NaNoWriMo 2010

It is that time of year again.

The weather is getting cooler. The leaves are blowing wildly around the neighborhood. Halloween is almost over, and stores have been displaying Christmas items for weeks. It is soon to be November.

The arrival of my favorite month also brings my favorite worldwide writing event... National Novel Writing Month. Also known as NaNoWriMo.

In case you have never heard of it, here is a brief run down.

Sometime around October first writers all over the world converge onto the website created by The Office of Letters and Light. They talk about novels that they have not started yet and find writing buddies. Many of them procrastinate on the website instead of planning their novels and then by the end of the month they are all freaking out because they have nothing planned and no plot whatsoever.

Then... as the clock strikes midnight on Halloween, and the calendar turns to the new month... the website goes eerily quiet. No one can be found because they are all frantically writing as many words as possible to get a head start on their word count goals for the month.

The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. You start on November 1st and the last day is November 30th. Some people write serious novels, some not so serious. But they all work hard to write as much as they can.

This will be my fifth year participating in the festivities. The last four years I have purposely written off the wall, totally ridiculous novels. My goal being to get the words out and get my writing muscles working. This year I will be writing a serious novel, one that I have been tossing around in my head for quite some time.

My goal is to get a very rough first draft done, which I expect will be over 50,000 words, and then edit the novel during December and January. Perhaps I will have something to work with, and perhaps I will end up re-writing the entire thing.

We shall see.

#fridayflash - "The Bank Job"

It has been a very crazy week for me. Sometimes life jut punches you in the face, and everything else gets put on hold. I still wanted to post a #fridayflash today, so I took an old one from an old blog that I no longer update. Some of you may have read this one before, but if not I hope you enjoy.

The Bank Job

Johnny was never a real imposing person. He was always short and had been scrawny ever since he was a young kid. Now, at seventeen years old, he accepted the fact that this will never change. No one ever thought of him as threatening and he appeared invisible to most. Even now, no one noticed that he had been sitting in front of the bank for over ten minutes with his car engine idling.

Johnny never played sports. Mostly because he was never good at any of them. He never enjoyed social events. Beside the select few friends that he did have, he was very much a loner. Not even those close friends knew what he was about to do.

He looked at the clock on the dashboard and then double checked the time on his cell phone. The time on his dashboard was a few minutes faster than the time on his phone, but it did not matter. He focused his attention on the bank and stared at it as if he was squaring off with an old foe. He shifted his attention to the backpack on his passenger seat and then back to the bank.

The bank had been open for less than half an hour and was not busy this early in the morning. Now would be the perfect time, but he had to wait. Wait for the signal.

He checked his phone again. No messages and only a minute had passed since the last time he checked it. He could feel the nerves building inside of him and could not help but tap his hands on the steering wheel.

“Be calm Johnny.”

He took a deep breath. Then another.

“Just be calm. Nice and easy.”

The phone chimed a short tune, signaling a new text message. The sound of the phone made Johnny's heart beat hard and fast against the inside of his chest. He grabbed the phone and flipped it open as fast as he could.

He focused on the phone. His hands were shaking, making the message hard to read, but he could still make it out. Three little letters. “NOW” was all that appeared on the screen.

No hesitation now. He grabbed the backpack from the passenger seat and pushed himself out of the car, leaving the engine running. He gave the door a weak push as he walked toward the bank. The door did not shut all the way, but he did not take notice. All of his attention was focused on the bank.

Johnny did not go into the bank. Instead he walked up to the ATM that was located next to the front door. He stood close to the machine as if he was making a withdrawal, and planted the backpack next to his feet. He was motionless except for his foot pushing the backpack tight against the wall.

He looked at the machine and took a deep breath. His heart was still pounding against his chest. He turned and glanced around quickly. No one was in sight.

Johnny had to force himself not to run back to the car, but he still moved much faster than he was used to moving.

He shifted the car into drive and pulled out of the parking spot. He did not want to bring any attention to himself, but could not help driving faster than normal. His mind was racing. He tried to keep the car steady with one hand as he flipped open his cell phone with the other.

He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road. He tried to steady his hand as he cycled through the phone book and found a very specific phone number. Johnny looked into the rear view mirror and watched the bank as he pressed the send button.

# # #

“we interrupt our current broadcast for this breaking news. There have been reports of multiple explosions in Philadelphia and portions of South Jersey...”

*click*

“...started twenty minutes ago with simultaneous explosions...”

*click*

“...yet to be confirmed, but sources are saying over thirty seven targets, most of which are banks...”

*click*

“...Chopper 3 is above the scene of one of the explosions...”

*click*

“...the Emergency Broadcast System... This is not a test...”

#fridayflash - "Sub Two"

Sub Two


The sub two hour marathon was a mythical feat. People believed that it could be done, but most believed it was humanly impossible. But as people got closer to two hours, more people started paying attention.

It was 2016 when the fastest man in the world completed the London Marathon in two hours one minute and twenty nine seconds. This is when it really got serious.

Both the Boston Athletic Association and the New York Road Runners put up a $5,000,000 prize to the first person to break two hours, if they did it on their course.

Now my personal record for the marathon was only 2:39:29. I was nowhere near two hours, but I heard of someone that could give you anything you wanted for the right price. Me? I wanted to be fast, rich, and famous.

So I looked into it. It didn’t involve doping or cheating or anything else illegal. I knew that race officials would question a runner dropping forty minutes off his PR. I expected they would submit me to all kinds of investigations. But I was not worried. This was all legit.

So here I was sitting in front of a monster of a desk, across from the man who would guarantee me fortune and glory. Why no one else had ever done this before me is puzzling, but the price was pretty steep for most. Not me though. I knew that this would all be worth it.

The man sat in his oversized chair, staring at me. He leaned comfortably on the arms of the chair with his hands folded in front of his face as if he was praying. Praying to whom was another question.

He wore a dark suit with very subtle pinstripes. Plain white shirt. Dark red tie that matched his cufflinks. I don’t know about fashion, but I could tell that this suit cost more than most folks make in a year.

His eyes examined me for an eternity. I could not help but wiggle a bit in my chair. No matter what I could not find a comfortable spot. He dropped his hands to speak to me.

“I am willing to do business with you, but you must understand the terms of my contract.”

It felt hard to speak. “I understand.”

“Many people think that my prices are too much. Be certain that once you achieve your goal I will come to collect.”

He spoke in a very calm and serious tone. “I am willing to pay.” I swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in my throat. “As long as you deliver.” I had to swallow again. The lump would not budge.

The look in his eyes was chilling. I felt chills run through my spine. He slid a single piece of paper across the desk. A pen rested on top of it.

I looked at the paper. There seemed to be more words than could possibly fit on a single piece of paper. I didn’t need to read it. I picked up the pen, which appeared to be just as expensive as everything else in the room, and signed my name.

I slid the paper back and for the first time a slight smile crossed the man’s face.

So the morning of the Boston Marathon comes along and I am feeling great. My training went well, my runs were perfect and I knew that this was my day.

The gun goes off and I rocket off the starting line. I don’t feel like I am putting in any effort at all, but I know I am going fast because I quickly break away from the rest of the field. Two or three guys stick with me, but by mile ten there was only one left and he fell back around mile fifteen.

When I turned the final corner and saw that finish line my adrenaline pulsed through my body. I was only a few hundred feet from the finish. I broke tape and the clock read 1:59:23. Everyone was yelling and cheering, and cameras were clicking all around me.

I remember everyone crowding around me. Someone gave me a sports drink. Someone else gave me a towel. I felt a million hands patting me on the back. I was so excited and on such a high that everything blurred together. The first real face that I made out was his.

He walked with confidence. People made a path in front of him without even realizing they were doing it. He wore the same dark suit. Same shirt. Same tie and matching cufflinks. The only difference was the huge smile he wore on his face.

When he was within reach he stuck out his hand. I took it in a firm shake. “Congratulations” he whispered in my ear as he patted my back with his free hand. He turned around and was gone.

I knew that he would expect me to make good on my debt, but to come and collect so soon? I didn’t even have time to enjoy it. Emotion swept out of my body. All at once I was empty. 

As expected there were all kinds of allegations when an unknown like me broke two hours. Everyone wanted drug testing and investigations. The sponsors refused to pay until everything was proven legit.

Me? I didn’t care about anything. I lay in my bed all day. Everything felt meaningless. Empty. Useless. I was a shell.

That is how I ended up here, talking to you. I figured death would restore my soul. I would be whole again. I was wrong.

I can’t get into paradise because I have nothing to enter with and I can’t take damnation because the man down there already has what he wants.

So here I am. Stuck in this hell, or is it hell? Something worse? 

But the messed up thing about all this? I never even got my prize money.

Am I A Writer?

For as long as I remember, I loved making up stories. The earliest attempt at writing that I remember was fan fiction long before anyone knew what fan fiction was. In elementary school my friends and I would write stories using the characters and settings from our favorite Saturday morning cartoons.

It was as early as high school when I decided I wanted to "be a writer". The problem was that I had some delusional ideas of what being a writer meant. I split my time between trying to set up my perfect writing area and daydreaming about what life would be like when I was finishing my fifth bestseller, doing national book tours, and attending the Hollywood premiere of my last bestseller. In between all that I did nothing but collect numerous unfinished works in progress.

It wasn't until my early twenties that I actually completed enough material to submit. It was short stuff that I submitted to magazines and comic publishers. Rejections came as expected, but I slowly waned. Soon I was married and starting a family and becoming a writer seemed like a dream.

To examine all that, and why or why not I was failing, would take hundreds of thousands of words, but one of the problems was this. I thought I had to become a writer, when in fact I was already a writer.

Just because you are not published does not mean that you are not a writer. A painter paints, a musician makes music, and a writer writes.

And that is the important part. I write. If I want to become published, and I do, I have to increase my productivity and write more, and re-write more and more, but I don't have to worry about becoming a writer.

Because I already am.