Writing 'To Do' List

I thought this might be helpful to share with my fellow writers.

A Writer's “To Do” List

1. Have writing implements and paper at the ready.
   

2. Set up your workspace in a way that caters to your personal creative process.
   

3. Make a blood sacrifice to the creative gods that they may bless your current endeavor. Should blood for whatever reason, not be available (only you know if you're cheating yourself. But thankfully the Elder Ones work on the honor system), a mixture of espresso and cabernet usually works nicely.
   

4. Make sure you have the correct sacrifice for your genre. Warm goat's blood for horror. (Obviously.) And a warm cheese sandwich for news articles.
   

5. Remove all potential distractions that may pull your focus from your writing.
   

6. Be honest with yourself as to what those distractions are. Phone, work, family obligations, hygiene. If you need reference material, buy a thesaurus.
   

7. Carve out time for the actual writing. The time will not present itself.
   

8. Also, carve out anyone that attempts to impose on this time. You don't need these people in your life anyway, and running from the law can be quite invigorating for the creative process.
   

9. Try to put as much as you can down on the paper, even if it doesn't all come together right away. Sometimes you have to get the bad ideas out of the way first to clear the road for the good ones.
   

10. Stare into the internal abyss of existential dread that your life is meaningless and no one will ever enjoy your work.
    

11. Get a beverage! It's important to stay hydrated!
    

12. Back up your work. Nothing is worse than writing lost work.
    

13. Don't give up. Even if everyone in your life has told you you are just wasting your time writing. Especially the landlady and her angry pet poodle, Chastity. That dog hated you long before you were overdue on rent.
    

14. Occasionally work on something not at all related to your current project to till the old creative soil a bit.
    

15. Scream into a pillow when you realize that the chapter based on a deep personal experience that took you five months of therapy and three months of writing to get out isn't going to work for the final product. Once finished screaming, strike the pillow with your weapon of choice while enjoying a nice cordial and listening to some therapeutic music. I recommend Chopin.
    

16. Most importantly, have fun!

Uber Shenanigans

 Adventures in Uber:

My Uber driver tonight is an Indian gentleman that is currently playing Gospel Country.

Gospel.

Country.

That they're singing off key I feel I should add.

This magical adventure began with my Uber driver stopping at the edge of my driveway.

After I walk up to the car he asks if it's my home and I'm sure I want to leave.

Understanding a foreboding sidequest is ahead, I prepare for adventure.

Adventure at 50 mph.

On the highway.

With his left blinker on the past 4 miles.

Upon entering the car, he and if I still want to go. After assuring him I wish to proceed with tonight's adventure, he asks where I'm going.

I give him the name.

He asks where that is.

I look up the address. And then he calls me.

I let it go to voicemail, explaining I'm already in the car.

He asks if I'm Gideon.

I assure him that I am, pointing that this indeed my house and I indeed wish to leave to yonder destination.

And we are off, his phone still on my voicemail, and his hazards on.

Apple Store Visit

 So.

I went into an Apple store for the first time today.

I began a little perplexed. And it went downhill from there.

Rather than looking like any store I was familiar with, it looked more like a cafe that didn't serve coffee, which was rather disappointing.

I saw a wooden floor with a number of small square seats that looked like cubby holes you would see at a preschool, and they were all arranged like someone was about to read story time. (Story time also did not happen. No coffee. No stories. No check out. I'll get to that in a moment.)

So I see groups of people hanging out and mingling at long, rectangular tables and am wondering where the employees are. I circle around the tables of what looks like dozens of people just hanging out and talking. After a while, I notice that some of these people mingling like its a hipster bar with no beer (No coffee, no stories, and now no beer, despite all appearances. Seriously, it's like Apple thrives on empty expectations) are wearing black shirts with tiny Apple logos on them that I missed my first pass.

Either that's just a thing Apple fanatics wear, or I've finally discovered the elusive employees. I wander over and wait for any of them to make eye contact. Or acknowledge me in any way, as no one greeted me on my way in, and I don't see a counter or check out area anywhere. Spoiler, no one does. 

After several minutes of this and my walking to numerous coffee and beer free tables, I finally stand right next to someone with the black shirt and tiny Apple logo for a few minutes and stare at them until they finally happen to glance my way. I'm only guessing they are an employee at this point as no one has confirmed nor denied this as yet. They don't speak or acknowledge my presence. Apple employees are apparently all cats in human disguises. So I just immediately ask where I can go to purchase something before they look away again. They point at a random employee and say "you can talk to the guy in the middle"

I walk to the guy in the middle.

He points me to the guy in the corner.

I walk to the guy in the corner.

He's talking with two more people and never looks up or over.

I still don't see a cash register. I pick up an item and wait another couple of minutes. Corner guy still never looks my way. I look at the back of the box of a set of wireless ear phones marked at $160. Ear phones. For $160...

(I imagine at this point, an Apple board meeting.

"What should we charge for this item?"

"Let's take whatever a moderate consumer would consider to be the upper end of acceptable pricing for an item like this, and triple that."

"Brilliant!")

I walk to another employee who seems to finally have an idle moment and I ask if I'm understanding the pricing correctly. He says yes.

I ask where the check out counter is. He points me back to corner guy.

I set down the air pods and leave the store, never to return.

I never felt more confused and out of place in my life, and I've been lost in a foreign country.

But the surreal experience did save me $160! So I'll call it a win.

And I think I'll be avoiding the surreal Apple negaverse henceforth. :D

Writing on public transit

Until I get my headphone jack fixed, I'm finding other ways to amuse myself.

Writing on Public Transit without head phones:

               An old man sat on a bench, watching the sunset. The small lacquer box sat on his lap and he stared at its contents for moments that felt like ages. With a deep breath, he closed the box and watched the brilliant purples and oranges that followed the setting sun into the ocean.              

And she don’t need to be talking to him. I don’t care what she said about nothing.              

The old man reflected on all the promises he had made to the people whose lives had been lost so that someone like him could live to see this sunset.              

No, I don’t have the files on me. You’ll have to go into my computer. No, the one in my office. Ya, just go ahead and forward that to Peggy. Oh , Peggy's the worst. 

              

A tear rolled down the man’s weathered cheek. Too much weight, it felt at times. No one should be responsible for that much weight. Yet here he was, and here he waited.              

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!              

What the hell was that?

              

I dunno, somebody’s kid sitting over there.              

Are they being murdered?              

Na, they’re just little assholes and their parents aren’t paying attention.              

The old man cradled the box in his arms as the light faded from the sky.

              

I’m the freshest Atlanta rapper, the pop capper, on the streets I look dapper.

              

He focused on all of the memories-

              

Perfume, cologne, wrist watches! You need a watch?              

Of days gone by, of all the people that had been left behind.

             

Next Stop Lindbergh Center. Check out Marta at Marta on the go! Echa un vistazo a Marta en Marta en el camino!

He closed his eyes-

I need that sent to work right now! It’s got to be there  before I get in!

 Clutched the small box tight.

              

Put her on the phone! I’m ‘bout to tell her ass what’s up!

              

The hip-hop sensation, all over the nation, dropping stacks at my celebration.

Peggy! So glad to hear you!

Next Stop Arts Center, home of Fox Theater, Center for the Performing Arts and-             

The old man said fuck it, and threw the box in the ocean.

The end.

The boy with the bag of rocks.

There once was a boy who carried around a large bag of rocks. He would groan and strain, struggling to get from place to place. The bag of rocks he would carry around with himself were always weighing him down and tiring him out.

“Why don’t you put the bag of rocks down?” another child asked.

“Oh, I don’t mind it so much. You get used to it after a while,” the boy replied.

The other children were running up to the top of a nearby hill to play. The boy’s face turned red as he trudged up the hill behind everyone else. Another girl commented,

“You’d get up the hill much easier if you just put down that bag of rocks.”

“But I’ve gotten good at carrying it, don’t you see? It makes me stronger. Not just anyone could carry this bag of rocks up this hill,” the boy replied. The girl shook her head and trotted on up the hill.

By the time the boy made it to the top of the hill, the other children had all finished playing and were running off home. The boy collapsed, breathing heavily, and wanting to cry at having missed out on playtime. After a few moments of feeling sorry for himself, he noticed the girl sitting nearby.

“I missed all the fun! Everyone played and left without me!” the boy bellowed.

“You had every opportunity to join us. But we couldn’t wait forever. If you’d just put down that burden of rocks, you’d have been here,” she said.

“But I’ve had this bag so long. I’d hate to lose it,” the boy moaned.

“But is it making you happy?” the girl asked.

“It did once. When I first collected the rocks. They were all different shapes and colors. I was so proud of them. They did make me happy,” the boy replied.

“They did. But do they now?” the girl asked. The boy paused and looked at his bag of rocks. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Then why do you carry it?” she asked.

“What will it do without me?” the boy asked.

“It’s a bag of rocks. It doesn’t give a fig if you’re carrying it around or not. And if carrying around is just bringing you grief...” the girl said, standing up and dusting off her pants. She started skipping down the hill, then paused, looking back at the boy. The boy stood up and looked at the bag in his hands. He set it down, and stretched out his back, standing taller than he had in ages. He smiled, the burden laid down at last. He looked at it, it seemed silly to be so sentimental over something that didn’t make him happy anymore.

“I’m going to remember when it made me happy. And leave it at that,” the boy declared.

“That sounds like a fine plan. And if the rocks ever make you happy again, you’ll know where to find them.”

Jane the Ripper

     Blood dripped down from his knuckles. She cowered in the corner, hands raised in defense, obscuring tear-stained eyes and a bloody nose. This was power. Her fear was a narcotic. She'd never report this. Even if she did, it wouldn't matter. No one was coming to help street walkers.

     He grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the bed. Her crying had him rock hard. All those hours moving concrete, this was his sweet release.

     He was unbuckling his belt when he heard it. Whistling. An odd, minor key melody, haunting and sad. Eventually it passed and he focused back on the task at hand. As he stepped forward, he felt a sharp pain in his calf.

     A charlie horse? Now? He tried to flex his foot when he knee buckled. Something struck the back of his other knee sending him down onto both of them. He nearly toppled forward when the feeling of cold metal against his throat stopped him short.

     The terrified woman on the bed looked to the figure behind the man. It filled her with more dread than the man ever could. From underneath a mess of long dark brown hair stared two haunted eyes. Angry eyes. Kind eyes. Lucid eyes. Mad eyes. Eyes like she had never seen before and hoped never to again. She raised a finger to her lips conspiratorially, as though the two of them were sharing some secret. The new woman's voice was surprisingly light, a consoling whisper.

     "Are you alright?" she asked. 

     The terrified woman on the bed nodded.

     "Good. You'll want to leave now," the voice wearing the woman said. The woman on the bed nodded, scrambling to retrieve her purse and shoes before bolting for the door.

     "Oh," the new woman said. The terrified woman paused at the door. She saw something dark approach out of the corner of her eye. She flinched and raised her hands in self defense, catching something soft and smooth. His wallet.

     "His. He won't be needing it," the voice said. The terrified woman nodded and ran. She was halfway down the hall when the man's screaming began. Nearly an hour of screaming and gurgling later, the spectre of the woman emerged from the motel, melding into the shadows as the parking lot lit up with the strobe of blue lights that passed for justice in this city.

     The terrified woman alternated between drinking coffee and vodka, the melody stuck in her head. No, not just the melody, a legend attached to it. Of a woman, who hurt men, who hurt women. No, not hurt... ripped. Insane Jane they called her. Or, as she had become better known; Jane the Ripper.

Spiritus Dolorosa

She looked down upon her wilting body from the Shadowlands. Blood pooled over the edge of the bathtub, gathering along the tile in a puddle of tomorrows that would never happen. She noticed in the detached way they're only spirits can look at the world how thin she had become. In the last days she had no appetite and food had lost its flavor. Life and become an endless gray sky from which there was no escape. She looked up at the endless grey canopy above with a wan smile, realizing she had left only to come to the same place.

But here she no longer felt the anchor attached to her heart, tearing at it while pulling her through the floor. Here the constant aching in her chest and nausea no longer held her and its merciless embrace. She wandered for some time. There is no point in watching what became of her body, she wasn't there any longer. She did not know how long she wandered the graylands, alone and searching for nothing. Searching for nothing and constantly finding it, has she had in life.

One day she heard crying nearby and felt drawn to it, as though the sobs of this person were flame and she was a moth. She followed the invisible strands to the withered apartment building until it led her to a child. The child appeared no older than seven, crumpled in the corner of the bathroom in dingy pajamas. Her eyes were wrapped in tears. She could hear shouting from the other room and the sound of one person being struck by another. With each sound of flesh on flesh the child winced as though she herself were being struck.

She heard a fluttering behind her and turned to see black feathered wings. She touched them in confusion wondering where they had come from and how long she had had them.

“I have a task for you,” she heard a voice say.
She turned, searching for the source of it.
“There is no need to lay eyes upon me for I am formless.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the presence in the darkness that fills you with dread or makes you feel at peace when you are alone. I am the feeling of a warm blanket wrapped around you. I am the ache in your heart when you say goodbye to someone for the last time. I am the hope of tomorrow and the regret of yesterday.”
“And what tasks do you have for me?”
“To be an angel of comfort to the hurting.”
“Why do you think I would be capable?” she asked the sorrow of her former life gathering in around her throat.
“Because you know better than any the cloying creep of despair, the absence of hope, the growing strength of an ache that will never go away.”
“I was always told that suicides went to Hell.”
“That was for a time even worse than now to shepherd the tides of humanity from claiming the one escape they had from a life of misery and servitude.”
She looked back at girl on the floor.
“What should I do?”
“Let's the jagged lines in the memories of your pain be the roadmap that you need. Give to others what you did not have when you needed it most. And that will guide your every step.”
With that the presence of the voice was gone and she was alone again. No not alone this time. She shared the space with a wounded soul. So she sat down on the floor and wrapped her wings around the weeping child and cradled her close. From across the veil the child leaned in and wept against her. Her wings enfolded to guard the child against the awful sounds and creeping menace from all around. She held the weeping child until sleepover took her.

This new angel of sadness took a deep breath she no longer needed. The unsteady drip from the nearby faucet the only company to her thoughts. She felt a sense of completion within herself from comforting the child. As she stood she felt a new tether form. Another invisible string pulling her to some unknown destination. With her hand clenched around the possibility of purpose she strode into the gathering fog to find the next aching soul that she could land solace to.