I can't seem to figure out what I'm going to write about.

Here's the problem.  I like a lot of things, but I have absolutely no idea what to say about them, because when I think about them, my mind draws a blank--and I'm not sure how to get past that.  I'm not sure how I'm supposed to figure out what I'm good at writing about; I'm not sure how to figure out what to write about; I'm just not sure overall, and it kind of sucks.  I'm not sure.  About anything.

I kind of need help.  I mean, I kind of want help.  I just can't figure out what I'm good at doing, what I want to do, how I want to do it, if I can do it--let me rephrase that.  I have a list of things that I want to be able to do, but I'm not sure if I'm able to do those things, because they're difficult and I don't want them to be difficult.  I want them to be fun, meaning, I want to have fun working this blog and writing about things that I like and which also interest other people who want to know about the things that I like.

But, at the same time, I also don't want to say something that's been said over and over again on the internet--I don't want to write reviews of stuff, because there are people out there that can do it much better than I can, and there really only need to be a couple of reviews of a product before they all start sounding redundant.

Add to that the fact that I don't want to do research because it's boring, and you have a recipe for someone who doesn't know what in the hell they want to do with their writing, and possibly also their life.  Which is me.  I'm that person.

I mean, I like Hatsune miku; is there anything I can do that will have to do with her, and will also be interesting, and helpful to other people?  Are there things that I can write that will have an impact on the general population?  Don't mind that last statement, it didn't really mean anything.  Or at least, I'm not sure what it meant.

How about vocaloid fanfiction?  That would be something that would be fun to do--it would be very fun.  Maybe.  I'll think about it.

I've been thinking that I want to write something based on anime.  Maybe analyzing it, maybe doing other things based on it--I'm not really sure, again--I don't know.  Maybe I can start a serial where I imagine myself in a situation and write based upon that situation.  Metacommentary or something along those lines.

God I don't know.  How many times have I said that already?  I mean, it's how I really feel about this.  I'm totally not sure where I'm going--I want to be a writer of some sort when I get older (I am older, I guess, and that time is about come) and I want to write things that people will enjoy reading.  Is there anything wrong with that?

But the problem is, I can't figure out what to write!  I guess I've already said that.  Now I'm just repeating myself; and that's how I've felt lately.  I'm just repeating all of the things that I've already done, and can't produce anything new, no new ideas.  Not that any of the other things that I
I've done were any good either.

So I'm going to wrap up this ramble by saying that eventually, you will see something come out of me that you can enjoy.  I just don't know what it is yet.

So I've been looking through my old blog posts.

And, I've found, it's no wonder that I can't read them.  They're practically unreadable--the tone, the style, the short sentences that make it sound like I'm on crack.  Maybe I was on crack at the time; who knows?  (I'm just kidding.  Seriously.  I don't do crack.)  The point remains that for some reason all of the posts on this blog, barring one or two, are in a form that is mind-bogglingly hard to read--mostly because of a couple of things.

Thing number one: Short sentences.  I liked to use very short sentences in my writing not too long ago, for reasons that I don't understand myself at this moment--not that it really matters much--although I have spent a little bit of time thinking about it.  Maybe I thought that short sentences would have a bigger impact on the reader; maybe I thought that keeping them simple would make it easier to read.  I'm pretty sure that I was wrong in this regard.  Because, god damn, my old blog posts are hard to read.  How did I even write like that?  Have you ever felt that way about something that you have done?  It's a really unpleasant feeling.

Number two: my ideas are all over the place.  I jump from one subject to the next in the span of several short words, and the effect is like reading the transcript of a conversation of a kid with severe ADHD.  I don't know how I got there; I don't know how it happened; I'm pretty sure that whatever ADHD I have is mild.  Or maybe it isn't.  Who knows; I've never been diagnosed--I've never asked anyone to check me out.

I mean, wow, I really hate how my old blog post writing feels.  It feels terrible.  I have no idea why I used to write like that.  (Although, reading back on what I've written so far, it seems like my writing style echoes what it was just a couple of months ago, albeit a little bit more mature.)  Maybe I can get it to be something--like a calling card, or whatever you call someone's signature style.  Maybe if I work hard enough at improving my writing style my blog will be fun to read because of this--precisely because of this.  Or, maybe, I can make my stuff into videos where I read aloud what I've written in a hyperactive voice while pictures and film and stuff moves across the screen.  What do you think?  Though, I'm pretty sure that there isn't really a "you" out there so much as there is a vast wasteland of cyberspace and null feeling where no one cares about me and no one is willing to give me the time of the day--because let's face it, and amateur blogger really isn't something to look at.

Maybe I can get better.  Maybe I can work on my writing style and my subject matter so that when I do write it will be both entertaining and informative.  Maybe I should keep at it; who knows?  I really don't have much support in the way of people who will look at the stuff that I write, though, and that's what's getting me down.  I really want people to read my stuff; but, then again, so does everyone else--who's to decide whose stuff gets read and who gets relegated to the corner of nowhere?

I'm writing this as a kind of "I'm sorry" for the things that I've written so far--I'm sorry that they've been so bad, I'm sorry that I thought they were good, I'm sorry that you had to read them.  Maybe this will make me sound like a self-depreciating idiot--I assure you, I'm not, I'm just facing reality and how things really are.  Maybe I should go back and change the things I

I've written?

Nah, I'll leave them, as a testament to who I've been and who I might become.  So, loyal fanbase of exactly zero, get ready for another try at this game from me, the best blogger who was ever not very good.

Someone touched my thing

My thing.  Someone touched it.  Not that thing, this thing.  The thing you're reading.  Someone touched it.

Now, I know you all can say all sorts of things about the nature of touching.  But there is only one thing that I do know.  Pancakes are awesome.  Don't touch my pancakes. 

Seriously.  Don't touch them.  Even though I hate them, don't you dare touch them, for anything, anyhow.  Don't you dare.  I'm looking at you.  Yeah you.  You with the hair.  I don't like you.  What are you doing to this country?  I'm being serious right now.  What are you doing?  What are you reading?  Why do you exist?

Let's consider that.  Why do you exist?  I can think of two reasons why you exist. 

One: to screw with my head.  I can't believe that other people are really there.  I just can't.  I can't see inside of their heads, so how do I know they're real?  How do I know that I'm not the only conscious one in the whole world?  How do I know that people in other countries even exist?  Well, I know people in China exist, because they make the things that I use everyday, like my toilet plunger, and my pill box, and my vacuum.  So there's that.  Head has been officially unscrewed.  By Chinese people.  

Two: just because.  Because whatever crazy intelligence or non-intelligence created the world just happened to have a sense of humor and put all these annoying people in here with me, so annoying that I can't even get a girlfriend, why me, why can't I get a girlfriend, people are stupid.  People really are very stupid.  How come?

This guy knows.  Why don't you ask him?  

Speaking of asking him, have you ever wanted to ask god a question?  I have.  It's this.  Why did you make poop brown?  Seriously.  Why is poop brown, instead of red, or orange, or blue?  Why did you put that special blend of chemicals together to make it brown and smell bad, instead of blueberry smell bad, or raspberry smell bad?  What is up with that?  

Moving on, I have a proposition for you.  Why don't you go outside, stand on your head, and count to ten?  Why don't you?  Go do it. Now.  Your pet duck Frodo commands you to get outside and stand on your head.  

Why can't I get a girlfriend?  Why?  What is wrong with me?  No, it's nothing wrong with me.  I'm the most sexy person alive.  It has to be everybody else.  Everybody else has it in for me.  Holy shit.  That's so true.  They have it in for me.  Excuse me while I go strip off my pants and run into the street.  I hope you had a fun time hanging out with this guy right here.  Goodbye.  Forever.  No, really.  It's goodbye now.  

What's the use?

There's no use anymore.  It's no fun anymore.  Writing has gone to my head and now I can't write anymore.  No one looks at my stuff.  I'm just a zero guy in the middle of a slush about which everyone does their thing and produces.  That last line didn't make any sense.  Expect a lot of things to not make sense in the next few paragraphs.  

That's right.  It's not going to make any sense.  So buckle up, people, and prepare for a wild ride into the nether regions of cyberspace with me.

What's up with cats?  I'm allergic to cats.  That's funny.  Is it funny?  I think it's funny.  It's supposed to be funny.  I just used funny in four sentences in a row.  Now five.  Isn't that funny?  It's finny, I swear.  Is finny even a word?  Oh my god I hate myself this is so boring.  What kind of things do I want to talk about?  What kinds of things do I have with me that I can show people?  I don't know.  I don't even know anymore.  I can't know.  How about I start writing a zombie book.  Yea, that.  I'll write a zombie book.   It will be about how people built a camp in the middle of the docks, and prepared themselves for the destruction of the world.  That is what it will be about.  I think that's it.  For today.  I'm going to go write now.  Goodbye, see you next time, if there is one.  

Letters are yummy #1

I see letters as real physical things, colors, motions, shapes.  So now I will show to you the alphabet, as I see it.

The letter A

The letter A is indistinct.  A blob of color, with bumpy edges.  It's the first letter of the alphabet, so of course it's the first letter in my positional synesthesia.  It's off to the left, in the corner over there.  I don't know what it's doing, but it looks pretty smug, to itself.  maybe it's having a secret affair with B.



The letter B

The letter B is a party of color, a disco ball of white and blue and yellow.  It took me a while to realize what it was at first, because it's a whole bunch of colors, instead of one.  Is it having an affair with A?  I don't know. Why don't you ask it?






The letter C

This letter looks kind of like a school bus.  It's yellow, and square.  It's at on the other side of B from A, which is important, because both C and A orbit B, while D forms a ring around them. It's a pretty solid letter, though a bit indistinct.  I have to work a bit to see it. 





The letter D

The letter D forms a ring around A, B, and C.  It's big, and its suffocating.  It's kind of like the oort cloud of comets around the solar system, but a turd colored brown, instead of blue or whatever color comets are.







The letter E 

The letter E is a big bar of green, that wants to jump all over the place.  It's hard to look at, because it keeps wanting to jump into my eyes.  It's crazy, and it tastes like apple Laffy Taffy.  Imagine that. 







The letter F

The letter F, interestingly enough, tastes like banana Laffy Taffy.  It wants to spread out at the top, where the ffff of F moves through the letter.  It's not the same color of yellow as C.  It's brighter, more happy.  F is a very happy letter.  It likes E.  I don't think it likes G, though.




The letter G

F doesn't like G because G is unhappy.  G is drooping, full of grape flavoring (Grape Laffy Taffy, as a matter of fact.)  It's dark, and brooding.  It's on a black background because that's just how dark it is.  In fact, all the letters are on a black background, but I just forgot to mention it.  Sorry.  I misled you.  I'm keeping white backgrounds for clarity's sake.  You can look at the background of my webpage for reference.  

The letter H

The letter H is brown, like a horse.  It's a little hard to see; that's why I don't like it that much.  Its cousin I is a lot better.  Hey, you can't blame me for playing favorites.  Some letters are just more equal than others. 







The letter I

I is amazing.  It's ice cream, really really bright ice cream.  It's all white, and in the interest of clarity, I'm going to put it against a black background.  But don't get used to it.  I is cool.  I like I.







That's all for today, folks.  Come back tomorrow if you want more, which I know you do.  You want more psychedelic letters, right?  Right?  

Well it doesn't matter, because I'm going to give them to you anyways.    

This sucks.  This sucks, this sucks, this sucks.  Why can't I be famous like all the famous people I know?  I want to become famous.  To become famous!  I will be a natural famous person, I swear I have the ego for it.  I will be so cool as a famous person, people will walk up to me and be all like "Can I have your autograph," and I'll say, "Hell yes you can, my handwriting is worth money now, and I'm going yo give you a present."  I want to be famous.  How do I do that?  Well, here are some things I can do to become famous.  

Write a book.


Doesn't work I've already tried it.  I finished a book recently, you can find it here, why am I even bothering self advertising no one reads this blog anyways my life is a lie I don't know what to do with myself anymore I'm worthless you know what suck it up self no one cares not least the legions of nobody that read this blog lord help me I'm a terrible writer.

S'cuse me there for a moment, I went on a tangent.  That was a tangent.  A real one, for sure.  I don't know anymore, don't ask me.

I don't know what else to do to become famous, honestly, besides release a hit record or something.  But I don't see myself doing that.  I guess I just wrote this blog post because I'm frustrated with myself for not writing a successful book.  I thought people would want to read my writing, and it turns out that they do, but nobody is willing to pay money for it, which kind of sucks.  I want my work to be valued above free, something that people will pay to see.  To experience.  I put a lot of effort into it, and I know that doesn't regulate value, but I can't help but hate the system which makes some books famous and others not.  You know?  What do they have that I don't?  I want to know, so that I can put together something that people will be proud to have read.  No one's going to read this, anyways.  Wow, this is just one long rant against society, against the feeling inside of the pit of my stomach that says "don't do it anymore, it's not worth it."  It's not worth it, it isn't.  And in the back of my head I'm thinking "this is it, this is going to be the blog post that will propel me to stardom."  Get real.  Really?  What is this post even about?  Getting famous?  Why do I want to get famous?

Rants aside, no, no rants aside.  I think I want to keep that.  But anyways, what was I talking about?  Oh, right.  Getting famous.  How will I be able to do that?  What do I have to do to get famous?  Just be myself?  That's wonderful.  That's amazing.  But no.  No way will that work to my advantage.  You know how it is.  People don't want to see the self that comes out when others aren't looking.  Because nobody is looking, right?  This text is just going to sit in hyperspace for eternity or something, with no one to care, nobody to read it, nobody to give it love.  What is this text, anyways?  

What is this text?  Is it the outpouring of my soul?  Is it the truth inside of me?  I don't know.  I really don't know.  Hey, I have an idea.  I'll talk about the things that I see inside of my head.  That will be pretty cool.  I think that's a good topic for a series of blog posts.  Yes, that's it!  I'll blog about my world, the world inside of my head, I'll explain the number line and everything!  Yes, that's it!  Just you wait, world, I'm going to be famous!    

Character Creation

This will be by no means a comprehensive or even fully applicable post.  Some of the things I say are purely observation on my part, though I do believe that my critical eye will always have at least some value.  Digressions aside, today I'm going to talk about the creation of characters, and what you can do to make your character sympathetic to your reader.  Because this is a broader subject, I'm going to use general examples, all of them real, whether created by me or by a global conglomerate author.

There are two things that I have noticed, in my experience, that cause me to remember a character.  I'm not talking about sympathizing here.  I'm talking about the kind of character that sticks.  The kind of character that hands you a new lens to look at the world through.  The kind of character that shows you new things.  These two things are powering up, and undeserved hardship.

The character Eragon, from the Eragon cycle, is a perfect example of the first trait.  Through his own hard work and the teachings of his mentors, Eragon goes from simple, powerless boy to warrior demigod to literal god at the end of the series.  (At least, that's how I interpreted the end.  Spoilers?)  Because of this, he stuck with me.  His power felt earned.  I felt like I had taken part in the creation of his power.  His power was part mine, because I had read him in the act of gaining that power, step by step, all the way to the end.  I love this about Eragon.  He is the perfect example of the human quest for vicarious empowerment.  There is a scene in the second book, Eldest, where Eragon's older brother, Roran, meets him in the middle of a heated battle on his dragon Sapphira.  While Roran is no weak man, Eragon is so much more powerful than Roran that that scene stuck in my head, and hasn't left since.  I loved that scene.  It was an orgasmic payoff, at the end of two books worth of training.  My wording is a little strong, yes?  That's because that's what I liken it most to.  Okay, maybe I should censor it.  Ice cream.  It's like taking a big bit of ice cream after churning it in a bucket for an hour.

Because of this scene, and others like it, Eragon stuck with me.  I like the way that he works.  And, like the writer that I am, I want to take the best in him and blend it into my own characters.  While I will say that my own experiments with empowerment didn't work so well over the course of a book, I can say that I know of several useful tips to keep in mind while creating an empowered character.  A hero, so to speak, that transcends his boundaries.  

First: the hero must start weak.  Normal.  But--and here is the caveat--he must deserve power.  He must have some skill set, some sort of internalized--normal--power, that he can draw on at the beginning of his story.  For example, Eragon was a hunter.  He was good with the bow.  He was strong.  Another character that becomes quite empowered later on in her story, Katniss Everdeen from the Hunger Games, is very good with her bow.  The character to be empowered must have something to set them apart from the rest of the normal crowd before they ever begin their journey.  They must be admired, not pitied, from the very beginning.  Admirable, but within reach.  That is the root of vicarious empowerment through the growth of a fictional individual.

Second: the hero must train for every last ounce of his power.  The training is the buildup.  The training is the churning of the ice cream.  Without the training, you have a superhero, rather than an empowered every man.  And, while superheros have their own merits, they are of a different sort than what I'm talking about.  When a character grows in visible increments, it makes the end payoff all the more satisfying.  

Third:  there must be a payoff.  A payoff of the sort where the hero faces up against incredible forces, and dominates them.  His struggles with power are over.  He deserves to win, every last bit of the way.  Of course, he has more powerful enemies, but a moment where, perhaps, the hero lays waste to a legion of little baddies that gave him trouble early on before going to face the ultimate monster is always a good payoff.  As well as the big payoff, there can be little payoffs as well.  I'll give two examples.  In the Eragon series, there are two moments that I remember stand out above the rest: when Eragon looks in the mirror to see his limber body for the first time, and when a mentor comments that he uses his left hand very well, after he was forced to train it earlier because of a broken right wrist.  These little moments reminded me of how powerful Eragon was in the process of becoming, and cemented his growth in my mind.

The second thing that marks a character in my mind is undeserved hardship.  Or, more specifically, rejected vulnerability.  I don't have any characters off the top of my head that are archetypes for this characteristic, but this characteristic does color my attachment to Katniss Everdeen, from The Hunger Games.  Her pitiful, vulnerable state at the beginning of the book cements my involvement with her.  I believe it to be an extension of the human sense of justice.  When we see unjust things happen, things that we believe shouldn't happen to good people, we become involved.  I'm not going to make any grand arguments here.  This is just an observation.  There's that feeling in the pit of the stomach that balls up tight when we feel something unjust happening to a character that we like.  In fact, that unjust thing can cause us to like said character.  It certainly makes them memorable.  

I know from experience that this sort of thing is painful to write.  It hurts, to put the people that I have created in situations that they in no way deserve.  But, I think it's a necessary hurt, that mirrors the feeling that the readers will have when they read said character.  And, that's a good thing.  Emotional involvement is what reading is all about.  

Of course, its easy to overplay this characteristic.  But, you'd be surprised at how much leeway there is, as long as the situation is believable, in the traditional sense.  At the very least, it wouldn't hurt to experiment.  The heartstrings are powerful tools for the writer to pull.  And one of the best ways to pull them, in my experience, is to send just characters into undeserved, unjust situations.  The deeper, the blacker, the better.

That's it.  That's all I have to say on the subject of characters that speak to me.  What kind of characters speak to you?  What kind of characters do you enjoy writing?  Tell me below, in the comments.  

New updates on writing every Tuesday and Thursday.  New story fragments every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Come again!  

Zombies!

Here you go, the beginning of a story that I started a while back.  Have fun.  

Chapter 1:

August

+12:00

“No!  Henry!  We can’t leave Henry!”

August grabbed on to his mother’s sleeve.  His mother kicked him off.  He stumbled to the ground.  She stared at him with wide eyes.  Her eyebrows trembled. 

“Run!  August, run!”

August pushed himself up on his knees.  He glanced behind him.  At henry.  August’s dog.  His best friend.  It couldn’t be. 

He couldn’t be eaten alive by zombies.

The people, they were once people, they pushed their fingernails into Henry’s flesh, which quivered underneath and came up soft and warm for their blackened teeth to bite.  Blood spurted from torn arteries.  Bits of offal dropped to the ground. 

August put his hands over his ears. 

“No, no, mommy,”  he lifted up his head to the sky, “Henry!”  

A zombie twisted its head around to peer at August.  Its eyes bulged.  It moaned and dropped the piece of dog flesh that hung between its fingers.  Flesh showed between its teeth.  It stumbled up onto two feet and lurched down the little suburban street towards August. 

August reached towards the monster. 

“Please, Mr. Teniis, you don’t want to eat Henry, he doesn’t taste very good, see—“

Arms wrapped around August’s stomach.  From behind.  The Mr. Teniis zombie glanced up above August’s head.  It broke into a run.  It screamed.  Other zombies joined the chase.

The arms lifted August up into the air.  He landed on his father’s shoulders, which smelled of aftershave, and of bloody sweat.  A thick bite mark pulsed on his father’s neck, in front of August’s nose.  August turned his head away. 

His father sprinted past his mother, who stumbled down the street with her arms in front of her.  Father gripped Mother’s sleeve and yanked her along.  August craned his neck to look back at Henry.  A heavy hand pushed his head back down.  Into the bite mark.  Blood covered the tip of his nose.  Father sucked in air through his teeth and continued to run.  The zombies got father away.  The did not move fast.  Sometimes they fell over, and then got back up again.  The suburban landscape scrolled by.  They passed underneath a big sign, lettered in all capitols. 

Welcome to Innerston, Indiana.

Population-12,987

Dog Trot Capitol of the world.

Father yanked August’s head down so that he couldn’t see the sign anymore.  They passed underneath.  Zombies stood around in front of them.  They caught sight of Father and Mother and ran forwards with their arms out and their mouths open.  Father dodged past groping arms.  Black fingernails brushed against August’s leg.  August shivered. 

Mother jerked Father to the side. 

“There!  There are people in there!  Look at the boards!”

Father pulled away. 

“No!  They’ll kill us!  They’ll kill our son!  They know I’m—“

Mother slapped Father, hard.  Her fingernails scraped August’s face. 

“Get the hell over here!” 

Father slumped.  He followed Mother up to the door of a boarded up house with big white wood columns.  A curious face poked through the cracks.  A gun followed. 

“Who are you?  What do you want?” 

Mother broke down.  She slammed at the door. 

“Let us in!  Let us in, please!” 

Zombies closed in all around.  They crashed through doors across the street.  They climbed out of cars parked along the side of the road. 

The welcome sign fluttered in the wind against a loose nail. 

The curious face popped back into the house.  The door clicked.  It flung open.  A plump lady with a shotgun in her arms ushered Mother and Father in. 

“Come!  Come!  We don’t want to leave anyone behind, that’s just unchristian!”

Mother collapsed past the doorway. 

“Everything is unchristian, nowadays.” 

The plump lady slammed the door shut behind Father and locked it tight, then placed a board across it. 

“Tell me about it, hon.”  She glanced at Father. 

“What’s the little guy’s name?” 

Father dropped August down on a plump red couch.  A little girl about his age scampered to make room.  A family of black people huddled in one corner.  An old man peered down from upstairs. 

Fists rattled the boarded up windows.  Father slumped down on the couch beside August. 

“His name’s August.  My name is Winston.”  He jammed his thumb in mother’s direction. 

“Her name’s Janis.” 

The plump lady laid her gun down beside the door.  She wiped her hands together. 

“My name’s Christie.”  She waved at the black family.  “These are the Applinesons.” 

The father of the family gave a curt nod.  Two little boys hid behind his legs.  The plump lady motioned to the little girl beside August. 

“We don’t know her name, or who she belongs to.  She won’t talk.”  She motioned upstairs, at the old man.  “That’s George.  He fought in Vietnam, the gun and house are his.”

George climbed down the stairs.  He tapped a cane in front of him.  He stooped over.  He stopped at the midway landing. 

“Welcome.  I have food enough for everybody, at least for a while.  You can get comfortable.” 

The black family shuffled.  The little girl beside August pressed her face into a pillow. 

A rotten arm smashed through a window and jammed against a board.  Teeth showed through the gap.  Christie jerked the gun up from its place by the wall and pushed it through the gap.  She pulled the trigger.

Boom!

August slammed his hands to his ears.  They rang.  Gunpowder smell filled the room.  The little girl beside August cried out into her pillow.  Christie loaded another shell into the gun with a satisfied click. 

The sound of the zombies grew louder.  More arms broke through the windows.  On the stairs, the old man gave his head a slow shake.  Christie raised her gun up. 

Father leapt off the couch and muscled her aside.  He ripped the gun out of her hands. 

“Pardon me for my rudeness, but that was a dammed stupid thing to do.”  He took the gun and protected it with his arms.

Christie shrunk towards the wall.  Zombie faces pushed through the boards in the windows.

Mother pushed herself up from the floor and straddled Father’s waist.  She pulled him away from Christie.

“Winston, no, don’t be—“

Father tripped on a piece of wood.  The gun in his arms slipped down.  His finger yanked on the trigger.  The barrel pointed straight at Christie’s head. 

Boom!

August squinted his eyes closed.  The little girl beside him screamed.  The black family huddled closer together. 

The old man sputtered.  He held his hand to his chest.  The beams that he leaned on cracked.  His body thumped to the floor.  A vase spilled.  Water seeped into the bottom of the wallpaper. 

The black father rushed towards the fallen old man. 

“Heart attack!  He’s had a heart attack!”

A zombie pushed its whole torso through a window near the door.  It rasped.  Its arms grappled with the wall.  They gripped Mother’s hair.  Mother slammed against the wall.  The zombie sank its teeth into her neck.  She didn’t scream.  Her eyes closed and she fell limp.  Father roared.  He brought the gun around and fired it. 

Boom!

The bullet went wild.  It split off half of Mother’s face, then dislodged most of the boards that protected the window she pressed against.  The zombies pulled her through.  Father glance around himself with a crazed fire in his eyes.  He put the shotgun to his feet.  He put the barrel in his mouth. 

Click.

Father’s eyes snapped open.  He looked around the room in a rage.  He took the gun up in his arms, stock raised high.  He jumped through the open window.  His shirt caught on a broken piece of glass.  He lodged in the space.  Zombies tore at his head and shoulders.  He screamed. 

A zombie burst from a door on the second floor and toppled down onto the black man and the dead old man.  The black man collapsed under the weight.  He screamed.  His family sobbed. 

August’s mind kicked into action.  His body moved without thought.  He grabbed the arm of the little girl beside him.  He yanked her off the couch and through the center of the room.  His sneakers tracked in blood and bits of grey matter.  He found the back door and unlocked it.  No zombies bashed at it from the other side. 

The remainder of the black family stared at August and the girl.  August stared at them back.  He forgot how to speak.  He turned to the door and swiped it open.  He jumped through.  He dragged the little girl outside.  A treehouse ladder ran up the side of a big elm tree in the corner of the yard.  August ran towards it.  He gripped the first wooden rung.  He yanked on the girl’s hand. 

“Come on!” 

The girl stared at August with huge eyes. 

August tried to pick her up.  His arms wouldn’t. 

The girl rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve.  She set forth with a determined look.  She gripped the first rung next to August.  They climbed. 

Screams erupted from the house below.  One of the black family’s children ran out into the yard.  A zombie lurched out behind him—his father.  The boy turned to the zombie and began to plead.  The zombie topple onto the boy and took a bite out of his neck. 

August’s body kicked him with adrenaline.  He made it to the trapdoor to the treehouse and pushed it up.  He climbed in.  He looked around.  Brown boxes surrounded him.  A gun leaned in the corner, another on a table underneath a window.  Stacks of bottle water stood underneath another wall. 

The girl climbed in behind him.  She pulled the trapdoor into place behind herself.  She leaned against a wall and buried her face in her hands.  August sat down and stared at her.  

Conversations

We all know the feeling. We'll be reading along, when we encounter a conversation, and we think, who said what? As a result, we'll have to go back to the last dialog tag--perhaps half a page away--and restart the conversation to discover who, exactly, said what.

It's a common mistake, one that I make all the time, when I'm not paying attention. When dialog tags are eschewed in favor of style, there is always the danger that the reader will lose track of who's who.

So. How to avoid this?

First, let's look at an example of a lost dialog flow.

Billy stepped into the car.  Dylan put his arm against the roof.  Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it.

"So, how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had our anniversary last month."

"Did you?  Was it fun?"

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm.  Billy started the car.  He pushed down on the clutch.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.  


I tried to make it apparent, but did you notice the disconnect?  That subtle pulling away that happens when you realize that you don't know which mouth the dialog is coming out of?

Let's analyze that feeling.

First off. Remember last week, when I talked about motivation reaction units in action sequences? Well, dialog is a part of that motivation-reaction rhythm. To recap, a motivation reaction rhythm is a linear progression of events within a textual scenario that emphasizes cause and effect. The cause affects the effect. This happens within the text in order to create scene flow.  It's sort of like shot composition in a movie.

And, like in shot composition, dialog within written works deserves to be linear.  What would you feel, if during a movie, a camera cut to one character moving, and the other character spoke instead of the character in the screen?  Sure, it might be used for effect, but in any case, it would be jarring.

The same is true of written dialog.  In order for the most effect to be had from a line of dialog, a character must be present within the mind of the reader before the line is delivered.


Billy stepped into the car. Dylan put his arm against the roof. Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it. Dylan shifted his weight onto his toes.

"So, how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had our anniversary last month."

Dylan let a sly grin creep across his face.

"Did you?  Was it fun?"

Billy gave a good-natured scoff.

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm. Billy started the car. He pushed down on the clutch.

Dylan swung his legs into the car's passenger seat.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

In this example, the 'scene cuts,' so to speak, have been rearranged to fit logically. As you can see, this leads to a much more fluid progression of dialog, a more vivid sequence of events within the reader's head.  There is less that the reader has to calculate inside of his head, less that the reader has to infer from context.

So, as a general rule:  always cut to the character who has a line of dialog before that line of dialog is delivered.  You may do it in any manner--through tags, motions, a direct mention, even implication, though I wouldn't try that unless you are absolutely certain you know what you're doing.

And, of course, this method needs no dialog tags, so it is possible to do away with them entirely.  However, if one does want to use dialog tags, there are certain ways in which they can be used that can increase, rather than decrease, the artistry of the situation.


Billy stepped into the car. Dylan put his arm against the roof. Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it. Dylan shifted his weight onto his toes.

"So," he said, "how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had" Billy said, "our anniversary last month."

Dylan let a sly grin creep across his face.

"Did you?" he asked.  "Was it fun?"

Billy gave a good-natured scoff.

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm. Billy started the car. He pushed down on the clutch.

Dylan swung his legs into the car's passenger seat.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

Did you notice how the placement of dialog tags can imply natural pauses in conversation?

Let's take this line for example.

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

Dylan's statement suddenly brims forth with personality.  He's sarcastic, he's playfully biting, he's elbowing his friend in the side with his comment.  All because of the implication that he's pausing twice, within the sentence.

For comparison:

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

Do you hear the difference?  That's what dialog tags, when used right, can do for a sentence.  They simulate natural pauses in the conversation, while also performing their given function, that is, to tag dialog.

I hope you enjoyed my advanced writing tips today!  New writing updates every Tuesday and Thursday, new story updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  See you then!

A selection from Power Trip

Since nobody's reading these, anyways, I think it's fine for me to go non-linear.  Here's my one beta-reader's favorite part of my book, Power Trip.  Enjoy.

  King took one last look at Sand’s equipment.  Then a big grin crossed his face.  It reminded Sand of Jax.  “Do you want to take the fun way down?” 

Jax tilted her head.  “The fun—“ the implication of the phrase as applied to where they were hit her in the face.  She shook her head vigorously.  “No.  Never.  Let’s take the ladder.” 

King strolled to the edge of the observatory.  He lifted one foot off and held out his arms.  “Time is of the essence!  Make sure to land on a reinforced limb!  Channel your power only when you’re sure of how you will hit the ground!”  He leaned dangerously forwards.  The wind whipped his hair into an ocean blue storm like real waves.  He grinned mischievously.  His mannam circuits colored deep green. 

Jax’s circuits colored bright red.  Every muscle in her body tensed. 

Sand decided to do something about it.  He grasped her arm.  He powered up his limbs and pulled.  Jax held fast to the floor but she budged.  Sand pulled harder.  Exhilaration built in his body, anticipation funneled into his stomach.  He grinned like a maniac.

Jax closed her eyes.  She took a deep breath.  And she ran forwards.  She jerked Sand along with her and then threw herself off the side of the observatory and into thin air.  She squeezed her eyes shut.  And she shouted in ecstatic joy. 

“Yahoooooo!”

Chapter 24: Dead Men

The wind tore at Sand’s face.  It ripped his lips back past his cheeks.  It forced the water back into his eyes.  It rippled in his ears.  It smacked straight into his chest and pulled the cord on some internal organ and flooded his body with lightning.  Jax’s hands clamped onto his arms with visceral pressure.  Her hair streamed out behind her in full frosty brilliance.  The ground twirled.  They stayed together and did not move.  The world bent for them.  The wind tore at them but they did not part.  Jax let out another whoop of exhalation.  Sand blinked hard and joined her.  The ground came up to meet them.  Sand imagined how they would land.  He could not think straight.  The world moved too fast.  More lightning whipped through his body.  He closed his eyes tight and trusted his instincts.  He moved so that he would be there to catch Jax if she didn’t land right.  He flooded the circuits in his legs and in his spine.  He formed a card barrier around his soft parts, his forehead, his neck. 

Wham! 

The ground’s impact rocketed through his entire body with explosive rigor.  Jax’s arm landed hard on his shoulder.  But his legs locked.  The impact traveled through him like through a metal beam.  The flood of energy in his life circuits flowed straight against the energy of his fall and negated it.  The pavement cracked.  Sand staggered.  Jax fell to her knees.  But she was laughing.  And crying.  She toppled onto her back and stared up at the sky. 

Whap! 

King landed a few feet away.  Splinters of stone stung Sand’s cheeks.  He lifted his arm to shield himself.  He felt dizzy, but alive.  He looked down to check on Jax.  She stared with open eyes up at the building which she had fallen from.  Sand followed her gaze.  It looked truly magnificent.  The window out of which they had jumped was no bigger than an ant.  Sand brought his thumb up to his eye and covered it entirely.  He grinned big. 

King stepped over a pockmarked landscape to get to where Sand and Jax had landed.  It looked as if the fun way out were a regular occurrence.  Big hunks of fluid stone gaped at horrendous angles.  Around the edge of the building the ground churned like a field under plow.  King reached where Jax had landed and put out his hand to help her up.  Jax accepted and the two stood at right angles to each other for a split second.  Jax smiled. 

“Dad, that was awesome.” 

King gave a broad smile.  “I’m glad.”  He turned away from the building, down the straight street which ran across the side on which they had landed.  He brushed himself off.  “Sixth street is this way.”  He began to run.  

You can but Power Trip Here.  It's $2.99, a pretty good price, all things considered.  

Binary Seven #2

To read Binary Seven #1, click this link.  It'll open in a new tab.

You know what, screw it.  Cutting and pasting exactly 2,000 words is a pain.  Here's the next 2,312 words.

(twisted pieces of) metal. 

Botone looked up at Aldon from her position the table.  She lifted up her hand.  Aldon looked at it.  She placed it at her throat and tugged.  Her finger caught a wire.

Aldon gripped her hand. 

“Careful.  You’re not programmed with the knowledge to fix yourself.”  He paused.  “Are you?”

Botone closed her eyes.  She reached down into Aldon’s tool box with her free arm, and lifted it up onto her stomach.  She opened her eyes and surveyed the tools within.  She took out a pair of tweezers and began to pick at the wires in her throat.  Aldon stepped back.  His eyes went wide. 

“You know how to fix yourself?  Are you—“  He bumped up against his bed—“are you an overlord?  Do you have something to do with the overlords?” 

Botone stopped her hand.  Her eyes crinkle at the edges in a fit of laughter.  Sparks jumped out of her open throat.  A crackle sounded.  Botone turned her head to Aldon and smiled.  She held out her tools to Aldon. 

Aldon shook his head. 

“No, if you can do it, do it …”

Botone raised one eyebrow. 

Aldon narrowed his eyes. 

“What are you?  Why do you have the ability to repair yourself?  Why didn’t you do that before?” 

Botone pointed a sharp tool at her throat.  She waved it in front of Aldon.  Aldon nodded. 

“You didn’t have the tools.  That …  that makes sense.”  He put his finger to his chin.  “But why would someone program you to do that …  if it’s illegal … and they didn’t give you the tools to do so ... why would—“

The door to Aldon’s apartment pounded.  Aldon jumped back.  Botone twisted her head towards the door.  Her pupils dilated.  Her face read surprise.  She drove her sharp tool into her throat.  Her hands moved with blurry speed.  She picked up tools and tossed them back to the desk.  Aldon looked between her and the door. 

“What are you doing?  Who’s there?” 

The door pounded again.  Aldon faced it.  He did not expect anyone.  He put his hand against the doorknob.

“Hey!  You!  Let us in!  Or we’ll bust this door down!” 

Aldon gripped the doorknob tight.  He keyed up the monitor beside his door, and looked through an external camera.  Paint covered most of the screen, close up.  A small sliver of light showed three men in black suits at Aldon’s door.  Aldon’s blood went cold.  The union. 

The center man brought out a device the size of his hand.  He pressed it against the door. 

“We warned you!” 

Aldon swept the door open.  The middle man stumbled, past Aldon into his apartment.  The other two men gripped stun batons in their meaty hands.  The middle union thug gave a big grin.  He looked around the room. 

“This is a nice place you got here.  It’s a shame we’ll have to trash it.” 

Aldon stepped back.  He kept his body between the thugs and Botone.  He held out his hands. 

“Guys, guys, you don’t have to be this extreme, I mean—“

The left-most thug slammed his stun baton into Aldon’s stove. The baton flashed white.  The stove smoked.  An explosion thumped on the inside.  The room smelled of burnt meat.  The thug gave a huge grin. 

“Ha, that was fun!  Why don’t we—“

“What is that?” 

The head thug took a quick step back.  His eye widened. 

Aldon glanced behind himself.  Botone stood up in front of the desk, her throat open, one hand inside with a pair of electrostaplers.  Her other hand laid against Aldon’s arm.

The three thugs regained their composure.  Their faces went grim. 

“You know that’s illegal.”

Aldon took a step back.  The center thug lifted up his black doorbuster.

“You know that that’s punishable by death.” 

Aldon took another step backwards.  He reached his arm behind himself, for his soldering iron.  His fingers touched hot metal.  He gripped it.  He kept eye contact with the center thug.  The thug brandished his weapon.  Lightning snapped on its front end.  The thug grinned. 

“You like it?  This thing will bust down any door you use it on, no matter the material.”  His grin grew wider.  “You wouldn’t believe the mess it leaves behind.”   He pointed it at Aldon. 

Botone leaned her head around Aldon’s neck.  Her lips moved, dry air moved through them. 

“Kiss me.” 

Aldon dropped his soldering iron.  The point sizzled his arm.  He leaned back against Botone, against the desk behind her.  The thug stepped closer. 

“That android’s gonna have to go, you know.  If you would kindly step aside—“

Botone twisted Aldon’s body around so that he faced her.  She held him close.  She met his eyes. 

“Kiss me!” 

Her voice gained volume, became lyrical.  The incised skin of her neck melded back together.  She reached her arm around Aldon’s head. 

“Kiss me!” 

A fat, meaty arm grabbed Aldon’s shoulder. 

“What, are you giving your pet robot one last goodbye kiss?  Too bad she’s gonna—“

Aldon kissed Botone. 

Lighting crackled between her lips and his.  The skin around her body shimmered.  Cracks appeared.  Synthrubber tendons pushed up around platsteel bone fibers and mesh metallic muscle.  Botone’s body opened up from the inside out.  Her legs clapped against Aldon’s legs.  They melded around his calves and his thighs until they formed a shiny metal coating, soft artificial skin on the inside and sharp plasteel on the outside.  The rest of Botone’s body followed.  Her eyes moved up to meet Aldon’s, and he saw through a heads-up overlay.  He opened his mouth to breathe, and Botone’s body responded.  Aldon staggered.  His motions pulsed with mechanical power, and he slammed into the thug behind him.  He twisted his body around and brought his arm up to steady himself.  It slammed into his bed and cracked it in half.  It moved through the floor and smashed a hole up to the elbow.  Red outlines surrounded everything.  They flickered, then changed to all colors.  The thugs stayed red.  The room and everything in it outlined blue.  Lines of hyper-quick code scrolled down next to dots that pointed to pieces of equipment.  The thugs’ weapons highlighted green.

The center thug stumbled back onto his tailbone.  He lifted up his arm to shield himself.  His eyes opened with terror. 

“What the hell are you?”

Aldon opened his mouth to speak.  He raised up his hand in an instinctive gesture.  Fire exploded through his limbs.  A mass of energy blasted out from his palm and incinerated its way through the thug, and the rest of the building.  Sparks crackled.  The blowback shot aldon against the far wall of his apartment, through the metal plating inside, through the layers of insulation, and out into the world beyond.  He tumbled.  Adrenaline arced through his bloodstream.  His eyes blurred.  Botone’s face appeared in a thumbnail screen at the edge of Aldon’s vision.  She gave a huge grin. 

“Fly!  Kick out your feet and fly!” 

Aldon kicked out his feet.  Fire coursed through his spine.  His feet exploded with force.  The world twirled around him.  He lifted out his hands for stability.  His twirl slowed.  Skyscrapers rushed past.  Aldon experimented with movement.  Every motion he made translated into an intuitive effect.  He twisted his body up and rocketed into the air.  Botone’s artificial skin pressed into his body around the hinge points of the suit that covered him.  It absorbed the sharp metal and replaced it with sensual feeling.  Aldon kicked out his feet.  He soared over the top of the city.  A blue dot appeared in his vision, on top of a helicopter pad on the side of a space elevator.  Lines of code flew past.  Botone pointed from her thumbnail in the corner of Aldon’s vision. 

“Land there.” 

Aldon swept his feet over and pointed them at the landing pad.  A quad-copter buzzed past underneath.  It veered to the right.  The blast from its rotors caught Aldon from an angle.  He twisted through the air.  His feet pointed up at the sky for a second.  They came back down.  He threw out his arms.  His rotation slowed.  A little triangle icon appeared over Botone’s picture, in the corner of Aldon’s vision. 

“Do you want me to engage in flight-assist?”

Aldon jittered his way down to the landing pad.  His feet connected with the white-painted metal and sounded off two metallic clicks.  The synthetic skin shock absorbers that cradled his body muted the impact of the landing.  Aldon staggered for a few steps, then found his balance.  He held his hands out in front of his vision.  Black plasteel plates surrounded a synthmesh underlay that glowed in the indirect Harunian sunlight with a deep blue tint.  Aldon glanced down at Botnone’s picture. 

“I’m fine.” 

Botone pointed up at the rest of the view screen. 

“You don’t have to look at me.  I can see you fine from there.  Keep your eyes on what’s in front of you.”

“Did I kill him?” 

“Kill who?” 

“The man.  The one I shot with my hand.  Did I kill him?” 

“I don’t know, the energy readings were too bright.  I couldn’t get an organic reading.” 

“The energy readings?  Where he stood a second before the blast hit?” 

“The steel in the floor melted and interfered with my readings.  I’ll have to get them calibrated.” 

“So I killed him.” 

“I can’t say.” 

“He’s dead.  Because of me.”  Aldon lifted his hand up and stared at the palm.  A bright blue circle of light stared back at him.  It pulsed. 

Botone pursed her lips.  A facial recognition program sputtered about Aldon’s view.  Green lines intersected with red, transparent on top of what he saw in front of him.  A yellow icon flashed in the center of his view.  Botone folded her arms. 

“You’re psychologically damaged.  You need some time to recuperate.”

Aldon tossed his arm out to his side. 

“Damaged?  Recuperate?  What the hell are you talking about?  Thirty minutes ago I find you in a dump, and now you make me kill a man?  Maybe more?  Who the hell are you?  What are you—“

Botone’s eyes went wide.  She leaned in close to the screen that pictured her.  Red icons flashed all across Aldon’s view.  Sweat beaded on Botone’s brow. 

“This is bad.  This is very bad.  That’s a lot of hyperspace signatures.  That’s too many for—“

A massive triangle shape shot out of the sky high above the city of New Tokyo and snapped off three space elevators in quick succession.  They ripped away under the force of gravity and smashed down through a row of skyscrapers that stretched across the horizon.  Explosions rippled through the air.  Air raid sirens whirred to life.  The triangle spaceship let loose a thick swarm of circular shapes.  They sprouted wings and took to the air.  Missiles streaked up to meet them.  Explosions rippled.  Jet planes streaked in from outside the city.  The overlord spaceships moved to engage.  Lasers arced from the bottom of the mothership. 

The space elevator that Aldon stood on trembled.  Debris fell down from orbit.  Aldon clenched his fists.  He looked up at the overlord mothership.  He opened up his palm.  He lifted it and pointed it at the ship’s broad underside.  Fire coursed through his veins.

Botone gave a determined grin. 

“You can do it, Aldon!”

Aldon clenched his jaw.  He muttered to himself. 

“Maybe they would have died anyways.” 

A blast of light shot from his arm.  He braced his legs against the floor to catch the blowback.  His arm spurted to the right under the pressure.  The laser arced through the sky.  The bottom of the mothership rippled red.  Debris separated from the wound and crashed down to earth.  The ship lilted.  A swarm of spherical fighters darted towards Aldon.

Botone brought her arm down in a gesture of triumph. 

“It worked!  Go get them!” 

Aldon set fire to his feet and blasted off of the platform.  He gritted his teeth. 

“I’m not a child.” 

He twisted his body around to avoid a burst of lasers.  His body motions translated into complex maneuvers with no effort on his part.  He swung his feet around and flipped sideways.  A spherical spaceship shot past.  Panels of metal resolved, between layers of red lines that pulsed light.  A gun port swiveled around on an axis that surrounded the sphere. 

A red light flashed in the center of Aldon’s view. 

“Clap!”

Aldon clapped.  The gun fired.  A layer of blue energy popped up in front of Aldon.  The lasers billowed into clouds of energy that then dissipated along the curvature of the shield.  Aldon twisted his arm around and shot a blast from his hand cannon.  The spherical fighter exploded.  Bits of metal slammed against the blue energy shield.   Aldon twisted about and headed in the direction of the mothership.  A flight of jet planes sallied up beside him. 

A triangle marker flashed next to Botone’s picture. 

“The commander of D-wing seven wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t know!  Tell him that I know as much as he does!”

“You talk to him!  I can’t run another process, you’re taxing me enough with your stupid flight maneuvers!” 

“I told you I was fine!”

“You’re obviously not!” 

Aldon spiraled around a spherical fighter and blasted it out of the sky.  A jet plane burst through the smoke.  The pilot lifted his hand from his joystick to wave at Aldon.  Aldon twisted around. 

“Fine!  Patch me through.”

A picture appeared on the other bottom corner of Aldon’s vision, opposite Botone.  A pilot in a pilot’s mask. 

“Who are you?!” 

Aldon remembered all of the sudden his childhood, the cartoons he liked to watch then.  He remembered the tattoo on Botone’s shoulder.  Binary model 0111.  0111, in binary.  Seven. 

“I’m Binary Seven.”