But I really like that scene. It's funny, and I have good memories characterizing those… characters.
Well how do I fix it?
MURDER?? I can't—but I want the book to be good…
Well, that was painful, but it probably gets easier. This is why writers have to be sadists. You have to give birth to a bunch of people you really love, force them to undergo the most trying and painful experiences of their life, and then, when they're not working properly, you have to erase them withut a second thought.
Code Geass. I've already watched most of it at the link provided above. And as I watched, I noticed that it bars many similarities to the movie V for Vendetta, which I also watched recently.
Besides, there are other shows that do the same thing, and they're okay. Popular, and also with a coherent and enjoyable plot.
Sephiroth: The Musical!
Here's the cover I imagined for my novel.
Here's the poster for UHA, the one I'm always talking about editing, but never actually editing...
Here's a poster I made for UHA2, the little sequel that could
This is the promo banner for UHA3, My nanowrimo 2008 project
UHA Logo
I had spent all of October in the magic, fantastical Limbo that comes only from a writing project you cannot do anything but work on. It wasn’t planned. The Idea morphed from a short story I wrote into this unstoppable beast with songs, and art, and me staying up all night, every night—awakening at 4:30am to scribble down good rhyme schemes or bits of dialogue—skipping class, and meals, and work too, when I could avoid it…
But I knew I had to have it complete by the time November began, or shelve it and lose this burst of creativity forever.
I almost made it.
November came, and I dutifully laid my one-true-love aside for the beginnings of my second NaNo.
I hated it.
The story, a sequel to my previous NaNo winning narrative, had rested in the back corner of my brain’s refrigerator, and was now covered with green fuzz, and unappetizing.
I stayed with it anyway.
Eventually (obstinately), I managed to choke it down. It became bearable. Barely. And as I inched closer to the finish line, in spite of the miraculous recoveries I made after multiple week long hiatuses, I developed a love, if not for the whole book, then at least for certain well-written scenes. And with three days left I had ten thousand words to go. It seemed that, like Laverne and Shirley, I was gonna make it after all.
Then disaster struck.
About an hour into my evening writing session, my vintage 1997 laptop suffered a heart breaking accident. An accident so minor, and yet with such catastrophic ramifications, it plunged the whole of my writing career into jeopardy, and me into a blind, screaming rage.
It was close to midnight on the twenty-seventh. I had a little more than seven thousand words to go. And the spacebar—the one thing I needed to type more than one word for the whole rest of the novel—had broken. It was beyond my ability to repair, and my options were few; my desktop had a non-functional floppy disk drive and matching broken USB hubs. I had been moving files off and onto it from a personal wiki website, but the laptop was too old for internet. It seemed that with nothing more I could do that night, I would have to retreat temporarily to the solace of sleep, conceding defeat in the battle, but vowing to return the next day with reinforcements.
“NO!!!” screamed the raging, livid temper in my head. “John, if you put this down now—if you walk away and leave this for later—you will never finish it. You know the driving principle, the very reason for NaNoWriMo’s existence: ‘Later Never Comes.’”
“You’re right, voce of rage,” I said, gathering my willpower and searching the floor for my clothes. “I have to end this tonight.
“If I want to win this war, I have to do this tonight.”
The laptop’s spacebar was broken, but its floppy drive still worked. I hurriedly loaded my unfinished story onto a battered floppy disk and headed out the door.
To the University.
It was too late for the library to be open, but the classrooms were often left unlocked on weeknights. I had snuck in many a time before to watch movies on the colossal projection screen.
But the last time I had been caught.
Luck was in my favor as I pried apart the sliding doors, their motion sensors asleep. Unseen, I made my way to the biggest classroom on campus. A sea of empty chairs stared back at me in the dim light. I took my seat at the teacher’s desk, logged on to the computer, and began my work.
It seemed the very world and all that was in it was against my completing this novel. Outside, the frigid November wind screamed its protest. My fingers were numb from waking through it, and the keyboard was foreign and uninviting. The fluorescent lights flickered, threatening to leave me in darkness. And all the while the sea of silent seats, staring like sentinels, looked on, waiting to see my failure.
I finished at 4:30am.
And I liked it. My story no longer made me cringe because the ending I had written—laden as I was with pressure, nerves, drowsiness, and fear of getting caught—was outstanding. And it should be noted that I don’t use caffeine when writing. I uploaded my novel to NaNo word counter and my private wiki. I had achieved the impossible.
It was going to be a good day.
But I would end up sleeping through most of it.
I cannot stop watching the Olympics! I HATE the Olympics! …or rather, I used to hate the Olympics… Now, however…
Did you seeee- how Boukpeti won the bronze in whitewater?! Was that not phenomenal!? Ohh, for the first time in my life I wish I was a sports person! It's making me wish there was an audience for writers—you know, yelling, cheering, chanting—the spontaneity of the crowd fuelling your performance! I just have to keep teling myself to wait for November. And NaNoWriMo. That's about as close as a writer can get.
Don't get me wrong; It's not like the Olympics is without its flaws, and I can see that. Some of those smarmy commercials was going on about how once every four years everyone all over the world will come together . . . except Iraq, right? Because fuck those guys, they can't play with us anymore L. Also, the commercials themselves are pretty smarmy. And all the product placement is a little tiresome, even though it helps to pay for all the expenses. Further to that point, I've heard that the last Olympic village in Athens is becoming a new set of ancient ruins instead of helping to boost its nations economy like it's supposed to.
But despite all its bad points, I'm not ashamed to admit I've been sucked in to the Olympic Games. Except to anyone whom I've told that I hate it.
So that is, I guess, everyone.
GO TEAM USA!
*RANT ALERT*
I saw one of those pictures of hippies vs. militia and the hippies were giving them flowers in protest for peace. This shows that even peacemongers make the same mistake as war guys. Failure to communicate, caused largely by ethnocentrism.
The hippies were operating under the belief that everyone should adopt their values: pacifism, indiscriminate sex, and religious drug use—exactly like everyone else in the world!
Everyone thinks they know best. Well, to be fair, you can't really blame them for that; it's human nature. It's part of our self esteem function. But it's consistently taken too far. Nobody knows best, nothing is absolute. Recall the words of the Different Strokes themesong. It's true.
Regarding the photo with the flowers, here's what the hippies should have done if they were really serious about this whole 'peace' experiment. They should have researched their adversaries in an attempt to understand them. Find out what they like instead of assuming they liked flowers like the hippies did. The flowers were needlessly theatrical and gay; they were trying to make a scene and that's where they fucked up. No sensible person likes to have foliage foisted on them. Ask the Hare Krishnas.
Let's explore a scenario:
Armed Guys: "Alright, all you filthy Hippies! Get out of here or I'll blast you all with my comically oversized gun!"
Protesting Hippies: "Hey, Hey man. No need to shout. This is a peaceful protest. Here have a flower some drugs, or maybe a beer. It must be pretty hot under all that armor and black clothing."
Armed Guys: "Oh… Uh, thanks. It is pretty hot out here."
They both drink.
Armed Guys: "Wow, that hits the spot. Thanks you guys. But seriously though, you'd better leave. Now's not a great time for a protest."
Protesting Hippies: "Yeah, I guess we've made our point. We'll get going, even though we totally have a right to assemble."
Armed Guys: "We'll see you later."
Protesting Hippies: "See you around, man."
See? Wasn't that so much better? Both sides got something, and it was made clear—but more importantly, understood—that they would both return to continue communications.
So when you're ever in an argument remember: It doesn't pay to start the drama unless you speak the other guy's language.
Written 8/2/08,
So it's the day after my surgery and I feel great. I can talk normally and even sing (albeit with a little soreness to my throat). Also, my sister hates me for recovering so fast.
Anyway, I already missing beef and stuff. Well, I have yet to begin UHA rewrites, but my current plan is as follows:
So as a further double edged impediment/boon to my writing, my dad will be gone for a month. This means I will not have to keep my writing a secret, which should help the pressure, and also that I can do whatever I want, which will include anything but writing.
I had a blind date last week, which seemed to go pretty well, but there wasn't any real connection.
And I still need a job. Maybe I just need to volunteer w/ the mentally handicapped. My sister is quitting her job helping a boy with cerebral palsy to go to college, so maybe I can get her job to help me get that job in Boston.
But I still need to decide whether I want to get my CELTA certification. Also, were I to take her job, I would have to move back to George West AKA H8H8H8H8H8H8H8H8H8H8H8H8H8-ER town.
Decisions, decisions…
