What's this all about

Chronicling my steps to becoming a published novelist, and the randomness of my life.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

A Conversation With Stephen King

Last week I got to cross a big item off the Bucket List. One that I never really thought would get crossed off, so I actually had forgotten about it until the opportunity presented itself in crazy, random sort of happenstance way.

Stephen King was in Dallas last week promoting his new novel 11/22/63 (about a guy who goes back in time to try to stop the assassination of JFK), and at the last minute I found myself a ticket to attend. It was a live interview hosted by journalist Lee Cullom, who sounded a lot like Barbra Walters with a head cold.

So I'm sitting in the second balcony at the Majestic Theater about 3 rows from the back and out walks Mr. King on to the small stage. This was an incredible, pinch-me-am-I-dreaming? moment. My early teenage years were cram packed with Stephen King novels. I've seen all of his book-turned-movies. I watched The Shining repetitively as a kid and freaked out when I learned it was a real hotel. But on top of that, I look to Stephen King as a sort of mentor on my Path to Publication. I've read his book On Writing several times and I always find a little pearl of wisdom that I hadn't found before, and it's always just enough to keep me going.

The interview was perfection.

The first thing Mr. King says to the audience is "You know, I was just going over insurance plans for car insurance, and I came across an interesting statistic. 50% of people who attend and event - like this one - forget to lock their cars. So...anyone could climb in the back and hide there."

The audience laughed, pleased that their favorite horror writer was just as creepy as they'd hoped.

"Everyone laughs when they're all together," he continued, "But sooner or later...you're going to be alone."

Loved. It.

The of course discussed the new novel and the research that went into it, but they also talked about some really off-the-wall stuff that had nothing to do with anything. For example, Stephen King has just finished a series with Marvel called American Vampire (yay!) so Lee the journalist asked Mr. King what his favorite comic books were.

"I've always preferred Batman over Superman. One reason is because Batman is like a real guy. But the other thing is...well, I've never been able to understand how Superman and Lois Lane would have sex."

Queue audience laughter and slightly frightened journalist.

"Because, I mean...okay, when Superman goes to the bathroom that has got to be like the shit of steel. Right? And when he needs to blow his nose, what does he blow his nose on? You see where I'm going with this..."

As everyone, myself included, was laughing hysterically and the journalist was covering her face trying to regain composure, I thought to myself - "This is awesome. That totally sounds like a conversation I would have with one of my friends!"

Stephen King also talked about his experience working with Michael Jackson on a music video. I personally don't know what video they're talking about and Mr. King couldn't even remember the song it was before, but he said it ended up being like "Son of Thriller."  Anyway, the story goes like this:

Mr. King was working on the set of The Stand when his assistant told him he had a phone call. Mr. King said, "I'm kind of busy. Take a message."

To which the assistant responded very excitedly, "But it's Michael Jackson."

Mr. King said, "Alright, I'm curious." So he took the call.

According to him, he heard a very high pitched voice say "Stephen, I want to make the scariest music video anyone has ever seen. Will you help me do it?"

Mr. King answered in an equally high pitched voice, "Okay Michael."

He said he never worked face to face with Michael and never got to meet him; his work was all more behind the scenes kind of stuff. Then, several months after Mr.King had finished his part of the video Michael Jackson called his house in Maine. Mr. King wasn't there but his wife had answered and gave Michael the number where her husband could be reached.

5 minutes later, Michael Jackson calls back and he is weeping. "I'm so sorry," he said. "When you gave me the number I didn't have a pen so I wrote it out in the carpet, and when I went to dial the number the carpet had sprung back up!"

I had tears in my eyes. I mean, who does that??

"So," said Stephen King, "My working experience with Michael Jackson was very brief, and very weird."

I didn't get to meet Stephen King but I got to be in the same room with him and see him "in real life" and that was good enough for me. The evening did not disappoint. I got to hear the greatest story I had ever heard in my life about Michael Jackson.

"It's not nice to laugh at someone who has passed away," Stephen King scolded us. "But let's do it anyway!"

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Parentheses

I know, I know. It has been 2 weeks since my last post and I've gotten all off my schedule and I left you hanging with a "To be continued..." last time. 

I'm sorry.

I haven't had time/been able to write anything because I have been in the process of moving the last two weeks. And I have been pulling 9 to 11 hour days at work which have left me completely brain fried. I haven't been able to write anything at all the last couple weeks. Partly because of the time management issue and partly because my computer had been hidden among a towering inferno of boxes. I mean, I just found my bath towels five minutes ago. 

I am going to make it my number one goal this week to get back on the blogging schedule. I've missed it terribly. And I have so much to share with you!

But that will have to wait. Right now I'm sweaty and tired and still shaking the dirt out of my hair from Fun Fun Fun Fest in Austin over the weekend. I'm drinking a delightfully chilled Moscato, and then taking a much needed shower and getting some much needed shut-eye. 

More posts to come very soon, I promise!

As always, thanks for reading! =)

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

OMG Y'all (part 1)

This last weekend I drove out to Lubbock, TX to visit my very good friend Lindsey. There's nothing really remarkable about that in itself. Just a 5 and a half hour drive cross-country to see an old friend.

Except that I'm directionally challenged.

It should have been a straight shot with one turn. One turn. I zigged when I should have zagged.

So there I am, the only car on a pitch black, two-lane highway with only the moon and big empty cotton fields keeping me company, no clue where I'm at and my cell phone won't work because I'm out of range. Not. Cool. And I passed by a restaurant named The Feed Bag located directly across from a dead skunk. Because that's appetizing.

I'm going in and out of spotty coverage when Lindsey finally calls me to ask where I'm at.

"I don't know," I groan. "The last form of civilization I saw was a place called Jean."

"Bahahaha! Have you gone through Olney yet? It's the  home of the One Armed Dove Hunt."

"Maybe...I'm not sure. There's nothing out here. Hold on...is that? OH MY GOD. There is a grim reaper, on stilts in the middle of the street!"

That's right. Let me say that again, this time with emphasis. There was a GRIM REAPER on STILTS in the MIDDLE OF THE STREET.

Oh, Sweet Jesus, what new hell is this?  Thought I.

I somehow made it past the grim reaper and his scythe without taking him or anyone else out as I drove by, and continued on into the black nothingness that is West Texas. A few hours later and I was all alone again with no cell service and no clue where I was. I remembered that I had a map in my glove box so I pulled over to the side and parked in front of about 5 deer.

"Alright, it's cool. I am not lost. I got this." I told myself as I rummaged through my glove box. I found my proof of insurance, some tissues and a gun, but no map.

"Eff my life."

I sat back in my seat and looked out over my steering wheel. The deer stood there blinking at me as if they were saying "Who doesn't carry a map with them? Stupid."

"I'm not the stupid one. You're the ones eating grass on the side of a highway that doesn't even have a shoulder.Stupids."

I figured the best thing to do was to just keep going. I would have to get reception again at some point. A couple hours later and I could no longer pronounce the names of the towns coming up. This is when I started to get worried again. I pulled over at an Allsup's in Quanah to buy a map.

I found a map of Texas (now 40% larger!) and spread that bad boy out right there in the store. I traced from where I had left to where I was supposed to have gone and then started looking all around for Quanah. It took me several seconds. My eyes drifted up towards the Oklahoma boarder. I saw it.

"You have got to be kidding me."

I was about a quarter-inch from Oklahoma.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Texas geography I am including this map so that you can better appreciate my dismay.


This is where I was supposed to go

This is where I went


I took a moment, folded that map up and stood in line behind a girl in a shirt that said "Boogie Woogie Mamacita" with jeans that were about two sizes too small, and then back tracked a good 35 miles to find a highway that would take me to Lubbock.

I left DFW at 5:00pm Friday. I should have arrived at Lubbock at 10:30 pm Friday. I actually got there at 1:45 am Saturday.

What a disaster.

Once I finally got there, my weekend was great. I went to a corn field maze shaped like Buddy Holly, got my hair did and got to have a lot of laughs with one of my very good friends.

I could have gotten angry and stressed out about being lost - and if I'd ended up in another state I probably would have been. But I kept my cool and chose to just accept it. Some of the best stories I've ever come away with are from times that I've gotten lost.

I actually think it's kind of nice that even in these times where technology is everywhere and you can trace where people are just by knowing their phone number, it is still possible to be completely alone and get completely lost in a true middle of nowhere. I actually felt at ease in the blank spaces of the map; with just me and the moon.
Thanks for reading! =)

(This is just what happened on the way to Lubbock. Come back later to read about what actually happened in Lubbock)


Thursday, October 6, 2011

Oh The Horror

I have a deep and profound love of horror.

I have my whole life. As a kid (and still to this day quite frankly) my favorite part of Willy Wonka was when they take the boat into the tunnel and Gene Wilder is reciting that eerie poem with a look of insanity in his eye while behind him images of chicken's getting their heads chopped off are being projected and everyone is screaming. If you had asked me when I was six what my favorite movie was, I would have told you Jaws. While other kids my age were watching Cinderella and The Little Mermaid over and over again, I was watching Terminator 2, and Tremors over and over again. And then I would go and re-enact my favorite scenes from those movies with my little brother.

I don't know where this fascination came from. Was I born with it? Was it something I learned along the way? It's the classic nature/nurture dispute. I'm sure the ghost stories my grandma used to tell me had something to do with it.

These thoughts have been on my mind as I've been working on my short horror story about zombies and cowboys. I've surprisingly never written horror before, and I'm finding it quite a challenge. Sure, my novel A Mouth Full of Teeth is about werewolves, but there's nothing scary about it. Suspenseful? Yes. Violent? Definitely. But not really scary.

I want this zombie story to be scary. And it's a challenge to get the same dread and heart-thumping anxiety out of the written word that you get out of watching it on screen. I want my reader to be uncomfortable, which means as the writer, I have to make myself uncomfortable. As I write this story I have to delve into a dark side of myself. I have to unlock the demons and monsters that frighten me and let them come out and play. I have to push myself to the edge and sit in the dark, blaring The Black Angels and Marilyn Manson.

For inspiration, I've turned to the one book I've ever read that actually made me squirm and not want to "see" what happened next. That book is Let The Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. If you've seen the movie, you already know it's an awesome horror story. As usual, the book is infinitely better, but it's also much more disturbing. What happens in the movie is only half of what goes on in the book. So read it. Anyway, I'm trying to incorporate some of the same tactics as Lindqvist used to draw every last drop of sweat from my reader.

I can't wait for it to be read. I won't post the whole story here, as I am trying to win something from it and possibly get it published in a lit mag, but I will post parts of it and I'm sure I'll come up with some way to share the whole thing with you. The least I can do to thank you for following my shenanigans is to make you scream.

But not in a weird way....

Thanks for reading! =)

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Blink-182 "Neighborhoods" Rocks My World

Here is a short, rushed review of Blink-182's new album Neighborhoods I just felt compelled to write after listening to it the whole way through.

Mark, Tom and Travis are at it again.

If you're anything like me, then you grew up listening to Blink-182. You pumped your fist to "Dammit", you laughed your brace-face off at the music video for "What's My Age Again?" and "Adam's Song" became your own personal anthem. And you were devastated when Blink broke up.

Blink-182 are back to doing what they do best. Their new album, just released on DGC Records, sounds incredible with the familiar riffs and insane drums, and the complimentary way Tom DeLong and Mark Hoppus' voices blend together. Though it sounds quintessentially Blink, it sounds totally fresh and new. A more mature sound for a more mature audience.

Mark Hoppus said he "couldn't write a happy song for this album," and it's true that the music is wrought with emotion and dark compared to some of their earlier stuff. But despite this, the boys are able to walk the line between angsty and jaded and deliver heartfelt, earnest music that is both believable and relate-able to the listener.

My favorite song so far is "After Midnight" - about two people always being there for each other no matter what. It has a strong hook and a great melody and will probably be some lucky pop-punk couple's song.

If you want to hear an awesome showcase of Travis Barker's mad drum skills (and I know you do) check out track 5 - "Heart's All Gone."

Look, if you have any doubt about whether you want to buy this album or not, just effing do it. The CD delivers all that Blink-182 greatness that you love. You will not be disappointed.

Loser Kids rejoice!

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Excuse me, do you have any Bettas?

I have a problem.

I have far too many hobbies.

I have steampunk, I have photography, I have writing (which is actually more of a lifestyle choice), I have painting, I have reading and now... I have Betta Fish collecting (commonly pronounced bay-ta but actually spelled b-e-t-t-a).

It all started a couple months ago.

A co-worker friend and I decided that we needed to bring life into our sad little cubicles, but babies were too high maintenance. That's when she suggested getting a Betta fish. They're easy to take care of and hard to kill. Perfect for our atmosphere.

So she got a fish and I got a fish and everyone thought it was funny, but a great idea. People love coming into our cubes and gazing at our Siamese fighting fish. And no, we do not put them in a bowl together and have after-hours mail room bare-knuckle fish fighting. We keep them in their own tanks and we love them. We love them a whole lot. So much, it might be unhealthy.

Anywho, the both of us being nerds we scoured the internet and every fish dealer in the DFW area to learn every single fact and opinion about Betta fish care. We are very close to becoming Betta fish experts. So I can add that to my list of accomplishments.

Well a week passed and we went to another pet store that happened to have an amazing selection of Bettas and she caved and bought another one. I decided that I would get things together to make a steampunk tank for my apartment and get another Betta once it was done.

Cut to last Friday. Another co-worker decided she was ready for a Betta at her desk so we all went to the aforementioned pet store with her. While she looked for the scariest fish she could find, I wandered around to the back of the store where a few more Betta's were being stored.

And then I saw her.

A tiny little female crowntail Betta. She looked at me and gazed into my soul. And as I stood there staring back into her beady little fish eyes, I knew that we were meant to be together.

So what did I do? I bought her. I bought her and another tank and more decorations and I set up another aquarium at my desk.

I'm crazy. Just straight up, certifiably crazy. So crazy that I will probably buy the new Coldplay album coming out this week despite it's pretentious title and the fact that I swore to never support Coldplay.

WTF is happening to me?

Thanks for reading! =)

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Brrrains!

I'm working on a short story that I plan to send in to at least one Literary Magazine/Writing Contest. I'm not sure what the rules are on submitting one story to multiple contests, because what if it won two different contests? I know that is incredibly unlikely, but a lot of these contests want to claim rights and whatnot and that could turn into a big scary mess. That'll have to be another post...

Where was I?

Yes, my short story! The contest that I have in mind for this particular story is a western themed contest. The rules are that the story must contain one or more cowboys and it must be a thriller/suspense/horror story.

So where did my mind immediately go?

Cowboys and zombies.

The best of both genre worlds, in my opinion.

Rugged, tough, manly cowboys versus bleeding, brain eating zombies in 19th century apparel. I think it's going to be awesome, and I'm having a great deal of fun writing it. I feel like there's not as much pressure riding on this story as there is my novel, so I'm allowing myself to indulge in all the gory, excess violence and one-liners my horror-loving mind can create. Is it going to be ridiculous? Probably. Is it going to be over the top? Most likely. But it is going to be greatness and I am going to share it with you as soon as I've snapped every neck and chewed every brain.

The problem is that I don't have title thus far, and if you've been reading along then you know how much trouble I have with choosing titles. I took a tip from The Guide and wrote down a list of my favorite western movie titles, and then since I only had like 3 on my list I googled "Best Western Movie Titles." I know, I'm shameless.

In so doing I found that my second favorite western title is True Grit.


My favorite title is Duck, You Sucker.


Thanks for reading! =)

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Stating the Obvious

Let me state the obvious for a second here. Everyone loves a 3-day weekend. The extra time to sleep, the extra time to drink, the extra time to shop and put off more of those projects you've got piling up. A 3-day weekend is like finding a dollar in your pocket. You had it coming the whole time but now that you found it, hey! Things are a little brighter.

However, the first day back after a 3-day weekend is horrid. Like going for your first colonoscopy horrid. Especially when you're starting back to work on a Tuesday after a Monday off. I know this from experience.

For example, my Tuesday back to work after Labor Day weekend was ridiculous. How so? Well, I woke up late, only had one pair of jeans that did not have a hole in the crotchal region, had a flat tire, forgot my snack for the day, had this conversation: "I need our FEIN." "Who's FEIN? Our FEIN? Missed you at the wedding!", walked through a large group of software developers in a narrow hall twice, received an e-mail from my mother every 5 minutes asking whether I had ordered her concert tickets yet, listened to my friend ask her 3 year old if she knew what a nervous breakdown was, got slapped in the face by a dog's tail and had to go to Wal-Mart.

Add to that my already heightened state of anxiety and I was at the end of my ever-loving rope by nightfall.

I need a vacation.

Luckily, I am going on vacation to Our Nation's Capitol this weekend and won't be back until next week. That means no new post this Sunday, but I'll probably have something to say or the 14th or 15th provided I am not swept away in a Secret Service raid or a hurricaine.

As always...thanks for reading! =)

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Yeah, Toast!

Sometimes I volunteer to do things when I am in a compromised state of sobriety that I would ordinarily not offer myself up for. And sometimes in those situations I end up writing a toast for a dear friend's wedding. This is one of those situations.

Two of my very best friends are getting married to each other at the end of the year. We have all been friends for a long time and we all knew that this day would come because these two people are perfect for each other. Seriously. So of course I've been super excited and looking forward to the wedding because this will be the first wedding I will attend where I personally know the bride and groom and where there will be an open bar.

The last time I saw these friends we had a bit of a party on my patio and apparently I announced before God and all creation, "I am writing a toast for your wedding! Deal with it."

Here's the thing.

I have never written a toast before. I have never even given a toast before. And I have never been around so many Catholics before!

Actually I did come up with a toast once, a silly little thing. It goes like this:

"We are all on a ship. And that ship...is a friendship."

Salute!


Not quite a wedding toast.

I know I'll drum up something good ( I better be able to, if I want to consider myself a writer) so I'm not too worried about content. I'm more concerned about the technical things. How long should a toast be? Where should I pause for dramatic effect? Do I really have to tap my knife against my glass to get everyone's attention? Should I lead everyone in an impromptu singing of "Amazing Grace"?

If anyone has any advice or recommendations on how to write an exceptional toast, do please let me know!

Thanks for reading! =)

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Muse

"If only I'd had an enemy greater than my apathy I would have won." - Mumford and Sons

It's no secret that the biggest roadblock standing in the way of my Path to Publication is myself. My own personal fears and doubts are like a 50 foot brick wall with razor wire at the top, covered in insulting graffiti. It's tough. And all these fears and doubts create a stunning lack of motivation.

So what do I do?

The only thing I can do is search for inspiration. Inspiration is the antidote for apathy.

I think everyone - not only writers - gets done in by boredom and jadedness in their job or life, and needs a little pick-me-up to get going again. That's why corporations cover their walls in stupid posters of people helping each other up a cliff. Motivational posters are great for rolling your eyes at, but I find it's quite beneficial to know what kinds of things inspire you and to surround yourself with them.

Here's what inspires me:

Music - specifically finding new music I become obsessed with
Great horror movies
Mood lighting
Solitary walks at night
Old wooden ships
Skulls
Tribal masks
Books
Antiques
Guitars
Stormy weather
Animals
Success stories

If I could wrap myself and my laptop in a cocoon of all those things I would feel unstoppable - like that second train movie Denzel did. I try to keep these kinds of things in my life to keep me going. It's amazing how quickly after seeing Fright Night and discovering a new band called I Am Dynamite the ideas came bubbling up into consciousness from who-knows-where. I feel elated. I feel like a badass.

So, what inspires you?

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Back In the Saddle Again

I'm back!

It's been a busy few weeks, my dear reader. Between going to L.A. and having guests and dog sitting and concert going and taking an hour and half to get to a Home Goods that's only 15 minutes away, I haven't had time to post. But I'm back in the saddle.

My trip to Los Angeles was perfection. I had great time seeing my old London buddies and even greater time seeing famous people. They really are everywhere in Hollywood.

Right after my plane touched down at Bob Hope airport we went to a taping of Chelsea Lately where Lisa Kudrow was the guest. She still looks just like Phoebe. On another day we ate dinner at the fancy restaurant at Chateau Marmont - the hotel where Lady Gaga stays. "If it's good enough for Gaga, it's good enough for us!" I said. After accidently valet parking ourselves we did our very best to not come off as poor kids and keep our eyes from bulging out at the menu prices. And then we saw her. Eating at a table for two halfway across the restaurant was Olivia Wilde. (Thirteen from House and the girl from Tron and Cowboys and Aliens)

Let me just say that she is really, really, really, really beautiful in person. And skinny as a rail. And she smokes and talks with her hands and her laugh sounds like music.

Since we were all dolled up, my friends and I decided to go back to the apartment and get some pictures taken together. My host's friend Patrick had met us for dinner and was coming back to the apartment with us to hang out. On our way back, my host rolled down her window and motioned for Patrick to do the same.

"Hey! Do you mind taking pictures of us when we get back?"

"What, like naked?"

"No!......Maybe later."

(*No naked pictures were taken. Don't worry, family members.)

Later that week we went to a taping of The Soup and got pictures taken with Joel McHale, and we saw Ugly Betty at a coffee shop and on the last day we saw Jane Lynch in Barnes and Noble's. She said hi to us. Because we're cool like that.

Anywho, in the world of writing I'm still revising my novel and I'm also working on a short story for a writing contest. I've let myself be intimidated by the Query Letter for too long and it's time to knock it out. My deadline is to have sent queries to at least 5 literary agents by the end of October. It's time to nut up or shut up.

Thanks for reading! =)

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Vacation All I Ever Wanted

It being summer, I've been vacationing and haven't had a lot of time to work on my Path or write on my blog. But I thought I'd give you a little synopsis of what's been going on in the world of Jenni since we last spoke.

Last weekend I went to Lake LBJ to meet up with my family and some friends. I left Friday evening after I got off work with my roomie riding shotgun for our 4 hour drive. I can no longer bear I 35, so I chose to take the back roads. Ya know, the undivided, hilly, not-illuminated back roads of Texas.

Well about an hour after the sun had completely set I was just driving around minding my own business when a huge ass deer decided to stand in the middle of the highway and sniff the road. I slammed on the brakes - couldn't swerve to the other lane because there were cars coming - and managed to slow from 70 to to 55 in like 3 seconds. My CD book case had been resting on my console, and when I pumped the brakes the book case went flying forward, shoving my clutch from Drive to Neutral.

The deer casually looked up at me, blinked a couple times and moseyed on off the road.

When my dad called me later to see where we were the first thing I said was, "I almost hit a deer!"

To which he replied, "Your mom hit an owl."

Animals beware when the Browns take to the road at night!

Fortunately I did not hit any animals - which is good for a number of reasons but mostly because I would have thrown up had I ran something over. The rest of the weekend was spent holding onto a tube for dear life, escaping the evil swans, and falling off a jet ski. The highlight was when I shot a fish with my bow early one morning. It was the first time I'd shot a fish and I got the sucker on my second try. For legal reasons I won't say what kind of fish it was, but I will tell you it was about 6 pounds and very delicious.

This whole week I've been trying to catch up with life, but I made time to go buy a Betta fish for my desk at work. He is red and I named him Godric after the character on True Blood. So far he has made my work day that much more interesting.

And this evening when I came home I opened the door to find a shirtless man coming out of my bathroom. This was especially surprising since I thought no one was home. But it turned out he was my rommie's friend and he had just come back from the pool. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant surprise.

You won't get any posts from me next week as I will be in California all week living it up. Rest assured I will come back with some awesome stories to share with you. ;)

Thanks for reading! =)

Monday, July 11, 2011

Parallels

Sometimes in literature we come across stories that mirror the goings on of our own lives. This of course hearkens back to the age old Art Imitating Life/Life Imitating Art debate, but that makes it no less uncanny that someone else's writing - someone else's fiction - seems to have been adapted right out of your own personal reality. This, to me, is even more uncanny when the work of fiction was first published in 1851.

I have been reading Moby-Dick by Herman Melville over the past couple of months, and last weekend I read through the chapter titled "The Town-Ho's Story." (yeah, I snickered at the name too) This chapter is about a fight that broke out on another whaling ship called The Town-Ho. Now despite the fact that this is about 19th century whalers, I found this chapter to hold some striking parallels to events happening in my own life right now.

In the story, a fight breaks out between a likable sailor named Steelkilt and jerk of an officer named Radney who is on a power trip. Radney and Steelkilt dislike each other. One day, after Steelkilt had just completed pumping water out of their sinking ship, Radney ordered him to do some very menial task that any other person aboard the ship could have done. Since Steelkilt was exhausted and felt as though he had pulled more than his share of the weight, he refused to follow Radney's order and said that someone else could do it. But Radney, the jerk that he was, didn't like being disobeyed so he kept harping on Steelkilt do this task. Steelkilt tried to be the bigger man and he kept quietly refusing and even walked away from the officer, but Radney just wouldn't let it go and kept yelling at him and waving a hammer in his face.

Finally, Steelkilt had all he could stand and punched Radney so hard that his jaw "was stove in his head; he fell on the hatch spouting blood like a whale."

As I said, I'm not on an 1800's whaling vessel and I haven't punched anyone (yet), but I was so completely shocked by the similarities between "The Town-Ho's Story" and my personal life, that I just had to share this with you. I won't go into detail about what has been happening with me as it is in my own best interest not to put that out where everyone can read it; but I can tell you that it is very similar to what I just described to you. Just take it in broad strokes.

 Absolutely uncanny.

I'm going to try and take a lesson from literature here and not leave anyone spouting blood like a whale, as this chapter ends with Steelkilt being flogged and then deserting ship, and Radney being eaten by Moby-Dick. Not a good outcome for either one really. But if I do stave in someone's lower jaw, you can bet that I will describe every gory detail right here from inside whatever maximum security level prison I am sentenced to.

Thanks for reading! =)

Monday, July 4, 2011

Chapter 2 - Remix

Here it is, the newly revised and hot off the press Chapter 2(remix). I'm very interested to hear what you think about it in comparison to the original Chapter 2, if you would be so kind. It is kinda long, but your time and your comments are very, very appreciated.

This lovely 3 day weekend has been very good to me in the writing aspect, and I hope to keep that flow flowing. I still have a lot of work to do.

Happy reading! =)


Gabriel

I strolled past the main entrance to Père-Lachaise cemetery just as the tall gendarme bid bon soir to the last remaining tourist. He kept an eye on me over his shoulder while he locked the iron gate behind him. I looked away and kept walking. The last of the living had left the cemetery. It was time to go to work.
I raked my too-long brown hair behind my ear as I rounded the street corner. My father, a stout bear of a man, stood waiting against the cemetery wall. His hair had grown shaggy and long in the last few months as well. He raised his dark eyebrows expectantly as I approached him.
“We’re good,” I said.
The lines in his face deepened, and his dark eyes sparked to life. “Run through it again.”
I picked up the leather satchel at his feet and put it over my shoulder. “We jump the fence and run to Maurice’s tomb. We bust it open, I pull back the coffin lid and we both strike.”
Dad gave a swift nod and turned towards the wall. “Let’s put an end to this son of a bitch.”
With that he jumped up, grabbed the top of the brick wall, and pulled himself over. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Please God, protect us. I crossed myself and then scrambled over the wall.
I hit the ground running. Dad was already barreling down the cemetery streets several yards ahead of me. “Move faster,” he barked.
I gritted my teeth and adjusted the heavy leather bag on my shoulder. I was carrying all of the equipment, while he carried nothing but his vengeance. Despite this, and despite the slick, uneven cobblestones waiting to put me on my ass, I picked up the pace and caught up to him.
We darted through the sprawling maze of mausoleums and monuments. The gloomy graves seemed to suck the light from the sky as it darkened from bright pink to blood red. My eyes scanned the scene for movement. There could be dozens of undead lurking in the shadows.
Maurice Baudelaire, the vampire we were hunting, was very old and very dangerous. It would have been ideal – safer - to kill him during the day, but because he kept his resting place in a popular tourist attraction with armed guards and visiting hours, we’d had to wait until dusk to make our move. It was our plan to kill him before he awoke for the night. A plan which I had made clear from the start, I was not fond of.
“You want to attack an 800 year old vampire at his resting place at night?” I had asked Dad a week ago when he first informed me of his plan.
            “It’s the only way.” He said resolutely.
            “It’s reckless and arrogant. It goes against everything you’ve ever taught me. You’re not thinking clearly.”
            Dad set down his cup of black coffee and crossed the kitchen to where I sat at the dinner table. There was an inspired yet maniacal glint to his eyes. A tight, forced smile cracked across his face.
            “No, Gabriel, I have gone over this a thousand times in my head. We know Baudelaire’s tomb rests in Père-Lachaise. We have good intelligence telling us that he is back in Paris. Now is the time to strike.” He clenched his hand into a fist for emphasis.
            I studied my father closely, unable to keep the concern from my face. It wasn’t like him to be so rash and careless. He was the type to come up with a contingency plan for every possible scenario; it took him weeks to plan out a hunt for even the most insignificant of vampires.
            “Dad…maybe we should give it a rest. We’ve been going nonstop for two years.”
            Dad slammed his fist into the table. “Rest? Do you have no love for your brother? Do you no sense of honor?”
            “I have honor.” I said firmly.
            “Then be a man and avenge Josiah’s death. That strigoi murdered your only brother, my first born son. I will not rest until he has been wiped off this earth. Even if it means I have to see him to hell myself. ”
            I clasped my hands together in front of my lips. Biting my tongue, I held in everything I wanted to say to my father. The truth threatened to come bursting out of my mouth at any moment. The truth that I hated being a slayer, that I didn’t want to kill anything, and that I didn’t agree with his tenacious thirst for revenge. Truths that I could never tell him.
            I glanced up at Dad again. He had clearly already made up his mind, and would be going to Paris with or without me. Though it was against my better judgment, I loved him too much to let him go alone.
“You’re going to get us both killed.” I quietly resigned to help him.
We made a sharp left turn and came to a halt in front of a tall, grey mausoleum, distinct from those that surrounded it in its lack of flowers and votives. Three small marble steps led up to a black cast iron door. My father glanced back at me and I handed him a crow-bar from the bag. He hooked it on the door handle and yanked it back. The door screeched open. Holding the crow-bar like a baseball bat, he leaned into the chamber and looked around.
“It’s clear. Hurry,” Dad backed away to let me pass. He patted me on the shoulder as I went inside.
The interior of the mausoleum was about six feet long and two feet wide, giving us just enough room to work. On the back wall was a square, red stained-glass window. The floor was cracked and covered in dirt and leaves. Spanning the left wall was a memorial plaque with the name Maurice Baudelaire solemnly engraved across it.
Behind this plaque lay the coffin. Inside the coffin lay Baudelaire. A little stab of fear twisted in my stomach. One way or another, this was going to end tonight.
Together Dad and I beat our crow-bars against the plaque until it cracked and broke into pieces at our feet. I grabbed the head of the coffin, Dad grabbed the foot and we hauled it down to the ground. I reached into the leather bag, tossed a stake to my dad and took one for myself.
I looked across the coffin at my father. His eyes were fixed intently on the wooden box. It was as if all his years of hunting and killing the undead, all the loss and pain of a lifetime of service as a soldier of God, would all be validated in this one act. Anger and pride culminated in his rough, scarred face. He was at the cusp of vengeance. This kill wasn’t for God.
Dad nodded. I grabbed the coffin lid and threw it back. We lunged with our stakes.
“Shit!” Dad shouted.
The coffin was empty. And judging from the dusty, decaying satin it had been empty for a very long time. I let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Dad covered his face with his hand and turned away. “No. It’s not possible. He has to be here.”
The glass window shattered behind me. Two hands grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me out through the hole. I was slammed to the ground, popping the stake out of my hand.
A hissing mouth with two huge fangs and beady red eyes were all I saw. The vampire pulled my shirt away from throat and went for my jugular. I pressed against him with all my strength and fished around my neck for my crucifix. I found it and pressed the relic against the demon’s white face.
The vampire screamed in pain and jumped off of me. I scrambled to get up, but before I could get to my feet he kicked me in the ribs and sent me flying into the air. I landed with a crunch on the pavement. Groaning, I rolled over and pushed myself up. With my weapon gone, all I had was the crucifix around my neck. I warily held it out in a feeble attempt at defense.
A small pink cross been burned into the vampire’s cheek. He bared his fangs and hissed.  His eyes glowed red with rage. Without warning, he charged me.
He only made it three steps. Dad stepped out from between the mausoleums and thrust a stake into the devil’s heart. The vampire’s face turned from anger to shock, and then exploded into dust.
“Holy shit.” I said breathlessly. The adrenaline left me shaking. I doubled over and fought to regain my composure.
“Are you okay?” Dad asked coming toward me. He pulled my shirt back and examined my neck for any punctures.
“I think I cracked a rib. But I’m alright.”
            “Good.”
            Dad turned and headed back to Maurice’s grave. I felt like I had been run over by a truck and I had come very close to having my throat ripped out, but there were no holes in my neck and that was the important thing. My eyes fell to the pile of dust on the ground. A familiar twinge of guilt turned my stomach.
            Dad came back around with the leather bag, slightly limping from an old knee injury. The evening’s activities must have aggravated it. His right eye flinched ever so slightly with each step.
            “Here,” Dad said, thrusting a 9mm at me.
            “What’s this for?”
            “That wasn’t Maurice.”
            Which meant he could still potentially be here, and we could potentially be in more danger than before. Holding a hand against my aching ribs, I followed Dad back down the same, steep cemetery streets. Within minutes we had climbed back over the fence and dropped down to the well lit sidewalk below.

            “So, what do you want do now?” I asked in Romanian, as we found two seats on a crowded metro train. “He’s certainly not going back to that resting place, if he was ever there at all.”
            Dad knitted his brow in concentration.  “He must have known we were coming,” he muttered.
            I didn’t bother to ask him how Baudelaire could have known we were coming. I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. If that was how he wanted to rationalize this loss, that was fine by me.
I watched my dad from the corner of my eye. Everyone said we looked alike. We had the same dark, curly hair. The same dark brown eyes, and even the same oval face. The similarities stopped there.
 Dad was well known within our small community of slayers. They said he was one of the best that ever lived. My older brother, Josiah, was expected to be even better. He had been more like Dad. He had shared the same sense of familial and religious duty to rid the world of vampires and werewolves. Two years ago, he had gone alone on a hunt to Romania. He had succeeded in wiping out nearly an entire coven, but in the end he was ambushed and murdered by Maurice Baudelaire. My father hadn’t been the same since.
            He caught me looking at him and he narrowed his eyes. “We’ll go to the cathedral first thing in the morning to give our report. We’ll figure out where to go from there. I know he’s here, Gabriel. I feel it.”
            “Whatever you say, Dad.”
             
I waited outside the Notre-Dame while my Dad took care of business inside. He could handle whatever paperwork and debriefing was necessary. There was no real need for me to hang around in the dim underground chambers.   
I watched the people going in to confess or take pictures.  It was early in the morning so there weren’t many tourists gathering around yet, but every once in a while I’d see a scruffy looking college student with a backpack or a jet-lagged family who were obviously on a very tight schedule to see everything. I wondered what it would be like to be one of them; to be normal. To get to admire Paris for its beauty and history and to not know that monsters – real monsters – existed.
I turned and looked up at the giant church.  I had seen the cathedral dozens of times, but never as a tourist. The Notre-Dame was one of our headquarters so I had spent much of my youth learning and training in its secret chambers and vaults. Even so, I could still marvel at the beautiful stained-glass windows and the ancient sculptures of gargoyles and saints. Staring up at the cathedral in admiration made me feel like I had something in common with the strangers around me. It amazed us all to think that it had endured 600 years and several wars and was still a beautiful work of art.
            It reminded me of vampires.
            The sweet smell of crêpes wafted towards me and turned me from my thoughts. I knew exactly where the smell was coming from.  I crossed the plaza toward the left of the Notre-Dame, and ran across the street narrowly escaping a speeding moped.
            There, outside of a restaurant, was a little metal stand with a French woman happily making fresh crêpes. The sizzle of the crêpe batter on the skillet made my mouth water. Fortunately there were only four people in line so I took my place behind a girl with jet black hair. 
            I was more focused on planning my order than the people around me, but then the girl in front of me turned to look over her shoulder and I saw her face.  My heart jumped in my chest. She was beautiful. Startlingly beautiful.
            I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. All the sounds of people talking, all the noise from the motorists drained away. Everything around me stopped and the only thing I was aware of was this woman. I had to speak to her. I had to find out her name and be the object of her attention for at least one fleeting minute. I needed to hear her voice.
            “Bonjour,” I said in my best French accent.
            Slowly she turned around. Her big, bright green eyes looked me over. She had smooth, fair skin, high cheekbones and perfectly curved lips. Her silky, black hair framed her face and fell to her shoulders.   
“Hi,” she said.
            My confidence doubled.
 “You speak English.” I remarked happily. French wasn’t my strong suit.
            “So do you.”  She said. She smiled, showing off straight, white teeth.
            “And you’re American,” I said. Then I realized how ridiculous I sounded.  I decided I should tell her something she didn’t already know.  “My name’s Gabriel.” 
            “I’m Jade.” She said. She stuck her hand out toward me.
            I grasped it, a little too eagerly. “Out doing some sight-seeing?” I asked.
            “Not today.  I’m sort of here on business.”
            “Oh, me too.”  I had no idea what to say to this woman.  I racked my brain for something to keep the conversation going.  “Is this your first time in Paris?”
            “No, I have a friend who lives here and I come to visit him from time to time. Is this your first trip?”  Jade asked.
            “Actually, it isn’t. My Dad and I come to Paris a lot.  For business,” I added. I wanted to know what the deal was between Jade and her French friend, but I couldn’t think of a smooth way to ask.
            It was Jade’s turn to order and she told the woman what she wanted in cautious French. She looked back at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.  “I always feel like I’m full of shit when I try to speak French.”
            I laughed and she stepped aside so I could place my order.
            I glanced over at Jade. She flashed her eyes on me and smiled flirtatiously. My heart was humming like a generator. Electricity sparked all through my body. I wanted to say something to impress her, but telling her that I hunted vampires for a living didn’t seem appropriate.  So instead I paid for her crêpe before she had a chance to pull her money out of her back pocket.
            “You didn’t have to do that.”  She told me.
            “I know, but I wanted to.  It’s not every day that I get to do something nice for a pretty girl.”  I hoped I wasn’t coming on too strong or too lame – I really had no idea what I was doing.
            Jade giggled. “Well, thanks.” She started to back away.
            “Hold on,” I said coming after her. “Can I join you? To eat, I mean?”
            Jade bit her lip and looked me up and down again. “I would like to, but I have to meet someone.”
            “Well,” I fumbled to come up with something to keep her longer. “What are you doing later?”
            Jade raised an eyebrow.
            “Look, I’m really not trying to be a creeper. But…I dunno, I’d really like the chance to get to know you. If that’s okay.”
            Jade smiled. “I’m busy tonight, and tomorrow I’m going to the Louvre.”
            “What a coincidence. So am I.” I was now, anyway.
            “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
            “You will see me there.”
            Jade laughed as she turned away. “Goodbye Gabe.”
            “See you later, Jade.” I called after her.
            I watched her until she disappeared into the crowd forming in front of the Notre-Dame.  Unable to wipe the smile off my face, I went back to my waiting place. It was nice to have a bright spot of normalcy in my strange, dark life. I looked forward to seeing her again and spending more time in her light.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Google-able

I just learned something very interesting.

If you go to Google and search "Focusing humor" and then click on images, and then go to result page 4...guess who's smiling face you see?

Mine!

That's right, I am Google-able under something that isn't my name.

The image is of my profile pic and it links back to this fancy blog all because in my bio I say "focusing on the humor in life." And that, my friends, is how the internet works.

On a completely separate and totally unrelated note...I've decided to rewrite Chapter 2 of my novel. It just wasn't working for me, and when I tried to go back just tweak things "in-line" I got stuck and frustrated. Then I remembered some great advice from my old creative writing professor: "If something's not working, just cut it out."

So I'm cutting out chapter 2 and starting fresh. I began working on it Monday and I'm already feeling better about it. It's still going to have the same basic plot, but I changed some stuff up in the cemetery scene to make it a little more revved up and horrific. I think (hope) you will like it. I'm also trying to add some things to flesh out the characters a little more. My goal is to have it finished by the weekend, and then I will post it here and ask for your honest feedback, as the routine goes.

Thanks for reading! =)

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Steampunk

I discovered a new passion last week and it is called Steampunk. Maybe you've heard of it, but in case you haven't, allow me to introduce it to you.

Steampunk is actually a genre of fiction that is more or less Victorian sci-fi. "The future if it happened earlier." The works of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells fall under this category as well as many contemporary authors. Of course, when Verne and Wells were around it wasn't called Steampunk; that name wasn't assigned until around the '80s. The movie The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and the movie Wild Wild West with Will Smith from several years ago are also examples of Steampunk. For a more thorough description, please go here.

Anyway, it's developed into a whole movement where people create and bring Steampunk into their lives through more than just reading and writing. They modify and build things like computers with typewriters for keyboards, or just make things look more elegant and all around cooler. Like this:


I think the greatest thing about my discovery of Steampunk is that I've always been a Steampunk at heart. I've always been attracted to old things, I love the Victorian era (the 1890s are my favorite time period), I like to DIY and I'm obviously a bit fanciful. I just never knew there was a name or indeed a community for what I liked. It's a wonderful thing, finding yourself a niche among people with shared interests. It gives you a sense of belonging. But it's so disappointing and disheartening when someone close to you doesn't get it.

Anyway, this weekend I set out to start my own Steampunk project and decided to start small by modifying some electric switch face plates for my room. I bought some solid brass face plates and then went all over town looking for gears and sprockets to add to it for dramatic effect. Once I found my accessories, I used super glue to attach them to the face plates. The problem started when my fingers got glue on them because the peices I was working with were very small. When I stuck the sprocket to the face plate my fingers became stuck to the face plate too.

Now we've all glued our fingers either together or to other things while working on something and we're all familiar with having to give a little tug to get our fingers separated, no big deal. That's not what I'm talking about. My fingers were glued on to the face plate. I tried to just pull them off, but it hurt a lot and I could see my skin stretching in a most distressing fashion and I realized that if I continued to pull I would end up bleeding - and for those of you who know me personally, you know that would not have ended well for me.

I happened to have the super glue box face down on the table next to me. On the back of the box were the words: Fingers glued?

Yes!! Thought I, in response. The box said to rub cooking oil on your glued little fingers in a massaging manner in order to free them. Do not pull!

So, with face plate on hand, I made it to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of olive oil. I had to open the bottle with my teeth since I only had one free hand and my roommate wasn't around to help me. I poured out some oil onto the plate I was using and began seasoning my fingers with it. I'll admit, there was a moment where I feared I wouldn't get the face plate off. Oh my God, I'm going to have drive one handed down to the hospital to get this off. That's going to be so embarrassing. At least it wasn't my right hand. How am I going to explain this? I am such a dork.

But the olive oil worked. It was a process and it took some time, but eventually I was able to free myself.  Here is the finished product:


I like 'em, even if I did almost have to bleed for 'em!

Thanks for reading! =)

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

A Mouth Full of Teeth (Ch. 2)

Today I've decided to share with you Chapter 2 of my novel A Mouth Full of Teeth.  I've been putting off posting it because I'm neurotic and because I'm admittedly less confident in this chapter than I was in Chapter 1.

This chapter is told through the point of view (POV) of my other main character, Gabriel. Since Gabriel and my female lead, Jade, are so different (and since it is someone else's perspective) I tried to make the tone and voice of Gabriel's chapters different than that of Jade's. I think I succeeded in that, but please don't be shy in voicing your opinion of how well executed my attempt was.

As usual, comments are welcomed and encouraged! Any feedback at all is most helpful! Happy reading. =)


 Chapter 2

            It was unfortunate that we had to kill the vampire at dusk. It would have been ideal, safer, to kill it during the day.  But there were almost as many Gendarmes and tourists in Pere-Lachaise cemetery as there were on any random street in Paris, so we’d had to wait until every last visitor had gone and the guards had locked the front gates.
            The sky was a light shade of pink. It would be growing darker by the second.  If we got to the coffin fast enough there was a chance we could still kill the vampire before it awoke.  I put my leather bag of weapons over my shoulder, climbed over the tall, wrought-iron fence and hit the ground running.
            “Move faster!” My father barked at me, glancing over his shoulder.
            I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and picked up my pace. I had to be careful not to misstep and break my ankle on the uneven cobblestones.  One mistake, one little accident could mean the difference between life and death.
            We snaked through the sprawling maze of streets in the old cemetery. We darted between mausoleums just to find ourselves back on the steep, cobblestone roads.  The paths turned and intersected with one another, some of them looped around in a wide circle so that you could end up right where you had started without even realizing it. We had to keep our wits about us.
  The shadowy tombs seemed to be absorbing the sun light as it grew darker and darker.  We passed a gravesite that had caved in on itself and a little stab of fear twisted in my stomach.  The vampire we were looking for was very old, and very dangerous. He also wouldn’t be the only one here. There could be dozens of the undead in this cemetery tonight.
            We turned a sharp corner and my father finally stopped in front of a grey, marble sarcophagus. It wasn’t ornate like some of the other graves. Just a plain, stone rectangle.
Dad looked to the horizon as the final rays of sun slipped away.
“Get ready,” he warned.
            I set down my bag and pulled out two crow-bars, a silver cross and a large wooden stake; tools of the trade.  With the crow-bars I helped my dad pry up the huge marble slab that topped the sarcophagus and pushed it off to the ground. 
And there it lay: the coffin of Maurice Baudelaire.
            Breathing hard my father turned to me, “Brace yourself, son.”
            I nodded and handed him the cross and stake.  We stood on either side of the coffin.  My job was to wait for my father’s signal, pull open the lid and stay out of the way.
            My dad whispered a prayer, crossed himself and then nodded at me.  My heart skipped a beat as I reached across the wooden casket.  I grabbed the lid and yanked it back.  My father lunged.
            “Son of a bitch!”
            I came around to his side and saw that the coffin was completely empty. We looked at each other. It was the right tomb, of that we were certain.  But where was Maurice?
            A hissing noise came from behind me. I turned just in time to see a man flying through the air.  He hit me square in the chest and I fell flat to the ground.
            Hissing still, he pulled my shirt away from my neck, baring his huge fangs.  I pushed against him with all my strength and fished around my chest to find my cross necklace. I found the small relic and pressed it against the vampire’s white face. He screamed in pain and jumped off of me.  I was instantly on my feet, still holding out the crucifix.
            A small pink cross had been burned into the vampire’s cheek.  His eyes glowed red with rage. He screamed and charged me. I froze, unable to think or move. My father leaped between the two of us and drove a large wooden stake through the vampire’s heart.
            “Go back to hell where you belong!” My father shouted. The vampire’s face turned from rage to shock, and then burst into dust.
            And like that it was over; as quickly as it had started.
            The adrenaline left me breathless and shaking. I hoped my father didn’t mistake that for weakness.  He looked me over. 
“Are you alright?” He asked.
            I nodded.  I felt like I had been hit by a truck, but there were no holes in my neck.  I looked down at the pile of dust on the ground. A familiar twinge of guilt twisted inside me.
I knew that vampires were evil, and that it was God’s will for my family to rid the earth of them. And one had just tried to kill me, but after every kill I felt regret. Evil as they may be, there was something magnificent about them. Something I could never explain to my father.
            My father had already put his tools back in the bag, except for the silver cross.
            “Gabriel,” he said, pulling me from my thoughts and tossing a small gun at me, “We have to get out of here, quickly.”
            “What’s wrong?”
            “That wasn’t Maurice.”
            I looked around, searching the dark shadows of the cemetery for any movement.  The sky had turned completely black, and the moon had risen as a sliver crescent high in the sky.  Without another word I followed my father, running down those same, steep paths, keeping alert for any signs of life - or otherwise.
            Within minutes we had climbed back over the fence and dropped down to the well lit sidewalk below.  We put our weapons back into our bags as a group of French teenagers walked past us.  They glanced at us with only the vaguest curiosity but continued on without asking a thing about us.
            “I don’t understand.” I said in Romanian, as we found two seats on a crowded metro train, “Why would he have not been in his coffin?”
            My father’s brow knitted in concentration.  “He must have known we were coming,” he snapped.
            My dad was always serious; all business all the time. He didn’t have a sense of humor. He dedicated every moment of his life to hunting monsters. But tonight he was particularly edgy.  Part of that was my fault for getting jumped by a vampire. What really bothered him was not killing the right vampire.
            I didn’t bother to ask him how Maurice could have known we were coming for him. I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. I watched my dad from the corner of my eye. He was still breathing hard from the fight. His thin, dark hair was wet with sweat. He tried to act tough, but my dad was approaching fifty. His past injuries were catching up with him and he just wasn’t as strong as he used to be. It wouldn’t be long before his body completely gave out on him. I just hoped he would know when to stop.
            Dad caught me looking at him and his eyes narrowed. He turned on me. 
            “You need to be more careful, Gabriel,” he ridiculed, “More aware of your surroundings.”
            “He surprised us both. And I handled it.”
I handled it. You have to be ready for anything, son.  Always prepared, always on alert.  The creatures we hunt have almost every advantage over us.  They’re faster, they’re stronger and they are very clever.  You can never be too careful.”
            “I know.” I had heard this a million times.  I had spent my entire life in training. There was no lecture I hadn’t heard
            “You almost got yourself killed tonight.”
            I was irritated but I kept my mouth shut.  I saw where this conversation was headed and I didn’t want to deal with that.  Another word and he would bring up my brother. I distracted myself by reading the names of all the stops on the Metro map posted inside the train.
            Two years ago my older brother, Josiah, had been killed by a vampire.  He had gone alone on a hunt to Romania to take out a small coven. The coven was lead by Maurice Baudelaire.  Josiah had succeeded in wiping out all but two of the coven. He let his guard down one night at the church he was staying in.  The remaining vampires had taken one of the monks hostage outside the church, Josiah went out to face them but he was overmatched. Maurice Baudelaire killed my brother.
            My father had always despised vampires and werewolves simply for their existence. But his oldest son’s death had taken his hatred of nosferatu to a whole other level. This wasn’t just a holy mission. This was revenge.
Our stay in Paris would be extended.

            I waited outside the Notre-Dame de Paris while my father took care of business inside. I watched the people going in to confess or take pictures.  It was early in the morning so there weren’t many tourists gathering around yet, but every once in a while I’d see a scruffy looking college student with a backpack or a jet-lagged family who were obviously on a very tight schedule to see everything. I wondered what it would be like to be one of them; to be normal. To get to admire Paris for its beauty and history and to not know that monsters – real monsters – existed.
I turned and looked up at the giant, gothic church.  I had seen the cathedral dozens of times, but never as a tourist. The Notre-Dame was one of my Dad’s headquarters so I had spent much of my youth learning and training in secret chambers and vaults. Even so, I could still marvel at the beautiful stained-glass windows and the ancient sculptures of gargoyles and saints. Staring up at the cathedral in admiration made me feel like I had something in common with the strangers around me. It amazed us all to think that it had endured 600 years and several wars and was still a beautiful work of art.
            It reminded me of vampires.
            The sweet smell of crêpes wafted towards me and turned me from my thoughts. I knew exactly where the smell was coming from.  I crossed the plaza toward the left of the Notre-Dame, and darted across the street just as the crosswalk sign changed from a walking person to a standing person, narrowly escaping a speeding moped.
            There, outside of a restaurant, was a little metal stand with a French woman happily making fresh crêpes. The sizzle of the crêpe batter on the skillet made my mouth water. Fortunately there were only four people in line so I took my place behind a girl with jet black hair.  
            I was more focused on planning my order than the people around me, but then the girl in front of me turned to look over her shoulder and I saw her face.  My heart jumped in my chest. She was beautiful. Startlingly beautiful.
            I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. All the sounds of people talking, all the noise from the motorists drained away. Everything around me stopped and the only thing I was aware of was this woman. I had to speak to her. I had to find out her name and be the object of her attention for at least one fleeting minute. I needed to hear her voice.
            “Bonjour,” I said in my best French accent.
            Slowly she turned around. Her big, bright green eyes looked me over. She had smooth, fair skin, high cheekbones and perfectly curved lips. Her silky, black hair framed her face and fell to her shoulders.   
“Hi,” she said.
            My confidence doubled.
 “You speak English.” I remarked happily. I was fluent in several languages, but French wasn’t my strong suit.
            “So do you.”  She said. She smiled, showing off perfectly straight, white teeth.
            “And you’re American,” I said. Then I realized how ridiculous this conversation was becoming.  I decided I should tell her something she didn’t already know.  “My name’s Gabriel.” 
            “I’m Jade.” She said. She stuck her hand out toward me.
            I grasped it, a little too eagerly. I was delighted to get to touch her. Her hand felt small and warm.
 “Out doing some sight-seeing?” I asked.
            “Not today.  I’m sort of here on business.”
            “Oh, me too.”
And then we just looked at each other. I had no idea what to say to this woman.  I racked my brain for something to keep the conversation going.  “Is this your first time in Paris?”
            “No, my friend Etienne lives here and I come to visit him from time to time.  I’m actually staying with him while I’m here.  The best way to see the city is with a local.  Is this your first trip?”  Jade asked.
            “Actually, it isn’t. My Dad and I come to Paris a lot.  For business.” I added. I wondered what the deal was between Jade and her French friend. I tried to think of a way I could ask her more about it without coming off as a creep.
            It was Jade’s turn to order and she told the woman what she wanted in cautious French. She looked back at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.  “I always feel like I’m full of shit when I try to speak French.”
            I laughed and she stepped aside so I could place my order.
            I glanced over at Jade. She flashed her eyes on me and smiled flirtatiously. My heart was humming like a generator. Electricity sparked all through my body. I wanted to say something to impress her, but telling her that I hunted vampires for a living didn’t seem appropriate.  So instead I paid for her crêpe before she had a chance to pull her money out of her back pocket.
            “You really didn’t have to do that.”  She told me.
            “I know, but I wanted to.  It’s not every day that I get to do something nice for a pretty girl.” 
I hoped I wasn’t coming on too strong, or too lame – I really had no idea what I was doing. I hadn’t been socialized like most American kids; I had been home schooled and had toured every country in Europe by the time I was 14…hunting vampires and werewolves.
            Jade giggled. “Well, thanks.” She started to back away.
            “Hold on,” I said coming after her. “Can I join you? To eat, I mean?”
            Jade bit her lip and looked me up and down again. “I would like to, but I have to meet someone.”
            I fumbled to come up with something to keep her longer. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
            Jade smiled. “I’m going to the Louvre tomorrow.”
            “What a coincidence. So am I.” Or at least I was now.
            “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
            “You will see me there.”
            Jade laughed as she turned away. “Goodbye Gabe.”
            “See you later, Jade.” I called after her.
            I watched her until she disappeared into the crowd forming in front of the Notre-Dame

Monday, June 6, 2011

Down and Dirty (Now with HD video!)

(Scroll to the bottom to view the experience in HD!)

Last Sunday was the Merrel Down and Dirty 5K Mud Run in Dallas. I had been training for this for a while - I had never done a 5K before, and especially not an obstacle course - but apparently I did not train for it quite enough. My parents joined me for this event since they are active adults and enjoy doing outdoorsy things. My Mom likes being in nature but hates to get her hair wet, and my Dad never backs down from a challenge. I just wanted to have some fun and to use my GoPro sports camera (a small HD video/digital camera able to mount to your head. It is water proof and mud proof).

The starting line was down near a lake bank so that we actually had to run uphill right at the very start. Not great, but I guess it's better to start a race running uphill than to end it running uphill. The majority of the race was just running/jogging/power walking through well defined hiking trails while army men encouraged us to "move in a rapid manor." There were several wooden gates we had to climb up and over of varying heights, tunnels we had to crawl through and a net we had to crawl under. I ended up log rolling under that bad boy and I am not afraid to say it. I got grass down my throat.

Then came the mud pit! The moment I had been waiting for. With no reservations I threw myself into that pit of cool, chocolate-colored mud and took the obstacle by storm. Meanwhile a soldier threw mud clods at my Mom to make her quit her lolly-gagging.

We would get rinsed off, and then we would get muddy again, and then we'd wade through the lake and then get muddy again. It was great fun and I was able to maintain my energy and pace until the third to last obstacle. An obstacle that I have decided to call the Hellish Hill.

The Hellish Hill was a wooden wall tilted back at a steep angle, and covered in a smooth, lubed up tarp with knotted ropes hanging down from the top. Atop each hill were a few soldiers to motivate and aid us. I approached the Hellish Hill with the same confidence I had approached the previous obstacles. I ran up to the hill, grasped the rope in my hands and stepped onto the tarp to begin my climb.

"On your belly. Don't use your feet or knees. On your belly. Use only your arms." A soldier instructed.

So I flattened out and hand over hand pulled myself up to about halfway. Then my girlish muscles gave out. I kept my grip on the rope and tried to put my knees under myself to try and use them to push me up to the next knot on the rope, but my knees kept slipping on the wet tarp and would send me belly down again.

Uh oh.


"Come on Web Cam, let's go!" Shouted the soldier looming above me.

Ok, let's do it. I got this. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and willed my shoulders to suck it up and lift me to the next knot. But they didn't. They couldn't. I was all out of steam, there was nothing left.

"Keep moving! Do not stop! Stopping is for the weak. YOU ARE NOT WEAK!" My soldier yelled down.

"I am not weeeak," I grunted, and tried to reach another knot. Someone below me grabbed my feet and pushed me up a few inches.

"Keep going! Just pull yourself up! Pull yourself up!"

Just pull yourself up. Oh, is that all I have to do? Someone must have gotten confused and thought we were at basic training.

"I don't have anything left, man." I informed the soldier.

He reached down, grabbed my left hand and placed it on the top of the wall. "Now throw your leg over and pull yourself up. Move it, MOVE IT!"

I threw my right leg up to the top of the Hellish Hill and hooked my ankle over the other side. I was, ladies and gentlemen, in a compromised position. One hand on top of the hill, one leg on top of the hill and the other two appendages sliding all over the place trying to get grip on something.

What did I see on the other side when I was finally able to peek over the top? My Mother standing on the other side, pointing and laughing at me.

How in the hell??? I thought as I finally got one half of my body draped over the top of the obstacle. How in the hell did she get over so quickly? She must have taken to the obstacle with all the grace and ease of a prime gazelle, while I bellowed and grunted and had to be hoisted up like that cow they fed to the raptors in Jurassic Park.

"Oh I wish I had a camera to capture the look on your face when you peeked over that thing!" My Mom crowed.

I finally made my way down from the Hellish Hill and it left me completely fatigued. My arms and legs shook as we made the last few yards to the finish line. It was hard work and it wasn't pretty, but I finished.

My knees a scraped up, my muscles are sore, I have a huge purple bruise on the inside of my right thigh and I think I badly injured my ankle. I had to throw away my undergarments and wash my clothing in the bathtub and then wash my bathtub. But...it was worth it. I would do it again tomorrow.

Now it's time to focus on writing.

Thanks for reading! =)