A Work In Progress

Nathan's

2009-10-06T14:57:00.000-07:00

Joey plunged the hotdog into the water and watched it expand before pulling it out and cramming it into his already full mouth.

Chewing furiously he imagined himself a viking destroying his enemy, piercing through soggy armor and rubbery flesh with spear-like incisors. He fought only to kill. To send his opponent like its twenty-seven brethren before it, to the bowels of hell.

Joey grabbed the cup and pulled deep, not minding the soggy chunks of bread collecting on his lips before slamming it back down. He braced himself for the melee of approaching challengers .

Only forty more to go.

Heaven Above

2009-10-01T16:46:00.001-07:00

The day i tried to fly, was the day i met God.

"Poor creature," he said, "did I not give thee sense to know thou art not a winged bird?"

i stared into indescribable eyes and saw everything - comprehending nothing.

"My child, did I not give thee legs to carry thyself across solid earth?"

i marveled at bottomless robes, praying to see what was beyond.

"I am Creator of the Universe, Life, Knowledge. Yet thou art compelled, dissatisfied by what I know not. What could exist that I would not bestow unto thee?

"Lord," i said "...curiosity."

2009-09-22T09:44:00.000-07:00

This is just a short story I did for class. It needs a lot of work, but I'm bored of it now. Oddly enough I actually began writing this while on a train.

Derailed

Tom boarded the train for Union Station in typical Southern California fashion: sunglasses, t-shirt, cargo shorts and sandals. The reddish hue of his Irish skin matched his short hair and betrayed the fact that he had not been at home resting this week as his supervisor believed, but had instead frequented the beach. The sun, sand and the bikinis were so much more soothing for Tom's daily dysphoria than dealing with the criminal element.

He adjusted the pistol and badge hidden in the back of his waistband under his shirt, as he eased his healthy frame into a seat near the middle of the car. He winced as his damaged knuckles scraped against the gray plastic armrest, drawing blood through a freshly formed scab. Examining the bruises and cuts on his hands he thought of the figure he left broken and battered on the interrogation floor.

Tom's methods walked a fine line between law enforcement and vigilantism. He needed to rein in the murders and rapists; narcissists lacking social value and empathy for the weak as he saw them. His fists were held back only by basic human decency and a sense of duty. Tom put his knuckle to his mouth and cleaned the blood away. His decency was gone and now he only had a duty.

Each crime he handled had become progressively more vicious, more reluctant to release his humanity without clawing and mauling it first. The crimes competed, slashing and mutilating each other in a morbid race to destroy Tom's soul. A single shot to a clerk's head, passed by the bludgeoned prostitute, overtaken by the eight year old girl, raped and thrown from an overpass to the freeway below, for the win.

The girl had done him in. She took away his ability to remain separate and detached from victims, she was kryptonite. His mind had been without thoughts as he worked through the evidence, the child's body parts and clumps of hair strewn across the blood stained lanes. He only felt the strange familiarity of bagging groceries at the local mart during high school. Milk, eggs, butter,bread, cheese, blood, torn limbs, crushed skull. Paper or plastic.

Tom found the girl's doll on the shoulder of the road. Its torso was torn and its face covered with a child's bloody finger prints. He gritted his teeth and fought to keep his composure. Anguish for the girl infected his body like a pox infested blanket wrapping about his shoulders, diminishing his strength and resolve . He was infected, and as he made his way to his car he could feel the symptoms of empathy and revenge spread through his veins and morality flow from his eyes.

Back at the department Tom listened to the tips that had come in.

"The girl who's picture was on the news," a woman whispered in the recording " I saw her a few days ago in the alley behind Rock Street. A man was pulling her by the arm into the gate of 321. She was crying. I didn't think much about it then, but now..." Tom could hear the regret in the woman's long breaths into the phone, " It's a hard place to miss."

The arresting officers sat the man in a chair behind the table in the center of the dimly lit interrogation room and left him with Tom who stood in the far corner. It didn't take much for the man to confess; just a few comments and questions meant to put him at ease. He was more than happy to tell about how he sexually tortured and experimented on the girl, bragging as though telling a friend about a fish he caught.

Tom crossed the room toward the man and crossed the line. Swinging his arm Tom felt a satisfying crunch under his knuckles as he split the man's nose open. Another blow shattered the mans cheek, forcing fragments of bone through his skin. The man lay on the ground blubbering in pain and fear, his face a swollen mess of of ground meat and Tom drew and cocked his gun. He wanted revenge for the girl. He wanted to watch the man beg for his life and scream and claw at the air for mercy while he lost control of his bladder and bowels. And then he wanted to kill him slowly.
Tom held the the gun up to the man's head, dragging the black steel across his swollen face before slamming the butt into is forehead. The man fell in a heap and Tom walked out.

The air vents above Tom's seat turned on startling him as it blew cool air across his pulsing arteries and sweat laden brow. Anxiously he pulled the orange bottle from his shirts pocket. Sacrificing three of the propranolols between his teeth, Tom prayed that their bitterness would heal his wounds.

Cathy's purple three-wolves shirt slid up exposing her pregnant stomach as she shrugged the straps of her pink backpack and duffel bag higher on to either shoulder. Spying an empty seat near the back of the train, she sighed heavily and squeezed herself into the narrow aisle, careful not to bump her precious cargo. She navigated the cramped walkway and gave a red haired man a nervous smile as she passed. Dually aware of the rows of averted eyes glancing at her naked belly just long enough to judge her and allude disapproval without showing any genuine interest in her situation.

"Slut! Whore! Get out of my sight!", Cathy heard her father's voice in their shunning gazes, and was glad no one could see her red eyes through the dark lenses of the sunglasses. Exertion and frustration misted Cathy's teenage face as she moved down the aisle, wrestling with the bags each time they caught the edge of a seat. She had seen complete strangers rush to carry bags for pregnant women before, but no one rose to help her. She understood that she was not a pregnant woman, she was a stupid pregnant child and people, she thought, must be punishing her for her senselessness. To Cathy this punishment was more disheartening than her father's.

Her Father had at least known and loved her at one time and had the right to be disappointed in her. She was the reason her parents left Turkey. She was to be the first in the family to finish school, attend college. And then she met a boy in class. He told her he loved her. She told him she was pregnant. He found a gun and put it to his head. A bloody note blamed her for what he had done. No one turned to help her. No one helped carry her load.

Easing herself into the seat she tugged her shirt back over her stomach and took the In Case Of Emergency placard from its pocket to fan the flush from her face. The cartoon people blurred to motion, calmly demonstrating how to exit the train in an orderly fashion. Cathy pictured herself trying to cram through the porthole windows and becoming stuck like Winnie the Pooh.

"Cute." She thought, until she realized no one would help her. The passengers would stand around the outside of the train chastising her for her carelessness. Cheering in anticipation of the fire dealing final retribution for her stupidity.

She pulled a soda from her backpack and cracked it open. Drinking the tingly sweetness and resting it on the protruding faces of wolves.
"At least," she thought, "I won't be stoned".

Richard stepped into the car just as the train lurched forward, causing him to stumble into the wall. He recovered, straightened his leather jacket and Hawaiian shirt and patted down his brown hair and stubborn white streaks that refused to be disguised. He found a seat a few rows back from the front and removed his wallet from the back pocket of his Costco jeans as he sat down. He had been grasping for youth the last ten of his sixty-three years, while his body was pulling towards earth, longing to be covered by it. He often thought it would not be too bad in the earth; back with his departed wife.

His wife's cancer had ingested everything, her body, her spirit, their money. Their time together consumed by its parasitical appetite for destruction, leaving him nothing of value in its pungent excrement of agony and grief. He had nothing left but grainy photos and memories of better times past.

Looking out the window and running his hand over the metallic weight in his inside pocket he felt it strange and perfectly sensible that his loss would put him on this train. It was reassuring to know that no matter what happened, the train was always on a known path. No matter if he succeeded or not, no sharp turns, no forks in the track, could force him to choose between keeping his house or paying for his wife's treatment.

No where left to go, no one left to help, Richard was desperate. Though, he was not entirly sure what he was desperate for. He felt compelled to draw attention to his story, to the misfortune that fell upon him and his wife. Of their ill treatment by the insurance companies, the hospitals, the doctors, the ones that are supposed to be there in times of need. He needed people to know, to be aware. It was too late for him, but everyone else still had a chance... if only they knew.

"I will help them." Richard mumbled aloud under his breath, "I will help them so that they can help themselves."

Clicking down the tracks, the train sang a lullaby to its passengers with the clack of its wheels, gently swaying them to sleep as a mother rocks her child. Richard slowly reached his hand into his jacket and stood up. Anxiously he cleared his throat.

"Excuse me!" he called out pulling the revolver from his jacket, "Excuse me!"

He looked at the people around him and he saw unintended fear in their faces.

"Relax," he said in a calming voice, "this is not a train robbery."

Collect Call

2009-09-03T15:08:00.000-07:00

The topic this week was: On the Line

Jack sat in the chair, not daring to move. If he moved, they might remember he was there and just do away with him. The leather straps he wore around his wrists and ankles bit into his skin, but still he fought the urge to move. Shallow breaths. Hold that swallow. Don't...even...blink.The clock clicked! Oh god! They were looking at him again. Was this it? Was it all over? A phone rang and everybody snapped around to face it. Unable to hear over the protesting from outside, Jack could only pray that it was the Governor on the line.

To participate in the 100 word story weekly challenge or listen to the weekly podcast go to
100 Word Stories.

Red Mast: Part I ( A 100 Word Story)

2009-08-25T13:42:00.000-07:00

“Fire!”

At the Captain's command twenty broadside cannons spewed hell's fire, smoke and brimstone orbs into the air. The spheres carried with them the thunderous echo of dissension and presented it one by one to their target with the fury of a scorned lover. Unrelenting, the battery reduced the marked ship to splinters of charred wood ─ naval lint.

They would not misinterpret or ignore his subtle message. After all, most things are more gentle than the kiss from a cannonball, but few are as conclusive. On this day, the Captain had many final kisses to deliver, to many former lovers.

To participate in the 100 word story weekly challenge or listen to the weekly podcast go to
100 Word Stories.

Lunch Break

2009-08-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

Bologna again. Rick stared at the sandwich and its round edge of meat between the crusts before he took a grudging bite. A hero sub would be nice once in awhile. This tastes horrible and it’s so small, he thought as he stuffed the remainder of it into his mouth.

Rick grabbed the shovel leaning against the Cadillac’s bumper and dug a few more loads from the long shallow pit. His stomach growled. What he wouldn’t give for roast beef. He pulled the stained lumpy burlap sack from the trunk and dragged it into the hole.

Pastrami would be best.

To participate in the 100 word story weekly challenge or listen to the weekly podcast go to
100 Word Stories

2009-08-25T13:02:00.000-07:00

It has been awhile since my last post; what a shame. But I am back and I thought it was only fitting to restart my blog since I start my first day of class after work. I caught the writing bug again thanks to my Sister Erica, who gave me a copy of The Complete Artists Way. I immediately found a class to help me be a better writer and give me deadlines. So we'll see how it goes.

In the mean time I am going to begin to post some of my short works or rather 100 word stories, which I submit to a weekly writing contest at
100 Word Stories . There is no prize only, the winner gets to pick the subject for the next week. And everyone's work is included in the weekly podcast.

I will also post any assignments from my class as well as some book reviews here and there.

So, I welcome me back and I welcome any of you who are returning back.

Lets get started.

Kill Your Darlings

2008-01-25T14:18:00.000-08:00

I did it. I really did it. Sort of. I finished chapter 1 or the prologue; I'm not sure exactly. Either way I finished something. That was hard. But not as hard as editing. My paper bleeds with red ink and screams with every mark. Or perhaps that is me screaming. Paragraphs I thought were so good, so witty, so... readable; have been slaughtered, butchered even for their disappointing performance.

Perhaps I should compare this process to the chef in the kitchen, with his fine knives and fragrant spices rather than to his neighbor the butcher who wields his cleaver through flesh and bones and reeks of death.

As I read through my work, it really does feel like the butcher wrote it. Huge slabs of meat coated with curtains of fat hanging on hooks. You know what it is and you know it has the potential to taste good, but it is still a slab of raw meat. Now I have my chef hat on and I am taking that slab of meat and trimming the fat. Tenderizing the flesh and seasoning to taste.

Fire up the grill, I think it will be delicious.

Once Upon A Time . . .

2008-01-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

It truly is a work in progress. I am happy to say that I have been working on chapter 1 this week. This is tough. Much tougher than the outlining and planning I must say. I have the events laid out, the characters involved, interactions and outcomes; all the creative ideas that give the story meat.

Now I have to write. Not only write but write in such away that will portray everything I want to convey to the reader. You know actually tell a story.

I have no idea what I am doing.

I am not a trained writer. I was a Kinesiology Major in college and all my writing during that time consisted mostly of lab reports and technical essays. I don't even remember the last writing course I ever took. Everything, if anything, I know about writing is from reading novels, listening to writing pod casts, reading other blogs, tip sections, tool sections, wikipedia and cracker jack boxes.

I am tangled in a web of literary conundrums, weaved from lack of training - I stutter and choke on the technicalities of my writing: Do I want to describe the character right out or through an action they are performing. Is it important to tell the reader what the character is feeling right now. Am I over describing this part or that part. Did I mention this or that at the right place. Can I say it like this or should I say it like that. Is this word better than that word. Am I really doing a good job on this scene or is it just so well viewed in my minds eye because I know it?

Are these questions and concerns born of self-doubts personal in nature or do all authors teeter on the edge of insanity? I think perhaps the latter; only the insane would venture on such an endeavor.

As to my actual current progress, I am on chapter 1. It is actually more of a prologue. I was stuck on a small section for awhile when a fisherman comes across or rather is trapped by the antagonist. I was not stuck for lack of ideas, rather ideas on how to describe it. Now that I am past the sticking point I hope to have chapter 1 / prologue finished this weekend and have it posted for viewing next week.

Another positive note; I feel that my actual writing style a word usage and sentence structure has really begun to improve and I am excited to see what I can do.

The Missing Piece Meets the Big O

2007-12-19T11:41:00.000-08:00

Did you watch all three extended versions of Lord of the Rings and still walk away feeling, strangely empty? Incomplete? Almost as though a piece of the story was still missing? That is because a piece was missing. Today it was released that J.R.R Tolkien's The Hobbit will soon find itself in the starlight. Peter Jackson will be the Executive Producer with a director to be announced in the future. I have a feeling that Mr. Jackson will end up being the director as well. You can check out the whole story HERE

Trimming The Outline

2007-12-17T10:48:00.000-08:00

I wanted to share what I consider very useful and helpful information I received from Shawn C. Speakman when I made a comment on his blog; regarding outlines.

Shawn,

Question about your outlining.

How much outlining do you do before you actually start writing? Do you only outline one chapter at a time? Or do you outline your entire story?

I've been working on my out line for some time now.

I started by laying down the foundations oh what the story was about, what the main goal is and how I want it to end.

Then I started working on characters / races, plots and specific events and the order that they occur.

Now I am working on a chapter by chapter outline of events, character interactions and specific information I want to reveal at that time.

Am I going to far?

I am afraid that I may miss some important detail or weave a weak story line if I do not lay it all out for myself as there are a few complicated sub-plots behind the main story that I think make the tale that more interesting.

Shawn C. Speakman's Response:

J. David: A lot of questions there, but I'll do my best. Just remember what works for me might not work for you; there are as many ways to get to the end of writing a book as there are words in that book.

For the three books I've outlined, all of them began the same way: I had a very distinct understanding of the literary aspect of what I wanted to achieve by each of their ends. Not just a climax but the meaning behind the climax. That's just what interests me as a writer.

Character for me drives story. If a reader can relate to character motivations, then they will believe the story.

Once I know my characters, and quite intimately, I might add, I outline the entire story. I have my beginning, I already have my end, and I let the characters and events I want to explore guide me.

An early outline looks splotchy, with holes everywhere between important events and scenes. But they slowly fill in as I think my way through the story and how the characters change, and I then have an entire outline finished.

That outline is not static. It can evolve quite easily.

After I've done enough research on certain aspects of the book and I feel like I have a solid outline, I begin writing -- almost.

I take the few sentences I've brought together in my outline, paste it into a new file .doc, and start outlining the individual chapter. I'm of the belief that each chapter should rise and fall like the story does, and I like to think my way through the chapter even before I start writing it.

But what's been interesting and different on this book has been how I outline individual chapters before I write them. Now I incorporate a lot of dialogue, the dialogue that will give the reader information and still drive the story forward. For me, dialogue is the hardest thing to write, so I try to spend a little extra time with the dialogue before I begin writing the chapter.

After I finish writing the chapter, I outline the next chapter, using the summary aspects from the story outline.

So we are pretty close in how we approach all of this, David. Until we get to individual chapters. Here is where you should take your table salt out and take what I say as opinion and only opinion.

I think if you were to outline all of your chapters, you'd be wasting your time, more than likely. The reason is because when you get into writing the book, developments may happen that alter your overall book in small ways -- or big ways sometimes. If you wait to outline your chapters until after your previous one is done, you'll have a better handle on your story at all times. You won't be trying to jam a round peg into a square hole; and you probably won't have writers block at all.

Your fears are well founded. No one likes to have a plot line that goes nowhere or is very weak. But if you keep outlining, you won't start your book. And writing your book is still the most important thing.

I hope to hear how it goes! Keep me posted!

The Fan Is On

2007-12-11T11:54:00.000-08:00

Feel the breeze? A breath of fresh air. This past weekend I had the distinct pleasure of attending my sister's graduation from San Luis Obispo with a B.S in Business. On top of that I was able to; visit much of the scenic region that is the Central California Coastline, beautiful. Take a long road trip with my true love, Mandi. Eat some excellent Tri Tip Sandwiches and drink with the fine citizens of Morro Bay. But one of the greatest thing to come from this weekend writing wise was meeting up with my Uncle Gary; the author of Cosmo Gets An Ear who I have not seen for many years and is currently working on a new novel. Though we did not have a lot of time together to talk about writing, what we did talk about was very important and useful. "Write from the heart". " Watch the wordiness". "Watch your structure." He has offered to look over my outlines and I look forward to gaining some feedback from a trusted experienced source.

Detours and Delays

2007-12-06T15:30:00.000-08:00

So what have I been doing? What is my progress? Officially . . . no progress since my last update. I was able to sit down and dedicate a few hours to my chapter outline a week or two ago at the local coffee-shop, but since then the only thing I have been able to do is jot down my ideas on random pieces of paper floating around in my backpack during my daily train commute.

Between the holidays, travel, graduations, more holidays and work it has been pretty impossible to dedicate any real amount of time to my novel. After this week though my schedule will be opening up a bit and I am planning on finishing my chapter by chapter outline by the end of next week. It is a hefty goal, but I should be able to attend to some of this task while I am actually at work since many of my tasks and projects will be wrapping up and slowing down with the coming of the end of the year. I am starting to feel like I am loosing my focus and it is time to buckle down before I loose my vision.

Banging It Out

2007-10-31T19:09:00.000-07:00

Well, In the past weekend and through the week I did work on my outline. And I did fill in many holes and expand on my ideas. Though I did not quite feel that I was done. The fact is I was having some real issues deciding what the final events of the story would be. This I think was due to my outline being much to long and complex, and I could not see the story in a nice linear fashion. What I decided on was creating an easy to see timeline of events with pertinent information listed under each event. This help immensely! By going through my outline and listing the events in order along with events that happened congruently I was able to see and fill in more gaps to the story. Now I am happy to say that the first draft of my outline and timeline is complete. I say first draft because I plan on rewriting both the outline and time line at least two more times.

I have taken the path of one of my favorite authors; Terry Brooks, when it comes to planning and organizing a story. In his memoir / writing guide; Sometimes the Magic Works, he divulged a major piece of his writing process:

Read, Read, Read

Outline, Outline, Outline

Write, Write, Write

Repeat

A lengthy a difficult process for sure. But like all things worth doing, hard work is involved. And in this case, some of the hardest work I have ever done. When in doubt, seek out an expert.

Step 1

2007-10-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

When I first had the lightening strike of an idea for my novel I started writing right away. It was going great; the ideas were flowing and I was thoroughly enjoying my work. But then I came to page three and I realized that the path I was on was going to travel much further than I initially realized. The twists and turns were going to be complex and the characters were going to be numerous and well rounded; unless I kept writing.

The story in those three pages had began to take on a life of there own and the only way to control it was to stop, and start outlining.

I've been outlining my story now for almost a month. The plot, the timeline, locations, races, characters, political ploys and background history. Now I even have rough map of what my newly created world looks like. And I have to say I am rather pleased with myself. The original storyline has evolved greatly from where it began; and for the better.

But now I have reached a sort of block. To breach this wall I have decided to start re-writing my outline in the hope that it will allow me to revisit the story and fill in some more gaps and further revive my imagination.

The goal is to complete the re-write by this weekend, and if I have successfully filled in the open spots and recharged my mind, I will begin again the actual story writing next week.

- J.David Bodzin

The Beginning to the End

2007-10-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

Every journey, whether great or small starts somewhere. A point of location or a point in time, it makes no difference, they always start at the same place. The Beginning.

This is not my journey, rather a journey within my journey about; well a journey. And if you think, "That makes no sense", let me explain. I have recently decided to begin writing a novel; a fantasy. A journey is ultimately involved and therefore this Blog is not about my journey in life rather my journey to write about a journey.

Like the characters in my story; I too will travel through undiscovered realms and mortal perils, as I have never attempted a feat of this scale. But I unlike my characters know how this journey must and will end.

Along the way I hope to use this space to work out ideas and perhaps gain tips from other writers and if I am able; offer my help
in return.

Welcome and I hope to see you soon.

- J.David Bodzin