Tide

I'm working on a short story in an entry that obviously isn't posted yet. I'm still not sure whether it will end up on this site or I'll get arrogant and try to get it published in a contest or something. We'll see. But I am pleased with the way that it's developing.

The last few nights have been ones of debauchery. I've encountered the police on no less than three separate occasions, none of which were due to errors in my judgement but rather stupid people around me, misunderstandings and simple coincidence. The conclusion?

The world is out to get me.

No, not really. I can't even feign a Glenn-Beck-ian persecution complex for an instant. Shit that happens is the fault of the shitter. The illuminati aren't out to get you, and there certainly aren't any crazy lizard people waiting in the wings, trying to bring about humanity's downfall.

Now if you excuse me, I have to go shed my skin.

Vultures

I notice things about people, little imperfections. It does not make my job as a customer service representative easy. I am constantly having to tell myself, "Don't stare, don't stare, they probably aren't aware of it, don't stare."

Weird day, really.

Occam

So last night, while writing in my actual, physical journal, I went back and read through some of the poetry in past entries. And damn, I don't remember writing half of it. It's not terrible; some, if I'm allowed to toot my own horn, is pretty good. But I really don't recall the poems, their inspiration, any of it. My best guess is that since I write most of my journal entries at the end of the day, right before I crash, I was just too sleepy when I wrote those pieces.

I'm still trying to get back into writing short fiction, but I'm having trouble. I have a lot of difficulty concentrating when I'm at home, and going back through my old stuff leads to a lot of regrets. I find that it doesn't seem as good now as it did when I was presenting it to a class or having it workshopped. In fact, some of it I'm downright embarrassed about. I have been, and sometimes still am, guilty of that whole "Oh goodness, look how shocking I'm being! Look how much violence and strangeness I'm throwing into this story! But don't you dare call it Science Fiction or Fantasy! I've clearly grounded this in the real world." thing. I want to avoid that. I have no problem with genre fiction. I read a lot of it. Sometimes I set out to write it. But not owning up to the fact that what you're writing is basically genre is a big problem that I've noticed in my peers. No one wants to be that "nerdy, sci-fi guy."

So what have I been doing? I've been starting with some story ideas. The writing group I was involved in is, for all purposes, dead. I'd love to get into another one, as long as it involved actual workshopping and wasn't some kind of egotistical circlejerk. I'm not saying the last one was; for the most part, it was a reasonable group as far as such things go. But I want real concrete help, and I've got to figure out where to go for that.

As for today, I'm working. Then going home, perhaps writing a little and heading to bed early. I have to be up around 6:30 for a dental appointment. Woo.

Tired Eyes

So yeah. August wasn't so well thought out. We'll try this again.

And the third part of the gym rose up,
those on the treadmills, while
I watched, stretching,
on the stairs. She tipped him over and
he disappeared, shoelace into the elliptical,
and a drawn out sigh like buildings collapsing.

It was just us left now, and maybe our eyes
met, but we only heard our own music, earbuds,
squeal of cables, clack of dropping weights. I went
on later, they were all left on the gym floor,
and she aimed a wink at me as she left.