Newest writing project
So this is bizarre, and unfinished. Here it is.
A Suitable Title
You started reading this just now. Your eyes read the words, your brain makes sense of them, and automatically, you start having expectations for what I'm about to write. Maybe you're sitting around your room, with nothing to do on a Friday night, again, and decided to read this. Maybe you're at some posh coffee shop getting a triple grande caramel/carmel soy latte, and just got done wondering how to properly spell caramel/carmel, and decided to read this. Maybe you're being forced to read this by society/government/your peer group/family, etc. Or maybe you're about to drop a big grumpy in the toilet, and you decided you'd give this is a spin in order to break up the monotony of crapping. Regardless, like I said, you're forming an expectation.
You just read that cute opening paragraph, and maybe you thought "hey, this writer is kind of funny. I DO wonder how to spell caramel/carmel!" Or maybe you thought that was a lame ploy to get you interested. It doesn't matter -now you're expecting the story to go somewhere, and it clearly is not. Maybe you're thinking about putting this down since it hasn't even introduced a main character yet, you're not forming an emotional bond to anyone yet, and there clearly is no good-looking, mysterious, love interest, so this is just not worth your time. Your grip on whatever medium you're reading this on is getting looser and looser, and you slowly stop caring about what I could possibly have to say about my mediocre and boring life. You're now convinced that the only thing that could save this non-story is if someone got knifed right at this very instant. Fine, let's have it your way.
George was 35 years old. He was a computer engineer for some company that ended with a hyphenTech (-Tech). He had a few friends at the office, and none outside. He dated every couple months just so that his friends wouldn't call him gay. George wouldn't have minded having a family, but not enough to sleep with a woman who wanted to have a family. So, he went home to a lonely house and made himself a bowl of noodles with just enough olive oil to make himself feel fat enough to exercise. He kept his life in a careful balance of guilt and recompense, and if the balance was ever thrown off, he would surely meet his demise. Or so he thought...
Then one night George was walking down an alley, and was knifed.
The End.
Now are you happy? I knifed someone. Or maybe you didn't want George knifed. Maybe you wanted to hear more about George and his olive oil, in which case, I've ruined everything for you.
Maybe the problem with George is that I killed him off too quickly. I didn't let you know him well enough, and didn't give you enough background in order to make his death tragic. The climax came too quickly, and had absolutely no denouement - which is unacceptable.
George hated holidays, especially Christmas. Christmas reminded George of how he had ignored his parents long enough to make them feel fine about ignoring him. But more so than hating being reminded of his wrong-doings, he hated Christmas music. Christmas music was straight from the Devil's lair as far as George was concerned, and it should return home as quickly as possible. He hated the fact that every where he went Christmas music followed him. It was as if Christmas music was stalking him in a dark alley, waiting to knife him in the back, but instead, Christmas music simply was played at his work, every store he went in, restaurants, restrooms, his friend's and stranger's ring-tones, and was waiting to make him incredibly annoyed. And it succeeded.
He hated how all the songs morphed into pretty much the exact same song, with lyrics that could be summed up with the phrase "I love Christmas and have over-the-top expectations for it!" George noticed that people really, really acted like they loved Christmas. They practically wanted to procreate with it. He'd hear the pop-divas sing a redone rendition of a cover song done in the 1960's by Frank Sinatra, who originally covered the original cover, and belt their little anorexic lungs out about how excited they were about bells ringing and getting to see their family in a wonderland of snow - and decided that these people must be delusional. He also didn't know what possessed people to keep recycling the exact same Christmas songs over. Was there some kind of ban on writing new Christmas songs, more so, ones that could be potentially non-monotonous? Secondly, George hated Christmas because it made everyone pretend to be truly happy, though clearly, they couldn't be. Christmas is during the winter, and therefore, it's a cold, dark, icy, dangerous time of year that does not deserve a celebration. Whoever decided to celebrate the Savior's birth at this time of the year chose poorly, and George was paying the consequences for it.
Hmm...how was that? Too long of a rant about Christmas? I could have kept going, really, I could have. Or maybe you feel like George seems cantankerous now instead of dull as he seemed previously with all the olive oil and stuff. Now you probably can't peg him, and that's bothering you. No doubt, you're probably wondering where the plot is going now. Let's find out.
When George wasn't busy hating Christmas, he loved to watch small, furry animals putz around inside their little lives. He was especially fond of squirrels and chipmunks. When he had a free day, which generally fell on the weekend, he would go out to the park and watch the animals buzz around and collect acorns, and other kinds of miscellaneous and seemingly unimportant nuts. But to the small creatures, those nuts meant the world. In this regard, he felt like he had a lot in common with these animals.
One day, he decided to follow a squirrel around and see exactly what all it went through in it's business around the park. Generally, the squirrel just wandered hither and thither, stopping, staring, picking up it's little paws and staring at the world around him (George assumed it was a man-squirrel). At one point, the squirrel turned around directly and stared at George, but of course, this squirrel doesn't have complex enough thought to realize that he was in fact being followed by George, and continued to go about his business and avoided confrontation. George continued to follow the squirrel until he went up into a tree. Then George decided to leave the squirrel alone, because frankly, George was afraid of heights.
You still there? What is up with this guy? Speaking of multi-faceted characters - he went from boring, to cantankerous, to just plain insane! No wonder this guy is single. Oh right, so I guess it's my fault this guy is so bizarre. You can go ahead and blame it all on me I suppose. I'm the one writing this and making him the lover of all woodland creatures. I could have given him a career as a male-model, or a knight, or even a gang-banger, and that would have made the story way more interesting. But...I didn't. He's a squirrel-follower. His life is lame, and he has no choice one way or another.
So George went about his life, going to work at SomethinghyphenTech, going home to noodles and olive oil, staying away from Christmas music at all costs, and watching furry animals on the weekends. Not necessarily an average life, but it was a life nonetheless.
Or at least it was until he made the mistake of walking into a coffee shop. It was on one of his free days, which happened to fall on a weekend, and he decided he'd get a caramel/carmel macchiato from a coffee shop on the way to the park to...do...stuff. He chose a coffee shop that normally wasn't very busy, because more than he hated Christmas music, he hated busy stores. The worst thing that could ever happen in George's life was a busy store blasting Christmas music. So he chose this particular coffee shop, on this particular day, at LEAST a month before Christmas, so he was running a risk of hearing "Silver Bells" for the one-millionth time of his life, but it was worth a caramel/carmel macchiato.
But it just so happened that chaos was going to enter George's life. Not only was this coffee shop blasting "Walking in a Winter Wonderland," but it was also packed. Not just packed full of attractive yuppies taking advantage of free wireless, but full of elderly people. Elderly people having a knitting circle. A knitting circle? Weren't there Tuesday night bingo game after-parties for this type of thing? Why this coffee shop, on this particular day?
In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married
we'll say: No man,
But you can do the job when you're in town.
Knitting?? How many scarfs do you need to keep you warm during the winter that would possess you to have a knitting circle? Never before in his life had he seen at least 15 people, all well-over the age of 60, mumbling to each other as they ferociously tried to out-scarf the person next to them. George wanted to run away screaming, without even obtaining a caramel/carmel macchiwhatever, but knew he couldn't. He committed to his purchase the minute he walked into the store, and had to get out of their alive.
His mind became filled between the inanity of Christmas music, and sounds of perl 3, knit 2, perl 5, knit 3, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Walking in a winter wonderland!
Walking in a winter wonderland!
"Yeah, uh, could I get a carmel macchiato?" George asked the grumpy barista behind the counter.
"Sure, and fucking pronounce it caramel." The grumpy barista responded.
George was pretty sure the grumpista had just dropped an f-bomb to him, but at this point didn't care. He wanted to get his beverage and get out of this place.
Now it was Mariah Carey singing "Oh Holy Night," and perl 2 rows, then knit 2 rows back. Most people wouldn't have minded this situation all that much, but George couldn't stand it. His mind was spinning with hatred of crowded places, hatred of knitting, sweaters, scarfs, wool in general, elderly people, and most of all Christmas music! Christmas music! George grabbed his mispronounced beverage and high-tailed his way out of the store, running into at least three senior citizens with knitting needles in their hands on his way out. As he pushed open the door, it was like he had finally surfaced and could breathe again. It was like someone had been threatening his life in a dark alley, and he was able to fight them off. It was like December 26th had finally come, and he wouldn't have to put up with Christmas music for at least eleven months. He vowed never to risk going into that coffee shop again - it was too dangerous.
Hmm...writers block. Writers block happens to every writer at some point. It seems that it always crops up right when you're getting into the important part of the story - and then all of a sudden, you're shooting blanks. Bang - no one's dead.
So, I'm having a writer's block, apparently you're still reading this, so let's chit-chat for a bit. Or at least I'll talk to you, how about that? It seems that we've now reached the climax of this story. But what kind of climax was that? George walks into a coffee shop where a knitting circle is undergoing and Christmas music is playing, and he wigs out? Climaxes generally entail a battle, a robbery, a murder, a relationship's demise, a knifing in an alley way.
Maybe George is just that lame that he can't even have a good climax to his story. What a loser.
Like I said, it's not done.
A Suitable Title
You started reading this just now. Your eyes read the words, your brain makes sense of them, and automatically, you start having expectations for what I'm about to write. Maybe you're sitting around your room, with nothing to do on a Friday night, again, and decided to read this. Maybe you're at some posh coffee shop getting a triple grande caramel/carmel soy latte, and just got done wondering how to properly spell caramel/carmel, and decided to read this. Maybe you're being forced to read this by society/government/your peer group/family, etc. Or maybe you're about to drop a big grumpy in the toilet, and you decided you'd give this is a spin in order to break up the monotony of crapping. Regardless, like I said, you're forming an expectation.
You just read that cute opening paragraph, and maybe you thought "hey, this writer is kind of funny. I DO wonder how to spell caramel/carmel!" Or maybe you thought that was a lame ploy to get you interested. It doesn't matter -now you're expecting the story to go somewhere, and it clearly is not. Maybe you're thinking about putting this down since it hasn't even introduced a main character yet, you're not forming an emotional bond to anyone yet, and there clearly is no good-looking, mysterious, love interest, so this is just not worth your time. Your grip on whatever medium you're reading this on is getting looser and looser, and you slowly stop caring about what I could possibly have to say about my mediocre and boring life. You're now convinced that the only thing that could save this non-story is if someone got knifed right at this very instant. Fine, let's have it your way.
George was 35 years old. He was a computer engineer for some company that ended with a hyphenTech (-Tech). He had a few friends at the office, and none outside. He dated every couple months just so that his friends wouldn't call him gay. George wouldn't have minded having a family, but not enough to sleep with a woman who wanted to have a family. So, he went home to a lonely house and made himself a bowl of noodles with just enough olive oil to make himself feel fat enough to exercise. He kept his life in a careful balance of guilt and recompense, and if the balance was ever thrown off, he would surely meet his demise. Or so he thought...
Then one night George was walking down an alley, and was knifed.
The End.
Now are you happy? I knifed someone. Or maybe you didn't want George knifed. Maybe you wanted to hear more about George and his olive oil, in which case, I've ruined everything for you.
Maybe the problem with George is that I killed him off too quickly. I didn't let you know him well enough, and didn't give you enough background in order to make his death tragic. The climax came too quickly, and had absolutely no denouement - which is unacceptable.
George hated holidays, especially Christmas. Christmas reminded George of how he had ignored his parents long enough to make them feel fine about ignoring him. But more so than hating being reminded of his wrong-doings, he hated Christmas music. Christmas music was straight from the Devil's lair as far as George was concerned, and it should return home as quickly as possible. He hated the fact that every where he went Christmas music followed him. It was as if Christmas music was stalking him in a dark alley, waiting to knife him in the back, but instead, Christmas music simply was played at his work, every store he went in, restaurants, restrooms, his friend's and stranger's ring-tones, and was waiting to make him incredibly annoyed. And it succeeded.
He hated how all the songs morphed into pretty much the exact same song, with lyrics that could be summed up with the phrase "I love Christmas and have over-the-top expectations for it!" George noticed that people really, really acted like they loved Christmas. They practically wanted to procreate with it. He'd hear the pop-divas sing a redone rendition of a cover song done in the 1960's by Frank Sinatra, who originally covered the original cover, and belt their little anorexic lungs out about how excited they were about bells ringing and getting to see their family in a wonderland of snow - and decided that these people must be delusional. He also didn't know what possessed people to keep recycling the exact same Christmas songs over. Was there some kind of ban on writing new Christmas songs, more so, ones that could be potentially non-monotonous? Secondly, George hated Christmas because it made everyone pretend to be truly happy, though clearly, they couldn't be. Christmas is during the winter, and therefore, it's a cold, dark, icy, dangerous time of year that does not deserve a celebration. Whoever decided to celebrate the Savior's birth at this time of the year chose poorly, and George was paying the consequences for it.
Hmm...how was that? Too long of a rant about Christmas? I could have kept going, really, I could have. Or maybe you feel like George seems cantankerous now instead of dull as he seemed previously with all the olive oil and stuff. Now you probably can't peg him, and that's bothering you. No doubt, you're probably wondering where the plot is going now. Let's find out.
When George wasn't busy hating Christmas, he loved to watch small, furry animals putz around inside their little lives. He was especially fond of squirrels and chipmunks. When he had a free day, which generally fell on the weekend, he would go out to the park and watch the animals buzz around and collect acorns, and other kinds of miscellaneous and seemingly unimportant nuts. But to the small creatures, those nuts meant the world. In this regard, he felt like he had a lot in common with these animals.
One day, he decided to follow a squirrel around and see exactly what all it went through in it's business around the park. Generally, the squirrel just wandered hither and thither, stopping, staring, picking up it's little paws and staring at the world around him (George assumed it was a man-squirrel). At one point, the squirrel turned around directly and stared at George, but of course, this squirrel doesn't have complex enough thought to realize that he was in fact being followed by George, and continued to go about his business and avoided confrontation. George continued to follow the squirrel until he went up into a tree. Then George decided to leave the squirrel alone, because frankly, George was afraid of heights.
You still there? What is up with this guy? Speaking of multi-faceted characters - he went from boring, to cantankerous, to just plain insane! No wonder this guy is single. Oh right, so I guess it's my fault this guy is so bizarre. You can go ahead and blame it all on me I suppose. I'm the one writing this and making him the lover of all woodland creatures. I could have given him a career as a male-model, or a knight, or even a gang-banger, and that would have made the story way more interesting. But...I didn't. He's a squirrel-follower. His life is lame, and he has no choice one way or another.
So George went about his life, going to work at SomethinghyphenTech, going home to noodles and olive oil, staying away from Christmas music at all costs, and watching furry animals on the weekends. Not necessarily an average life, but it was a life nonetheless.
Or at least it was until he made the mistake of walking into a coffee shop. It was on one of his free days, which happened to fall on a weekend, and he decided he'd get a caramel/carmel macchiato from a coffee shop on the way to the park to...do...stuff. He chose a coffee shop that normally wasn't very busy, because more than he hated Christmas music, he hated busy stores. The worst thing that could ever happen in George's life was a busy store blasting Christmas music. So he chose this particular coffee shop, on this particular day, at LEAST a month before Christmas, so he was running a risk of hearing "Silver Bells" for the one-millionth time of his life, but it was worth a caramel/carmel macchiato.
But it just so happened that chaos was going to enter George's life. Not only was this coffee shop blasting "Walking in a Winter Wonderland," but it was also packed. Not just packed full of attractive yuppies taking advantage of free wireless, but full of elderly people. Elderly people having a knitting circle. A knitting circle? Weren't there Tuesday night bingo game after-parties for this type of thing? Why this coffee shop, on this particular day?
In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married
we'll say: No man,
But you can do the job when you're in town.
Knitting?? How many scarfs do you need to keep you warm during the winter that would possess you to have a knitting circle? Never before in his life had he seen at least 15 people, all well-over the age of 60, mumbling to each other as they ferociously tried to out-scarf the person next to them. George wanted to run away screaming, without even obtaining a caramel/carmel macchiwhatever, but knew he couldn't. He committed to his purchase the minute he walked into the store, and had to get out of their alive.
His mind became filled between the inanity of Christmas music, and sounds of perl 3, knit 2, perl 5, knit 3, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Walking in a winter wonderland!
Walking in a winter wonderland!
"Yeah, uh, could I get a carmel macchiato?" George asked the grumpy barista behind the counter.
"Sure, and fucking pronounce it caramel." The grumpy barista responded.
George was pretty sure the grumpista had just dropped an f-bomb to him, but at this point didn't care. He wanted to get his beverage and get out of this place.
Now it was Mariah Carey singing "Oh Holy Night," and perl 2 rows, then knit 2 rows back. Most people wouldn't have minded this situation all that much, but George couldn't stand it. His mind was spinning with hatred of crowded places, hatred of knitting, sweaters, scarfs, wool in general, elderly people, and most of all Christmas music! Christmas music! George grabbed his mispronounced beverage and high-tailed his way out of the store, running into at least three senior citizens with knitting needles in their hands on his way out. As he pushed open the door, it was like he had finally surfaced and could breathe again. It was like someone had been threatening his life in a dark alley, and he was able to fight them off. It was like December 26th had finally come, and he wouldn't have to put up with Christmas music for at least eleven months. He vowed never to risk going into that coffee shop again - it was too dangerous.
Hmm...writers block. Writers block happens to every writer at some point. It seems that it always crops up right when you're getting into the important part of the story - and then all of a sudden, you're shooting blanks. Bang - no one's dead.
So, I'm having a writer's block, apparently you're still reading this, so let's chit-chat for a bit. Or at least I'll talk to you, how about that? It seems that we've now reached the climax of this story. But what kind of climax was that? George walks into a coffee shop where a knitting circle is undergoing and Christmas music is playing, and he wigs out? Climaxes generally entail a battle, a robbery, a murder, a relationship's demise, a knifing in an alley way.
Maybe George is just that lame that he can't even have a good climax to his story. What a loser.
Like I said, it's not done.