Roadside Cross

The rare motorists that stop for the pale hitchhiker with the red, sticky hair only see a crooked roadside cross in their mirrors. The cracked white paint and faded name haven’t felt new flowers in years.
  Those brave enough to exit their vehicles and investigate where the sad looking young lady disappeared to are met with an icy breeze colder and deeper than the chill of the desert night.

Doors are locked, tires spit dirt, heater on high, wide eyes frantically search the rearview mirror.
  They will never travel that stretch of road again.

Chaos and Compromise

Any writer will tell you that it is important to write every day. I've kept journals and blogs before, only to taper off in the maintenance. I've often felt that if I don't have anything important to say, why expend the energy? It's a silly excuse, really. For one reason, few people are going to pay attention enough to care what I write here. And even if I had an army of followers, the act of putting words down is more for my benefit than it is for any readers. A good friend of mine reminded me that I need to be doing this everyday, like exercise. Of course, she told me this months ago, and here I am finally acting on her advice. Such are the formidable powers of my procrastination.

In brief, life is chaos; beautiful, nerve-wracking, sleepless chaos. A baby on the way in 3 months, moving in 3 weeks, intermittent work as a set dresser, scattered writing. Working with a fantastic artist on an original mini-series that we hope to find a publisher for, concocting ways to further wedge my foot into the comic book industry door, reacquainting myself with the sheer pleasure of prose. And yet, with all this whirlwind of activity, I feel paralyzed. It's like those dreams you have where you are running as fast as you can but not getting anywhere. Of course, in those dreams you are being chased by something frightening. In my reality I feel like I am chasing something and also being chased. There are things that frighten me, but also the excitement of conquering that fear, transubstantiating it into something positive.

Well, this entry has gone in a different direction than I had ever intended. I always felt that there should be a separation between personal and creative journaling. Somehow, writing introspective statements about what is going on in one's life seems like cheating. I should be making grand creative strokes that evoke images beautiful and terrifying.

Ah, fuck it. Sometimes a little compromise isn't such a bad thing. Right? Right????

By the way, this entry IS NOT intended to coincide with some bullshit New Year's resolution...

Oops...

The blog experiment has been hit and miss all of a sudden. These past few days off, I actually wrote less than I believe I would have if I had been working. Perhaps under the mistaken belief that I had plenty of time. Yet here I am, the night before going back to work, and no real writing to show for it. I'm sure some part of me will rationalize it away by saying my brain was simply over-worked by the (unnecessary) strain I put myself under to finish the “Beta-Eden” script for Creepy #7.

I did, however, do some much needed organizing of my new writing space in the second bedroom. Not as many distractions in here as writing in the living room. Though I'm sure I'll find a few to make up the difference. I also got a lot of reading done, mostly Hellblazer. I'm reacquainting myself with John Constantine since I have some Hellblazer story pitches in mind, ones I'm actually quite excited about.

Who the hell I'll pitch them to, no idea. Maybe if I sell this latest script to Dark Horse, I can get enough street cred to get someone to take a look.

In the meantime, enjoy this meager OSP offering:

Moonlight reflected in the creature's scales as its serpentine tail broke the water's surface, arcing like a rainbow of a million silver sparks. (Spectrum 9; if it ain't broke... John Jude Palencar, pg 64)

Graphic disappointment

Some say the blood of countless religious wars turned the once verdant landscape of the land into a graveyard of sand with sun-bleached bones for epitaphs.   --(Just outta nowhere.)

I've been reading a lot of comics, mostly for research, but also desperate for some entertainment. On the research level, I'm pretty happy that I can take that and turn it into something. On the entertainment level, I'm sorely disappointed. I'm not gonna name names, but, damn!

I read stuff that was the product of lazy writing; 4-5 issue story arcs that read like they could have been written in a week or less. Padded stories, perhaps, to fill out a TPB. If you're under pressure form the publisher to produce X amount of issues to collect into a TPB, please make damn sure it's well-written. Don't pad it with boring filler and gratuitous full page spreads. Write a goddamn good story, regardless.

'Nuff said on that subject. I've got at least a four day weekend ahead of me. Nose, meet grindstone.

Dead folk sure can play the blues.

The skeleton fingers of the old bluesman plucked at the strings of the old steel guitar. The memory of the music hummed in the marrow of his bones. His body clicked and clacked like a marionette in rhythm with the tune. It was a catchy little dirge, of course. He needed no voice to express his pain. The pits of his skull where his eyes once were burned with the fires of Hell. Look deep enough into them, you'll see him down there, wailing and gnashing. 

Yeah, he sold his soul. But it was goddamn worth it. Damnation may be eternal...but so are the blues, man.

--(From Spectrum 9, once again. Eric Bowman image.)

Finished my re-write for the “Beta-Eden” script for Creepy and sent it off. Now just have to wait and see if they like it. Fortunately, despite my wife's lack of comic book storytelling knowledge, her writing skills still make her an excellent editor. She helped me trim down my exposition considerably. All in all, the story ended up better than I thought it would.

Now to get the second bedroom in order to turn into my new writing office. No more writing in the living room and scattering comics and papers all about. That'll make the missus happy.

The old goat god sprinkled rose petals over the white flesh of the young girl. Each petal was a kiss that he dare not give her. The virgin priestess was not to be sullied. And his willpower was not to be tested. --(Spectrum 9, image by Daniel Horne.)

I spent a few hours tweaking and re-tweaking an eight page script for Creepy. I'm still not happy with the amount of exposition at the end, but there ain't no meat left on this horse to flog. I'm just gonna try and rationalize it as an homage to old-fashioned comic book villains telling the hero just why they are so evil :)

No more sci-fi for awhile, methinks. I can't wait to start the next project! One problem: too many choices! The short screenplay for a friend? Another short horror comic script? Put together more pitches? Argh.

Brick and mortal...

OSP

The old, brick buildings stood helplessly as one of their brothers burned. Grieving window shades were pulled down, and curtains closed their eyes. No sirens wailed to announce imminent rescue. There would be no phoenix from its ashes. Vampires of cold steel and soulless glass will rise in its place and slowly suck the rest of them dry, brick by brick.

There goes the neighborhood.

--(from an image in Spectrum 9, by Matt Dicke)

There wasn't an OSP entry yesterday because beer seemed more important at the time. I work a full time(ish) job that requires I get up a 4:30am, and I'm usually home by 7:30pm. That kind of schedule really doesn't lend itself to writing before or after work. The upside is that I don't always work full weeks, so I can write on days I don't work. Yesterday, I got home hot and sticky and sat down with a beer. And then the wife kindly brought me another beer. Yeah, no writing gonna get done after that. But I have today and tomorrow off, so no excuses.

Time to start the “Beta-Eden” rewrites...