Muerte y Candy.

Ghouls and other of my family and friends shall try to have fun tonight. I hope you do too. Whether you have kiddies or not, today is one of those days when we can all go out and celebrate. Unless you are a Jehova's witness or stict Mormon. If so, sorry dude, what a drag. 

That reminds me, evidently the Hallows eve par-tea, is a westerner thing. Over the distant mysterious lands if Japan, it is not the norm to gather up all the children in a case of nationwide sugar-rush. Who knew? 

Anyway, I haven't had much time in the past two weeks for my literary exploits, but I did do some editing. It feels good to be making progress. 

All right peeps, I must get ready to begin the candy overdose (and ensuing tummy aches) that is scheduled for today. Go scare somebody, or get scared, or get candy, or go get some. 

Just go... 



Sent from my iPhone

No Beer-Can Crushing Boobies. Sorry

I know where I was supposed to go, but as you all know, plans change. Fast and suddenly. So was the case yesterday. As tempting as it was to see Blondie squeeze our discarded cans of PBR between her un-inflated bosoms, we decided against it. We visited my cousin J’s house, and saw the family for a bit, and met a couple of her friends. One of them, “A”, had an unnatural fear of going home and finding a large black man with a machete waiting for her in her living room. When asked if a large white man with a knife would be different, she admitted it might still be bad…. But fear took the form of a black guy for her. Go figure. Apparently nun-chuck wielding ninjas and gun toting Mexican’s are just not scary enough. Needles to say, she did not come with us, I don’t care how cute she was.

So, the three of us, (J, H, and G) headed to a little area called East Atlanta. A quaint place surrounded by good beer drinking spots and a myriad of personalities that continually add spice to my city. It was three or four bar-hops later that we ran into some folks I haven’t seen in months. It was the perfect finish to a great evening. I saw so many personalities, travelled the city in the company of the folks that I love, and had the opportunity to chat with people which only enrich my life, and the voices of my characters.

It is on nights, weekends, and weeks like these that I find inspiration, true inspiration, to continue my work, and keep writing. I want to write them all into my book, though I know it only make it over crowded. I will, however, write them all in my books. All the ones to come – published or not – I want to capture at least a sliver of the fantastic people I have been so lucky to encounter.

And so I say, with only a small smirk: Thank you Atlanta. Good night.

Beer Crushing Boobs

I forgot to mention in my previous post that Blondie, the not so young stripper, crushes beer cans with her boobs for a modest fee of $10. Awesome.
This is the whole spectacle to which I hope to corrupt my brother with. Not that he needs any more corrupting, but it can't hurt.

Blondie may not be in the spring of her life, but she is definitely of high spirits, or high, on something. Period.

Anyway, I'll follow up with some more later...

Good weekend y'all!

Veteran Bosoms Galore

Now, now, before somebody goes throwing a shoe at me or something (that is the latest in insults, right?) I am not being facetious. Well, maybe a bit, but lemme tell you, that was not just a shameless attention grabbing header.

This last weekend a good friend of mine was celebrating another spring under her belt, and what other way to extol the occasion than a strip club? Yes, there was dinner, and a haunted house, but all that is inconsequential and you’ll see just why in a moment.

We made our way into the heart of Atlanta to a little abode named The Clermont Lounge. Stashed in the lobby of the old hotel bearing the same name, The Clermont is a bar unlike anything I, and likely you, have seen. Ever. Ever. At first arrival the place is small, with a permanent cloud of smoke that hovers just above head level. It is loud. And it is packed. This is not your usual strip club attendance though, but rather a gathering of people of all kinds. It’s the cliff notes of Atlanta’s urbanites. You have it all, but that is still not the interesting part.

Upon taking my first step, and being shoved inside by the bouncer saying “Move from the doorway,” I candidly ignored him and turned to the bar to see something that will forever stay with me. A naked woman! (Insert dramatic theme song here).

No, I’m not that prudish. Did I mention that the naked woman, was a naked sixty-something year old, black woman with a blonde wig that would put Rupaul to shame, shaking her humongous ass which could only be balanced on the bar by her keg-like gut, all while slapping titties swindled around the air not unlike a cowboy lasso? (breathe)… Oh, how could I have NOT mentioned that?

I shit you not. The Claremont lounge is known for that. Her name is Blondie. Along with other strippers who have seen much better days, long, long, long ago, they grace the place in short-shorts that are barely visible (marked by mountains of cellulite) and boobs that are competing for attention with their belly buttons. And guess what? We loved it. We loved all of it. Those women, as certifiably insane as they are, are making a killing. The sheer personality it takes to get out there is mind boggling, but the amount of confidence and fun these ladies (yes, they are ladies) are exuding is enough to blow you away. Pun totally intended. It is deliciously awful.

I left, I tried to leave, but part of me stayed. Left behind in those decrepit walls and thighs. And there is only one thing I can do about it. I must return, to get that little bit of myself back, but this time, I must take my brother, and my cousin, and my bud, and his buds, and as many people as I can imagine, because this task is not one that should be taken by one man alone. That would just be creepy.
That’s it… now back to my regularly scheduled MS editing. G’night.

Break‘s Over Kiddies

I was taken aback the other day when a colleague confided in me that he had an epitaph the previous night. For a brief moment, thoughts of gloom and concern scoured my brain. A second later I found myself having to contain the insatiable desire to burst out laughing, spittle sprinkling his face, in full roars of laughter.

“You mean, and epiphany, right?”

Yeah. Way to go collegial educational system.

Alas, I had my own – dare I say it? – epiphany later that day as well. And of course, it directly related to my writing. In speaking with my wife about the day-to-day “how was work stuff” it suddenly hit me, like a slap square on my forehead, and I could almost hear the [now] ominous Doh!

She was asking for my opinion on how to approach a certain situation at her job, with her boss and colleagues. And I, being the least qualified to so, proceeded to give her my advice based on the personalities of the people she labors with everyday. I knew which tactic would work best with each one because I knew them. I knew their likes, their pet peeves, and because of that, their possible reactions. Even though I have only met them once, and for like two minutes at best. But I knew them through her. Her stories of her work day and such had been so excellent that I felt like I knew these folks. Hence, the epiphany.

This is how I want my readers to feel about my characters. I don’t want to tell you who my character is; I want you to discover him\her. To figure them out. I’ve spent so much time on crafting clues for the plot, for the reader to figure out the mystery of my novel as they read along, that I have somewhat neglected the people in it. Leave it to a self declared anti-social to forget about the people, right? This has inspired me, not to recreate my characters, but to quit restraining the natural voices I know they each have, and let them play on the page. If my wife, who does not speak English natively, can craft her coworkers in my head so well, surely, surely I can do at least the same. Maybe she should be the writer. And then I can dedicate myself to epitaphs.

Regardless, break is over me. It’s time to get back to work. What about you? How’s your WIP coming along? Oh, and I have to give a shout out to L.T. Host for getting a mention over at Nathan Bransford’s Blog for her first paragraph. It truly is an attention grabber. Great work!

Processes of an Overworked Mind

Damn!

No Motivation = Mondayvation.

I could blame it on the weather, I suppose. Summer blew a kiss and waved goodbye a while back, granting passage to colder days, greyer clouds and rain. Boy, has it rained. It’s just dreary. If any of you caught a glimpse of the news last week, I am pretty sure CNN was covering the submerged city of Atlanta. Heck, CNN’s headquarters proximity to the flooding was too close for comfort.

I would like to get some writing done later, but quite frankly, it’s just not in me today. I tried to knock out a few chapters last night but that proved as effective as a three-legged pup in a dog race. My characters would not speak to me. I felt like I needed to apologize to them for something I had no idea I had done, and had no clue why it was wrong, but it was most definitely my fault. It was like being married to them. Not a bad thing, overall I guess, but I need to hear their voices before I start drumming the keyboard and I just can’t.

Maybe I’ll go and buy a box of chocolates and some flowers for me them and wait a day or two until the pissyness evaporates along with the rest of the downpour out here. I think we just all need a break. We’ve been spending way too much time together over the past few weeks in this cramped brain of mine, and everyone – even imaginary voices – needs some space. Does this happen to you as well, or am I the only pms’ing schizophrenic?

Proof there is a God: Steven Seagal

With a hearty bag filled of hell yesssedness I write to you today about the greatest Lawman in the 600 years of recorded American History. That’s right; I’m including the Vikings and Dan Brown’s plot minions, the Templars.

Steven Seagal has a new TV show entitled “Lawman”. Just as my angst for the Zen master was turning to an incisive itch, here comes the man himself, not to the pompous giant silver screen, but to the less pretentious 50 inch, flat screen, High Definition, LCD screens that occupy our humble American homes. For those of you misfortunate souls that have not basked in the greatness that is Seagal (hence forth “The Seag”), he can single handedly disarm a gang of Armani clad Ninja’s, without as much as breaking a sweat, or facial expression. He loves all sentient beings, especially the ones he can judo-chop into peacefulness, and is not afraid to die in movies that advertise him as staring in. What? You don’t remember that you say? I present you “Executive Decision,” where he dies in the first ten minutes. That was enough though. Ten minutes of The Seag is sufficient to permeate his Omni-presence throughout the movie. My only regret is that for the remainder of the movie we were left with John Leguizamo to fill in The Seag’s shoes. How dare they presume to replace Him with Leguizamo? Another lazy Mexican stealing the white-man’s jobs! But I digress. In “Lawman” we will be privy to the revelation of a secret: The Seag has in fact been a cop for twenty years. How cool is that shit?

Evidently, all those years of high brow acting and slightly fictitious plot lines were but a mere cover for what in reality was a man of the people. And by man, I mean superior being, and by people I mean reality TV consumers. There is no other man, alive or dead that embodies the absolute awesomeness of cool macho bravado like The Seag. He doesn’t require a frown, or a grunt to express his disgust. Not him. He simply looks at you, through you, in you. This is the kind of self-discipline that can only be acquired by being a full Japanese-English bilingual, a seventh-level aikido master, and a bonafide enemy of the California branch of the Yakuza.

His new reality show is just that: REAL. It is the culmination of twenty years of a [apparently secret, deep undercover] police career. It could be nothing other than a reality show because this earth has never, ever been walked by any man with the capacity to appropriately portray Deputy Seagal. Except maybe Jean-Claude Van Damme, maybe. Maybe. So go on and get your panty liners ready kiddies, because this show is gonna be so hot, you can do nothing but get wet over it.

Here’s to you Seag: Kampai!

Darth Query: How did this work?

Seeing some of the stories that have become American classics, I got to thinking (yes, it DOES happen) what the queries must have looked like. Here is the best my [currently] inebriated brain could come up with. It needs no introduction, but perhaps only a little Query Shark help:

When Luke, a young farmer on the planet Tatooine, receives a message from a droid he recently acquired, he is thrust in the middle of an intergalactic war that has been waging for generations. With a guidance of an old hermit, strong in a force called, the force, Luke embarks in an adventure that will take him from the desolate deserts of his home world, to the desolate nomad spaceships of the interstellar rebellion. In a battle for the freedom of the oppressed people of the empire, Luke must battle an evil dark lord for the salvation of the known galaxy. Darth Vader, the dark lord of the evil galactic empire, maintains a tight grip and control of the multiple planetary systems in his realm, extending his fiendish rule over land and space.

In Han Solo, an intergalactic smuggler, Luke finds an unlikely ally in his fight against the tyrannical forces of Darth Vader and the empire. Together, with Obi-wan, the mystical hermit, they must find a way to destroy the ultimate weapon of submission. The Death Star. A moon size base that wobbles at less than impressive speeds toward unsuspecting planets and possesses enough firepower to destroy an entire world with a scientifically improbable death ray. In his journey Luke forges alliances that can help him become the new master of the unequivocally named “force” or perish in his attempt to destroy the forces of evil. Filled with teenage angst and a hint of incest, Star Wars is a 175,000 words, complete science fiction novel, ready to be submitted for your review.

Thank you, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Jorge Lucas

Absent: ab-suhnt

ab⋅sent 

–adjective
1.not in a certain place at a given time; away, missing (opposed to present ): absent from class.
2.lacking; nonexistent: Revenge is absent from his mind.
3.not attentive; preoccupied; absent-minded: an absent look on his face.
–verb (used with object)
4.to take or keep (oneself) away: to absent oneself from a meeting.
–preposition
5.in the absence of; without: Absent some catastrophe, stock-market prices should soon improve.


All those things stated above apply to me and my blogging. I'm sorry dear friends and readers. It's me, not you. I just want you to be happy, and I'm no good for you.

;)

All cliche breakup lines aside, I have been busy. I have a nifty idea for a post I'm working on, that I expect you will like. Think: Star Wars.

'til soon.

Characters Are People Too

In my writing, I’ve discovered – okay, I admitted – that my characters need work. Not in my head, but in paper. I know my characters. I know them! But that doesn’t matter. It does, but not really. What does matter is that you (put down the ice-cream scoop and read this), yes you, know my characters. What does matter is that halfway through the book you have a good idea of what the character would do. You (my beloved reader) should freely be able to identify the many characters voices from the narrator or other characters. They’re all different. You know, like people.

I know that we are talking about a two-dimensional medium, but that is no reason for our little imaginary friends and foes to be flat. I read somewhere that flat characters should be abolished, “we only want round characters,” was said. I’m going to have to disagree on that one. I think characters should be shapeless, odd fitting, jagged even. You know, like people.

They should have problems and secrets. Just think of your own, and those around you. Like the time you smoked a joint in your moms mini-van, or when your friend did nothing buy flirt with your boyfriend, or the time your cousin almost overdosed on heroine, or when you masturbated in the school’s bathroom, or when you shoplifted those bra’s from the mall, or when… I can go one all night on this (really, I can and it’s frightening). In any case, I trust you get the idea. Now think, or try to imagine how each and every one of those experiences could have molded that person with the inevitable passage of time. Did being a junkie make them a better counselor? Having an overbearing Christian mother push her to join a satanic cult? Did sleeping around in high school make him a faithful husband or an incurable man-slut? Flaws, problems and how they are overcome: It is these characteristics that make our imaginary friends interesting. You know, like people.

How are your characters? Do you like them? Do they annoy you? Are they like you, or totally imagined, or somewhere in between?