Blogging & Me

I’m going to be honest, I’m terrible at this blogging thing.  I tell myself I’m going to keep up with it and then I go weeks without saying anything at all.

It’s not because I don’t have anything to say. I have lots of things to say; however, I don’t think everything I think needs to be immortalized on a platform for people to read over and over again. Much of it is the equivalent of a Facebook post about what I had for breakfast, only relevant to a small number of people for an incredibly short period of time.  Therefore, I don’t think a blog is the best idea for me. Social media, by nature of its transience, is more the kind of connection I tend to make. Pithy things come to me. I share them. I forget them almost immediately.

Welcome to having the memory of a goldfish.

I do keep a fairly regular journal. It’s full of the random head drivel I come up with on a regular basis. Some of it even make it out of there and onto the page for other people to read.

The point of this post: I’m not going to apologize for not blogging regularly anymore. I know I don’t blog regularly. Anyone who’s been around long enough to realize I don’t blog regularly already knows it. New people, if they stick around, will get it soon enough. Since it is reality, gonna stop wasting energy apologizing for it.

Raising the Bar

Or as this post should be called “Raising the Bar until you trip on it and smack your face hard enough to break something.”

I don’t have writer’s block. I don’t actually believe in the concept. I have a different problem with getting words down on the page and I use the term “Raising the Bar” to describe it.

Raising the bar is the term for when you have a goal, but you put it out of reach to the point where you don’t even bother trying because you already know you can’t reach it and thus that 15th rerun of something you’ve seen seems like a safer use of your time.

Originally, I picked up this concept from “The Now Habit” by Dr. Neil Fiore, I think. The book is about combating procrastination, which is definitely an issue here.

Case in point, I need to write. However, my standard bar for productivity means I write 2k a day or more. However, with the level of stuff going on in my life, I haven’t managed to get even close to that in forever (figuratively, been about three months since I worked consistently).

In May, I should have finished Cities in Time.  On the 25th to be exact. For those keeping score at home, it is now the 2nd of July. I am approximately 65k into this book with no absolutely certain wordcount to finish and I haven’t written more than 5k a fortnight. This ranks on me really hard because I can and have written 5k a day at times. Compounds my problem by showing me I am capable of taking care of business but currently not getting it done. Failing my personal expectations only makes it harder for me to get started.

The first step in dealing with any problem is the awareness you have a problem. Problem: I need to finish writing this bloody book. Therefore, I need words on the page. The bar is currently at 2k a day. I have not reached this bar in some time. Therefore, the bar is too high. The bar needs to drop. Okay, so how far can I drop the bar and still feel like I’m getting somewhere?

Going back to the basics: forward motion is forward motion. Momentum can be built up over time, if things are consistent (or at least mostly consistent). Not going to shoot for 2k because I need some points on my side of the board. 500 words a day. 500 is doable but not intimidating.

Deep breath. Going for it.


Amanda’s Agenda “SYWBASK” [Fiction]

Perhaps I expected her to flinch. Maybe. Truthfully, I wasn’t certain what I expected. I had the twenty-one-year-old daughter of two of my victims in my car riding along as if we were headed to our first date. This included the somewhat moody silence of two people in an enclosed space who don’t quite know how to relate to one another.

I eyed her carefully without losing sight of the treacherously wet road. She wasn’t unattractive. A trifle young for my taste, but not out of the realm of possibility. Yet her attractiveness or lack thereof had no true effect. I thought of her as the ten-year-old portrayed in the paper with her hair still done up in those hideous barrettes. How earnestly she stared into the camera as if she could will her parents back to life with her gaze. That was how I remembered her and this new apparition of her as an adult did nothing to change that.

“Why don’t you kill children?”

Amanda’s voice betrayed no fear, only curiosity. A gentle questioning as if she didn’t want to offend me. Every moment made me reevaluate her.

“I don’t kill children because they do not interest me in that way. They never have. I cannot say they never will, but as things stand, I am getting on in my years and I have yet to find a child I desired to dismember.”

I was honest. In most cases, I tend to be. Especially in cases where honesty will cost me no consequences. Locked in a moving box with a girl who had, by her actions, sought me out seemed safe enough.

She fell silent again. In those close quarters, I couldn’t help noticing the faintest scent of vanilla. It certainly did not come from anything of mine. My personal scents tended toward the brusque, overt and strong. Vanilla is often subtle, at least when applied to skin.

Outside, the rain slackened. The buildings on the side of the road became distinct once more, even taking on color beyond the uniform gray of a drenched day.

“If you had caught me, would you have killed me?”

There was a question I anticipated. History could not be rewritten, but in her mind, certain things were hardly set in stone. Her life, as it was, hinged on the fact that I didn’t kill her when the chance presented itself. Of course, she once again overestimated how important she was to my life. At ten, she wasn’t much of a threat. A willowy not quite adolescent who had undoubtedly still worshiped her father as the ultimate hero and her mother as the bringer of light could not have brought me down on my worst day. The night I killed the Freemans had been far from my worst night.

Following them home from the theater had been easy enough. I could still see how her mother threw back her head and laughed. Beauty personified. Amanda had her regal features, though her eyes were her father’s. The very same eyes that pinned me down once or twice as we moved through the dark streets of the late night. He knew I was there. He knew I was a threat, yet he did nothing.

If he had approached me, perhaps I would have simply been satisfied in the hunt and left off the kill. Unfortunately, he did not.

“That I cannot say.” The urge to reassure her came and went. What cold comfort would it be to be assured of one’s own survival when those nearest and dearest were bludgeoned and broken by the hands that would spare?

I am a monster. I have never claimed to be anything else.

“You said you wanted to talk,” I said. “But so far all you’ve done is ask questions. What is it you want?”

“To be like you.”

Her agenda laid bare and it had teeth.

Missing pieces? Part One | Part Two | Part Three