Haunted by a Horror-novel idea

I have had this idea for a horror novel kicking around in my head for a while, and my thoughts at work (day job, not writing) are often interrupted by a new idea for the story. I have been grossly inattentive in writing these ideas down and fear that I will lose them. However, I have been so bogged down in freelance editing work that I cannot seem to find the time. Next week, I plan on starting the novel and polishing the six stories I have so that I may send them to publishers. In the meantime, I will just have to content myself with writing accompanying text to Charles Darwin quotes I find that I think are relevant to today's events.

Starting a Journal . . . Again

I don't know how many times I have read some sort of book or advice column on writing that says that a writer should keep a journal. I have tried this innumerable times and have always failed. Part of the problem is that I wait to write the journal entry until the very end of the night when I am drooling from fatigue. Another problem is that I inevitably write something personal and then dread the idea of having so much of me down on paper. My forays into journal writing usually end with me tearing the entries out and ripping them up. Despite this, I will open up my graph-paper composition book (don't ask me why; I just like them) and try again.

Blogging but Longing for Fiction

I started another blog in addition to this one and the Charles Darwin Blog. This new one is called Socket Wrench, and it describes all the blood, sweat, and tears (oh so many tears) that go into fixing and maintaining my and my wife's first house.

Though I am happy I am doing the blogs, I want to get back to fiction. I am trying to figure out how to fit it in and still be able to do freelance editing to pay down my bills. Suddenly, the final scene is Fight Club is looking pretty appealing. Not the part where Ed Norton shoots himself in the head, but rather the part where all the major credit-card company buildings implode.

Back From a Long Hiatus

Well, I have completed my MFA in creative writing and now have six stories sitting on my hard drive. I cannot get to them to finish because I am doing freelance editing to make ends meet. I also have a gig writing for the Charles Darwin Blog. It is fun, but I am itching to give my stories a final line-by-line edit and get them out to some publishers. I also have a number of novel ideas kicking around in my head and I wonder, with the freelance and the day job, when I am ever going to find the time. I think I have the solution: no sleep!

I plan on posting here at least once a day. Check back for some good posts and lots of rants.

on hiatus

Hello folks. I will be away on business for the next few days, so no new posts until Monday, Nov. 22. Stay sober; stay creative!

Check out my blog at http://screamingwriter.blogspot.com

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Extended Metaphor

Below is an extended metaphor that I did as an excerise for class. The professor wanted us to take a metaphor and stretch it out over a page or two. Enjoy!

After a somber journey up an old-fashioned elevator, the kind with a gate that squeaks as one heaves it aside, I arrived at the floor of Johnny’s party. Before I even reached the door, I knew this affair would be a conflagration. A stifling mixture of debate, shouts, and laughter met me as soon as I emerged onto the floor. As I approached, a soft glow came not only from under the door, but seemed to seep from the cracks and the hinges. Yes, this fire and been stoked for a good few hours before I got there. Stoked with booze and stoked with coke. I’m sure Johnny had made sure to invite all the “right” people—love triangles, conservatives, liberals, advocates, nihilists, vegans, and butchers—all kindling for the flame.

The door shot open before I could knock, and Johnny, wearing a leopard skin grinned at me.

“I didn’t know this was a costume party,” I said, peering over his shoulder.

“It’s not,” He handed me a giant fish bowl of drink.

The heat of his apartment overtook me and I quickly stripped off my jacket. Despite the chill air outside, I saw that most of the other partygoers were wearing shorts or short-sleeves or sleeveless gowns all made of thinnest fabrics. Clearly they had all been to Johnny’s before. I looked down over my black turtleneck at my thick corduroys.

“Sorry, Cyrus, I should have told you. I like my people nice and sweaty. I’m doing this thing where I crank up the party bit by bit—the heat, the stereo, the food—every hour on the hour it all goes up by another degree,” Then he was gone into a cluster of people. Lit by both a dull red light and a strobe, they were all dancing the rhythmic dance of flame, undulating their bodies in Ss and lifting their hands up to lick the bottoms of orange streamers that fell from the ceiling.

Every so often the writhing clutch of men and women would spit out a few its members, sparks from a fireplace. Some landed on the deck, where they bummed cigarettes and caught their breath. Others landed in the bathroom, where they did lines and made out on the sink top. Still others landed in the kitchen where they raided Johnny’s fridge. They were all embers that would soon flare, hot spots that would soon threaten to gut out the whole place.

Until then, I decided to take off my turtleneck and warm myself by the hearth.

MIA

Hello everyone,

I apologize for the lack of posts lately. I have had a pretty nasty head cold that had me sleeping a lot the past couple days. Look for a new post tonight or tomorrow.