taken that class, and I’m not sure why I suddenly think of him now. He got famous- peaked some say, a few years back when he came out with his back to back to back best-selling, prize-winning novels. I’d like to think I had some hand in it, provided some sort of inspiration, because he published his first book the year after our class and then disappeared on sabbatical to read and write.

But I doubt I did. I doubt any of us, his students, really did. We, ultimately, were all privileged despite however humble we thought our beginnings. His characters were tough, uncouth. They were in gangs, they lived on the streets, they did hard drugs, they stole, they dealt- they were faced with terrible choices everyday. They were the characters I’d watch in gritty movies like City of God which I only watched because it’s well known and supposed to be good, not because it’s the sort of movie I’d enjoy. Even in my imagination, in the darkest depths of despair, I could not conjure up what he conjured. When I wrote about gangs, I hid them in the future so that beneath all the slick sci-fi elements, they wouldn’t quite be so real or rough-edged.

I see him later in an online interview from PBS. He’s grown plumper and softened- just slightly. It’s odd how quickly the details come back. I still remember what year he was born in. I still remember how he’d show up in gray sweats. I remember the energy he had, I wonder if he remembers. Today, he is promoting his newest book- it’s a nonfiction novel. A modern history of Argentina, where he grew up. He still pulls me in; he’s engaging, enthusiastic, intelligent. He reads okay, not as well as I’d thought he’d read. I suppose he’s trying to do the character’s accent but it comes out uneven and slightly unnatural.

It’s a scene that I’ve played out in my mind again and again. On the last day of class, I’d pack my bag a bit slower. Drop a few papers on the ground and try to organize them as they scattered. And when everyone had left, it’d start off as a simple good bye. “Mr. V, I’ve really enjoyed this class, and I’m going to miss it.” He’ll give a friendly hug and that will be that. Sometimes, when I’m braver in my little fantasy, I’d slip in an “I’m going to miss you.” and then we’d hug for a long time.

Two Shorts

2010-12-23T20:23:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays everyone! Here are two short pieces.

Something gloomy:

Sometimes everything about the future terrifies her. She’ll lead an unhappy life despite all the hard work and all the degrees and die alone- an ashen pile of bones locked inside a dingy apartment. Sometimes she wishes she’d had fewer happier moments, fewer moments of hope and of living surrounded by people, surrounded by laughter because they’re echoes of what could have been and what should have been. Instead, as time went on, shyness, quietness swallowed her whole mercilessly so that she became mute around people…incapable of saying anything, except clumsily and awkwardly nodding along like a drone. No wonder no one likes her. She sighs as she turns on the Christmas lights on her small tree and calls home, when she’ll pretend to be happy and having a blast.

Something cheerful:

Dinosaurs

Tick, tock, tick tock. There are twenty four hours before Trip’s doing it. Making the ultimate plunge. He’s a bit sad about it, of course- no more flirting with girls at least not in front Em. Em is the jealous type (God, a jealous Em is really hot sometimes though). No more being the complete slob that he is (note to self: do laundry every month now instead of…however long it was before). And the list goes on. Somehow, it seems okay though. Giving up these things for Em.

It all seems all right except for the wedding vows, which he’s tearing his hair over. Marie, his sister, who he regrets now not being nicer to, has read over all of his drafts, and he wants to take back all the mean things he’s ever said to her.

“Trip, are you marrying the girl or making a business deal with her?”

“Now, this is just shady. Sounds like a mafia arrangement.”

“This sounds like a Savage Garden song.”

“Is that bad?” He asks.

Chortling, Marie shakes her head. “Yes Trip. That’s bad.”

Marie tells him (even though she’s never been married and has never had to write wedding vows) that it’s not so difficult to write vows: just be genuine and honest and the vows will naturally write themselves out. The usual girl advice crap.

But all he really wants to say to Em on their wedding day that’s real is this: “I’ll love you until the dinosaurs come back.” It sounds silly and like a ploy and doesn’t seem like an everlasting, romantic gesture- he’s sure that Em’ll either smack him or be supremely disappointed if he says this, but he sees it as one. To hell with till death do we part- till death is finite…till the dinosaurs come back though, seems like a complete impossibility, an indefinite time with no dead line.

When they’re at the altar, even though he’d practiced it all night- the better vows Marie finally wrote for him, it slips out. Em’s silent for a moment, and he’s expecting her to bolt or to slam her bouquet of flowers on his head, but she smiles instead. “But Trip,” she says. “What about Jurassic Park? Doesn't that invalidate everything?” And in that very moment, he can’t help but to kiss her.

There's another version of Dinosaurs that's a lot more dialogue based. I can't decide which version I like better. Dinosaurs in dialogue form remains incomplete though...and even though I tried to make it prose the narration between the dialogue just seemed more and more like stage cues as the piece went on (one reason why I really liked writing drama- you create the words that people say and some of the setting but you don't need to worry about the rest.)

Toothbrushes

2010-12-08T22:14:00.001-08:00

Sylvia dreams of toothbrushes with their handles in her favorite cup. It bothers her immensely although she can’t quite say why. Robert laughs at her when she tells him about her dream and how she ran to go check that her toothbrush handles were nowhere near her favorite cup right when she woke up.

“Must be your OCD kicking in. Or maybe it’s all Freud for you miss me.” He smiles brilliantly at her through the webcam and gives her a tell tale wink.

“But Freud, that dirty dog, would have always included something-“

“Hey sorry babe, hang on a second.” Robert’s webcam clicks off and Slyvia hears muffled voices, signs of excited conversation. Sylvia never thought she’d be the jealous type. She hates those girls who keep their boyfriends on a leash, who complain about them finding celebrities attractive. It’s all just so ridiculous, because in the end, people are only human. Cue in lust, desires of the flesh, which mean or should mean absolutely nothing in the greater scheme of things. Yet day by day, she’s finding it more and more difficult to not become one of them. This terrible feeling, this terrible scrunched up feeling of nails clenching against her palm every time he so much as speaks to another girl…

“Hey, sorry, I’m back.”

“Hi.”

“So what were you saying earlier about Freud?”

“I…I can’t remember.”

She hates the look he gives her next. The all-penetrating, the all knowing look.

“What is it now Sylvia?”

“So what’s her name?”

Robert sighs over his assurances, his series of “You’re the only girl that I’m looking at,” “You’re the one for me,” and “I love yous.” They can’t keep going on like this, because despite his assurances, she feels less inclined to believe them each time she hears them. It’s almost like cursing- the more they’re uttered, the less vehemence they seem to carry each time.

“I’m tired.” She wants to say. Tired of her mind conjuring up scenarios and situations that rind her heart apart. She’s quite sure that he’s tired of assuring his clingy counterpart his loyalty and allegiance.

For now, though, his promises, his words, still make her feel better so they part smiling and giggling over a plethora of “I miss yous.”

At night, she dreams of toothbrush handles in her favorite cup again. It bothers her, but she can’t say why.

Beautiful

2010-11-30T03:05:00.000-08:00

Lucy hates herself for being so superficial. She’s always been so determined to not be petty. She reads Newsweek instead of Cosmo. Politics, wars, natural disasters were always so much more interesting than what new look is in and boys. Boys. It seems like all girls could talk about were boys. Her friends included. Lamentably.

Jack doesn't gain much of her attention at first. He's way too sappy and says things that make her cringe.

"Wait stop for a second."

"Okay..."

"I hope this doesn't come across as awkward, but your eyes are so lovely under this light. I just...I hope you don't mind. I just want to stare at them for a bit."

She bites the inside of her lip as he stares into her eyes to prevent herself from laughing. Oh, she'll definitely have quite a few laughs with her friends after wards. She tries to look into his, out of curiosity, of course, but can't quite hold his gaze. His eyes are brown, and she takes note of that.

Perhaps it's a cultural difference. Lucy thinks of her parents, typical Asian parents and gestures that they consider affectionate and loving. "Lao pou, here's your birthday present." Her dad mutters as he pulls out a neatly folded banking slip from his wallet. "I added two hundred dollars to your bank account." Her mom takes the slip, thanks him, and returns to dumpling folding. Lucy hasn't met Jack's parents yet (and has no intention to of course) but she can only imagine, infer the differences from how he acts.

He gives her a bouquet of flowers each date. Sometimes a single rose. And she has to admit that it's quite nice.

"You're falling for him. You're totally falling for him. Hard."

"No...no. He's just really nice. That's all."

It's really silly though what loops her in at the end. She wishes it was how brilliant he was at the piano, banging out Rachmaninoff or how he knew more Pablo Neruda poems than her or how he could actually keep up with her when they debated politics. Just something substantial. But it's simpler than that, and it makes her feel like such a typical girl.

He tells her she's beautiful.

It shouldn't affect her so much, shouldn't matter that much, because all she's tried to do is be anything but that petty petty girl who melts when a guy calls her beautiful. But no guy's ever really called her beautiful before. She's always been called cute, fun, smart, and very occasionally pretty, but never beautiful.

She tries to explain it to him one day as he's pelting her neck with kisses.

"I can't believe no one's ever called you beautiful before. Because you are. You really really are."

"Gag. You're being really really sappy again."

"You secretly like it remember?"

"Well...yea, but I don't want to...you see? Because I want to be other things too, and I should like being called smart, witty, even funny more than being called beautiful."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be one of those superficial girls who spend all day staring at themselves in the mirror."

"You aren't."

"But I shouldn’t enjoy it. I’ve tried to be everything but-"

"So? So what?"

“Well, yea, I guess you’re right actually.” She snorts and laughs heartily into his arm. Jack is confused at first but then starts laughing with her.

This one's been in my file of short pieces for a while. Written mostly during Summer '09. I can't decide right now if I really like the end or if it kinda slumps off.

Stars

2010-11-23T01:32:00.000-08:00

The deal with this journal: This'll hopefully be a place for me to post little snip-its and snapshots and maybe even some longer stories.
**
Clearly I've been hanging around aeroastro people too much.
**
Stars

Phil dreams of stars at night. He dreams of floating up through the atmosphere in his own personal space capsule and glancing down. Glancing down until he sees earth- lovely and blue become a spec in the distance and then he’s set, content to explore. He learns later that floating up in a capsule isn’t realistically how he’d see space. There’d be rockets and shuttles and probably a whole crew of people going up there with him. When people ask him why he’s doing it - he lies through his teeth: “I want to do the experiments physicists can’t do.” When in reality all he wants to do is to be out there, amongst the stars- to be close to them, to feel the rush of being moments away from destruction.