I’m trying to find the name for a very particular faux pas. One that I’ve had far more experience with than I care to admit (I might have to switch perspectives from first to second just to distance myself from it).
This faux pas happens when you’re trying to impress new people with your sparkling whit. You decide to play stand up comedian and shine a spotlight on some unspoken truth, a universal thought that only you have the charisma to articulate. Then you realize you’re the only person in the room that this thought has ever occurred to. Continue reading A New Faux Pas
The downpour has pedestrians popping their collars. It has late starters piling on the layers. The Author puts his heart on his sleeve. The Detective puts his chip on his shoulder. One shuffles into the tavern. The other ambles.
They take their stations at opposite ends of the bar. The Author is an open book. His stool spins around every time the door chimes. He catches each patron with his puppy dog eyes. Then he hunches over his memo pad with his hands in his cardigan, an over protective father guarding his precious pages.
Continue reading The Detective
You’re not an author until you’ve been published.
Well bub, I’ve been published. So put that in you’re corncob pipe and smoke it.
My apologies. Where might I procure this magnum opus of yours? Continue reading “Phantasmagorical” and Other Fifty-cent Words
Teddy’s pod hurdled down the conveyer belt. The momentum pushed him into the chrome. His nub tail receded into his body. The stuffing churned in his belly. He hooked his paws around the bars. Orbs whizzed by in his peripheral. These were the other pods, micro prison cells just like his own. There were peeps all around. Teddy wondered if the sound was grease on the track until he realized the peeps were coming from inside those pods. He caught glimpses of silhouettes recoiling with hands over their faces. Teddy made the connection. The sound had been screams all along. Continue reading The Men Behind the Curtain: Part 2
As a writing exercise, I thought I’d explore some projects that almost came to light. I’ve got a laundry list of false starts and half hearted finishes. They’re worth exploring to see just how far the flame of inspiration got me when it died out. This is a graveyard for all those brilliant ideas that didn’t survive the test of time. Continue reading Orphan Projects
The following is an excerpt from something I’ve been working on for the last year. I’ve been eager to show people what I’ve been up to, so I’ve decided to share a few chapters. Out of context, these chapters serve as excellent short stories. Since this first chapter is over five thousand words, I’ve decided to break it down into bite sized little scenes. This will be the first. Please forgive it’s rough shape. I never edit while I’m writing.
This piece is from my novel The Dark Parliament (name pending). It’s an R-rated tail where the imagination of an orphan day-dreamer is pitted against the nightmares of adults. So without any further ado here’s:
This year I will not hibernate
I will not flee the cold,
Smother myself in covers,
Or bathe in the florescent glow of so many screens
This year, I will lift my quarantine
Take my bronchitis
Out for a night at the theater
Introduce it to patrons at the diner Continue reading This Year I Will Not Hibernate
The dream always sets me in the middle of the building, far from a source of natural light. The space yearns for windows, for a skylight, for a glass panel above the doorways, something. Instead there are miles of low hanging ceiling tiles, oppressive fluorescent lights, industrial air-conditioning vents. There are a few scant variations in the terrain. Dips in the carpet. Steps that lead to lounging parlors. The seats are chiseled into the floor. There are plants drooping over the edges. They starve for photosynthesis. For all I know, I’m deep underground. Continue reading In the Halls of Sleep
Continuing my theme of Halloween viewing suggestions, here are some of my favorite scary episodes of The X-Files. Continue reading Drew’s Favorite Spooky Episodes of The X-Files
In Stephen King’s book On Writing he tells the story of how his first novel Carrie was almost scrapped. This was back when he was making sixty-four hundred dollars a year teaching high school English. Back when King and his wife Tabitha (a budding author in her own right) lived in a doublewide trailer. He would later dub the town they called home, “the asshole of the world.” He typed the first few pages from the laundry room. The churning washing machine set the mood. Uncertain of his concept or the likeability of his characters, King crumpled up the first draft. He chucked it in the waste basket with the cigarette butts and the beer cans.
Continue reading Overshare