The First Draft

The first draft of a story is always the hardest for me. It doesn't matter if I finish it with the worst ending in the world, once it's finished there is a confidence there that allows me to go back and rewrite and polish until my heart's content, even stripping out entire sections and adding in new ones.

For some reason, the story I am writing right now has been really struggling against me. I think most days I'm exhausted from writing for work, that when it's time to sit down and write for real, I'm just not in the mood. I have been writing every day, though, even if it's just 200 or so words. Today, I managed about 1100 words and I'm nearing the turning point in the story. Tomorrow, I plan to finish this first draft so I can sit on it for a few days, then come back and start the editing process.

The funny thing is how long it takes to get that first draft out. I have been working on this story for about 3 weeks. I'm not sure if it's because I have higher expectation or a little bit of outside pressure, but despite the very clear outline of the story I mapped out in my head before writing, it has been like pulling teeth to get it out.

It's coming though. I'm excited. I can't wait until this first draft is done. I have passed up on a couple other ideas, writing them down for safe keeping, just because I wanted to commit myself to finishing this project before I moved on. I will be grateful when I'm done.

Now, I'm off to bed with a handful of Horror Fest to spur on nightmares. I will be back tomorrow, the proud author of another completed first draft.

A God Never Forgets...

Temple of Apollo @ Delphi
Originally uploaded by Giorgos~

Apollo Rejected

Slowly fan these flames
in attempt to blow them out
yet they burn on,
lapping thirstily at my skin
like tired dogs.

Apollo's fiery fury, and I blister,
consumed with passion
behind the wavering reality
evaporating with every breath-
to let go, would bring freedom,
but what immunity have I?

Scarred from the inside out
a molten reminder
of incomplete sacrifice-
A god never forgets!
© 2005 J. Hudock

Just a bit of poetry today... had a busy day, got some writing done, prepping to do a bit more before turning in. I hope you all had a fabulous Friday.

The Great Communication Fail...

A couple of weeks back, I read about the twitter project, #queryfail on someone else's blog. Intrigued, since I presently don't deal with an agent but had hoped to one day, I read all about it. Needless to say, I was a little disgusted by the attitude around it, more than I was by the overall idea behind it. The woman who started it *rubbed her hands with glee* which made the whole thing sound like a witch hunt, more than an exercise designed to show writers the types of mistakes that are likely to not only make agents laugh at you, but toss your query right into file thirteen.

A lot of writers were outraged by the idea. #queryfail was cruel, many said. Even if it was done anonymously, there was still the potential for some poor author to log in and see a mockery of their own query. Anonymous or no, the humiliation of rejection is often enough to put some writers off of submitting their work. Seeing their query get torn apart right there in front of thousands of Tweeters could do some damage.

So in response, #agentfail was set up to give writers a chance to talk back and address some of the problems authors have with agents. In an anonymous forum, maybe that would be better, because though authors can pick and choose the agents they deal with using a certain degree of choosiness, agents tend to hold all the cards in the writer/agent relationship. Many writers don't want to step on proverbial toes, get caught up in some web that is going to hold them back from even getting representation.

I think the whole thing is a little sad. I thought about starting a twitter movement called #youallfail. Why? Because more and more often, it seems that people are only happy when they are making other people miserable. The whole you stepped on me, I'll break your arm mentality is so high school, and I really did believe (probably foolishly,) for a long time that adults were different; the knew how to behave and get along with each other in ways kids didn't understand. Talk about naivete.

I write because it's my passion. It is all I have ever wanted to do with my life. I don't think about things like making agents and editors giggle when I write a query letter, I think about taking the next step in my career. I think about how it takes guts to slap your soul down on a three hundred and twenty page manuscript and then put it out there to be torn apart. Then I find myself thinking that it's no wonder there are so many writers publishing and podcasting their own books. The traditional medium has been such a joke for years that soon the snooty and persnickety may find themselves out of jobs. They may tune in one morning to check the book ratings and find a manuscript they took a dump on once is now a #1 best seller on the NY Times.

It doesn't matter if you're an agent, an editor or a writer. At times in my life I have been both on the writers end and the editorial end. I've had manuscripts fly across my desk with the craziest cover letters, and have seen so many writers who didn't even know there were rules, but I took a look at their manuscript anyway. There were times I was incredibly glad I did, because if I judged every manuscript that happened across my desk, before reading it mind you, on the cover letter or query that accompanied it, I'd probably pass up the opportunity to read and publish quite a few amazing stories.

The same type of garbage goes on in the music business, and the representation are the first people to start crying when they find themselves out of work.

In the end, it boils down to how we treat each other. Not just in the publishing world and the music business, but in every day life. I'm a bitch, I won't lie. I've been mean to people both on and off the internet, but I don't walk around looking for a fight. I don't push buttons for the sake of pushing buttons. Most times it's because I feel like I'm in a position that requires me to fight back. I'd just really like to see the world change, and for the better. It'd be fantastic to wake up one day and find people more willing to help each other, rather than crush each other on the ladder to the top.

Reflections...

Every night before going to bed, I process all of the day's thoughts and events, and then I write a poem. I have had other things going on lately, so I thought I'd post a couple of the poems I wrote this last week:

Underwater:

bubbles of frustration
squeeze from my lungs
small alien beings
like clear jellyfish
rise toward the distant
flickering daylight
fingertips glow underwater
extraterrestrial, unsound
I can see through my own skin:
blue veined, peaceful,
and it takes me back
connects me to the source
intravenously sustained
floating in the womb...

-----

Reflected

the mirrored reflection of something so yesterday
and yet beyond tomorrow wavers in front of me;
grins, not devouring, but straight and white,
clean and new, with an undercurrent of memory
of that whole time when I gave myself away
to someone that never really wanted me,
but took parts anyway to make himself stronger.
Somewhere, out there, he's walking around
with more innocence than he deserves and
bits of heart that do him no good.
He wears sheepskin, but cannot hide his teeth.


Random, completely. No structure, no rhyme. I've felt a little random myself lately, distracted, but it happens to the best of us. Perhaps I'll make some time later to actually blog, but until then...

"My Ancestors Believed"

corbel 28: sheela na gig
Originally uploaded by Sacred Destinations

The ocean was a sly, hungry goddess
who seduced and swallowed husbands.
Rarely spit out again and never seen
they dove willingly into her warm folds,
swam in the depth and bliss of her love
only to be carried away from wives
and children to distant paradises.

Can paradise be unveiled before a
billowing cloud of bubbles and fish schools,
or is that all part of the illusion?
The lure that captured their attention
bobbed on the surface like glass baubles
the ones ancient druids used
to interpret and determine the future.

It is not open for discussion,
or interpretation. All manner
of female oppression becomes
central. In reality not one
of those fisherwives needed a man,
and the boundaries of fidelity hang
wide open, like the Sheela-Na-Gig.

©2003 ~J. Hudock

writing...

writing...
Originally uploaded by © dabawenya © (believes in the power of smile...

Despite having a rough day, I gave myself an hour to write tonight before bed because I wanted to put my mind into something besides that which is work related. I had planned to write most of the weekend, but the muse was on vacation, I guess. I sat down to write several times, but not much came out. There was a period around Saturday evening that I did manage to pump about 600 words into the short story I am working on. Oddly enough, every time I put something into it, I wind up taking it right back out. The good thing is, after spending my writing time tonight shaving things down, I finally feel like the plot is ready to move forward.

Now that taxes are out of the way, I am diving into the writing tomorrow after work. I can't wait. I am still very much in love with the idea behind this short story and am dying to see it in completion. Even first draft completion.

I'm off to bed for now. Sweet dreams full of rich plot ideas.

The Internet is a Weird Place

When I was a kid, my mom was into the church, and a few times I remember hosting weird choir people from out of state at our house, because that is what you did back then. These days, I think about the funny things my daughter will remember when she is my age, like the weird guy from England we had stay with us when she was just 5 years old. One of my first, major internet experiences was with a group of people who were all fans of the same Brooklyn based band. We met on the official site, eventually branched off into our own site and had at least two "unofficial" get togethers right here in Pennsylvania.

During the first gathering, I invited one of the group members, a young man from England, to come and say with my family, so he could enjoy his time in America by saving some cash on a hotel. He was very pleasant, a lot of fun to talk to, but shortly after he stayed with us, I lost touch with him completely.

When the second gathering came around, I invited another young guy to come and stay with us because he didn't have a steady job and couldn't afford a hotel. Before he got here, he was excited about coming, and was really looking forward to meeting a dear friend of mine for the first time. Oddly enough, he was so shy that the experience was just uncomfortable. He left without even thanking us for letting him stay at our house, and though we kept in touch for a couple of years online, I eventually lost track of him as well.

I am blogging about this because it seems a strange thing. My parents rarely had total strangers come and stay at their home, much less people they met on the internet, but I can think of at least four times that I had complete, physical strangers come and stay in my home. One year, a friend who has become very dear to me over the last few years, flew me out to California at her own expense and put me up with her and her husband while we visited San Francisco. Before I stepped off the plane, we had never met in person.

I know there are dangers with meeting people online, but I enjoy meeting people. The internet has brought some of the most amazing people into my life over the last ten years, people I would never have had the pleasure of getting to know. I've worked with some, built empires with others, and plan to take over the world with a few.

What about you? Have you ever met anyone in person that you first knew online? What was your experience like? If you haven't, would you consider doing so?

Is the Key to Violence Awareness?

andrea 110
Originally uploaded by elward-photography

When I became a mother, a part of me shied away from the horror I had enjoyed all of my life. The years of reading Stephen King and watching bloody horror films... I suddenly realized that not only was I someone's mother and had to be a good influence, but that the horrific things in a lot of those movies were even scarier with a child to think about. This was even truer when it came to psychological thrillers like the original "Last House on the Left," and films of that caliper.

As she began to grow, and we started to return to some of the horrific things that had once attracted us like spectators at a train wreck, I heard more and more about horror and violence being responsible for outrageous societal horrors like Columbine. Then the so-called experts started saying that allowing children to watch television and film violence and experience violent video games desensitized them.

It's easy to fall for that when you have nothing in front of you to compare it to, but history is ripe with violence, including thousands of years of war, atrocities like the Spanish Inquisition, various witch trials and the Holocaust, and bloodthirsty killers like Elizabeth Bathory and Gilles de Rais, just to name two.

For centuries, human nature compelled mankind toward brutality, but as we became (supposedly,) more civilized, we started to cry out against the violence we carried with us from the very cradle of civilization itself.

As I grew into adulthood, having experienced some pretty evil things in my life, I was surprised to learn how many other people, men and women, who had suffered the same types of atrocities that had been committed against me as child. The more people I learned of this from, the more I started to think that the world itself was going mad.

Then it hit me. The world was always mad; we just have the means of telling more and more people about it thanks to the constant growth of communication and media. The truth is in our history, probably embedded in our very DNA. Mankind has been on a spiraling power struggle since he climbed up out of the swamps and staggered toward a cave. He stopped long enough to club his fellow cavechick on the head along the way, and dragged her off against her will. Another man came along, coveting the cavechick of his neighbor. The first brutal acts of rape and murder all within the first few hours of on two legs...

Yes, I realize I'm being blase about the whole thing, as if I know. I probably don't, but I do know that blaming television, films and video games for violent behavior is not the answer.

As a mother, I have always felt it was my top priority to be honest with my child about everything she asked me. If she asked about sex, I geared our conversation toward her age level. If she asked me about murder, I approached it from a standpoint she could digest. Opening the lines of communication with her when she was old enough to speak may seem like I didn't offer her much of a childhood, but she is so innocent compared to her group of friends. Her thirteen year old best friend just went through a pregnancy scare and was ready to commit suicide rather than tell her mother about it. We sat down and talked about the situation, the consequences and the behavior like human beings, and while I know she'll make her share of mistakes, I also feel confident that she would come to me, rather than commit suicide or homicide over them.

I know I've rambled along here, referencing some pretty crazy things that might even seem random to you, but communication is the key. I know it is. This last week, I found myself in a position no mother of a teenage girls wants to be in. A fifteen year old boy on the school bus was literally trying to molest my daughter. A fifteen year old boy whose parents don't pay attention to him, who has no sense of self or community. The really sad thing about the whole ordeal is that in reporting the incident, she finds herself "punished" by having to limit where "she" sits and goes. But the thing is, she came to me. She came and told me what was going on even though she was afraid I might resort to "violence" and murder the little bastard.


It all boils down to awareness and communication, maybe even a little bit of acceptance. Violence is a wretched thing, whether it's against our fellow human beings or even animals, but it does happen. Being made aware of the difference between what is real and acceptable and what is not acceptable at a young age may hold the power to make all the difference. Maybe I'm wrong. *shrugs* But I do know that my fourteen year old isn't going to be heading into school with a shotgun in her lifetime, no matter how much the jerks at school tease her.

Shakespeare in Repose

Shakespeare in Repose
Originally uploaded by jaochang

Times... they are changing. While some of us sit back and shudder in fear at the horrific possibilities for what's to come, others are fearlessly paving the path into the future.

I have blogged before about my decisions in college. I went back to school at 26 with the intention of getting a "real" career education in forensic psychology, but once I was on campus and taking my first writing class, the gloves came off and I fought back against that societal voice that told me I would never be able to sustain myself or my family as writer. I was told that there were only so many great writers in the world and the chances of becoming one of those who makes enough money to survive are slim to none.

The thing is, like many writers, I have known since I was a little girl that if I didn't write, I would die. Not some lame bodily death, not suicide, but a much more dramatic, inner-death. When I entered the workforce at 21 (yeah, I tried desperately to avoid conventional work even then,) I worked nights and came home every night after work and wrote my heart out because I would not allow the shackles of convention to hold me down.

It wasn't until college that I really started to find myself and my voice as a writer. With college came the confidence I needed, the awareness and that extra push to start sending my work out. The internet has reinforced all of that, and while it seems that the conventional literary world is crumbling down around us I see a light at the end of the tunnel.

That light has come in the last couple months, as I've been fortunate to have become acquainted with some incredibly talented and creative people through the internet. As I explored the worlds they created, I realized that those people had taken all they had inside them and pushed it back out into the world where it belonged. Conventions are no longer an option, whether it is in light of publishing or music. They've exhausted all resources available to them to get their work out there, working conventional jobs by day and pushing themselves hard by night to share themselves and their vision with the world.

Because that's what you do when you're creative. You put yourself out there and you shake the world into submission. I know in my heart that we have passed the brink and a new revolution in creativity is rapidly unfolding before us. Old cities of convention crumble beneath new boots, and a new empire rises from the rubble.

For those of you I know who have stepped into the chaos of this strange new world without trepidation (coughJames Melzercough}, your bravery both inspires and compels those us of still standing on the brink. Know that I am right behind you, both as a supporter and a fellow creator, ready to join in and help in the process of building this strange, new world.

It may not be the world we expected to grow up into, or that we dreamed of as children, but I think it'll be better.

He Whispers to Me While I Sleep

Lord Byron on his Death-bed
Originally uploaded by Kien Nguyen Photography

Lord Byron... ever since I was about thirteen years old I had a bizarre obsession with him, and not just his work, but him as a person. It occasionally rivaled with my fascination for Shelley, but for some reason Byron always wins out. While both had equally depressing volumes to offer before their deaths, Byron always felt more dangerous to me. In fact, as I mentioned yesterday I always thought the name George Gordon would fantastic for some Romantic obsessed serial murder. I've even had a few really creative ideas on how to insert Byron into fiction over the years, things both dark and hilarious that cannot be shared until the ideas are more complete.

The short story I am working on right now reminds me of Byron in the most twisted way. I had even named the main character George at first, but then upon realizing the connection changed it to give myself some distance and to let the character grow into his own personality.

The strange obsession has brought about the Byronic cycles that sometimes haunt me in my sleep. In the morning, just before I open my eyes and while still suspended in that web of some dream, I hear a voice whispering familiar poetry to me. This morning that voice said:


"Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity..."

Funny, but that is how I have always viewed dreams. A separate reality, a weight upon my waking thoughts that divides me into two beings. As a Gemini, that sense of duality has existed all of my life, and I walk a thin line between the dream world and the waking place most people consider every day life.

I'm sure that's all crazy to you... but I'm happy here. Wherever I am.

I've Been Committed to "The Brink"

J.C. Hutchins just sent me my commitment papers:



You can view the larger version, in which you can read about my illness and the crimes I committed against humanity Here

I also got this nifty avatar as a thank you for participating in the project:



My husband sent his own contribution in this morning, and was also committed to "The Brink."


You can see the expanded version and read all about his life as a sociopathic serial murderer here. His name really isn't George Gordon, or Lord Byron, but George Gordon is the best serial killer name EVER!

As I mentioned yesterday, you really should take a look at J.C. Hutchins' site and preorder his upcoming project, Personal Effects: Dark Art. This interactive novel experience will have you on the edge of your seat! Here is a blurb straight from the site:

"Set in a mental institution for hopeless dead-enders, Personal Effects: Dark Art chronicles the life of Zach Taylor, a young and optimistic art therapist. Gifted at his job, he uses his patients’ personal effects — the personal items cataloged during their admission to the hospital — to help decipher the secrets of their mental problems."

As a reader you will be able to call the numbers in the book, visit the websites and more. This promises to be an amazing experience, with excellent reviews by the likes of Scott Sigler, Anthony E. Zuiker, Daniel Myrick and several other talented horror aficionados.

If you haven't had a chance to check it out, please do. J.C. Hutchins will be offering more opportunities to get personally involved in "The Brink" over the next few weeks, so be sure to check the website often. What are you waiting for, go get committed already!

Because I'm a Lunatic

I am going to be submitting a piece of artwork to the patient files at "The Brink," part of J.C. Hutchins' upcoming thriller experience. You can find out more about Personal Effects by visiting J.C. Hutchins' website: Personal Effects


Update: I sat down with my oil pastels and created this hideously insane self portrait:

Formulating an Idea

John Singer Sargent: Countess Laura Spinola Nunez del Castillo
Originally uploaded by freeparking

One of the toughest things for me as a writer is getting the story out of my head. I realize that is probably a tough thing for a lot of writers. I can sit down and verbally tell an entire story from beginning to end, but when I am behind the keyboard it is extremely hard to put it down the way I originally saw it in my head. Now I know that it is all part of the process, that I need to expand on it once the original idea is out on paper, but my word! Tell my brain that, someone. I keep telling it that we will worry about expanding the details and polishing it up in the second draft, but my overactive brain keeps crying about how unfair it is that nothing comes out perfect the first time we write it down.

Does anyone else go through that? I've written entire novels in my head, all the way down to the most obscure details, but then had difficulty committing them to paper, and I really think that's why. I get upset that it doesn't come out the way I saw it in my head. But I learned while I was taking art classes in college that just because you draw something the first time and it doesn't come out like you saw it in your head, through the refining process you can mold and shape what you have produced into a masterpiece. I already know that the solution is telling my brain to chill out and just write already! My word! Worry about the details once you have a solid base to work from.

The story I am working on has an air of Romantic Horror, though I plan for it to be bloodier and somewhat more twisted than any Romantic horror I ever read in college. There will be a portrait of an Elizabeth Bathory inspired Countess, a young man with murder on his mind and the obvious hand of the devil orchestrating the goriest acts of the story. It'll be a short story, and I have special plans for it, so here's hoping it all comes together as I have seen it in my head (at least by the end of the revisions process anyway!)0

I finally got the paint I needed to do the full moon on the bedroom wall. I'm pleased with how it turned out. We will now gradually add stars to the ceiling, possibly have a few trickle down into the clouds. Pictures upcoming. I have about sixty pics I need to tinker with in photoshop since my niece just had her fourth birthday party on Thursday. Once I get a spare moment to do that, I will add the photos I took of the moon.

Lastly, I was saddened today to read that Nicholas Hughes, son of the famous poetess Sylvia Plath, committed suicide this weekend. To have lived under the weight of such a tremendous shadow, more than likely with the strange guilty burden of his mother's suicide... so sad indeed. I think I will write a poem about it later.

I'm off now to get on the treadmill after a lazy day of reading, napping and writing, and then I want to get some more writing done before bed. I hope you all had a lovely, stress-free weekend.