Back in 2014 I found myself in a weird place. I knew I wanted to write. I’m told by some of my readers that I’m not half bad at it, so I keep doing it. But, I felt like I was neglectful. I wasn’t writing regularly. I’d completed two manuscripts and stalled out on a third. It was torturous kind of work. I loved the spinning of the tale, but often I’d feel like I’d written myself into a corner. Or that I’d been spewing out so much work that no one would ever want to read any of it.
In 2010-2011 I believe, I was involved with a few creative writing classes from the Liar’s Club. I took two of their classes – Novel In Nine Months and a short story workshop. I learned a lot in both – but the short story class really got me going. I worked regularly. I really enjoyed it.
So, as I slid half-drunkenly into 2015 I thought that maybe it was time to try something new. The short stories came easily and often left room for larger ideas. And more importantly, writing short stories was really, really fun.
With that in mind, I decided to make a resolution right there and then. Some people resolve to lose weight. Others to stop smoking. Some even go to wholly redefine themselves.
I wanted to refine myself.
All for one reason.
If you wanna be a writer, you gotta write. And I wasn’t writing enough.
So I came up with some starting rules:
1 – Write a short story for every week of 2015, with 52 stories in total.
2 – Keep them as short as you can. 3,000 words max (learn to kill your darlings)
3 – Publicly post my work to keep me on track and honest.
And so began a year of work. Here’s what I learned 145,140 words later.
Rules Suck
Not gonna lie – those first weeks were hard. Really hard. I banged out three stories in the first week and thought I’d gotten a good head start. After that, it became a kind of race. Sticking to the rules was not always easy, and sometimes, they changed, got bent, or all around became unrealistic. When my grandfather was on the edge of death in February and when he eventually died later that year in August, those deadlines became impossible. So I had to adapt the challenge if it was going to work.
Guidelines are Better
I decided that Wednesdays were going to be my target story release days if all went well. It didn’t necessarily matter if the stories came out each week – it was more important that I had fifty-two stories (one for each week) at the end of the year. Additionally, the rule to keep stories short was a good one. Those first few weeks I was actually stricter than I thought. I’d set the rules for 3,000 words max but was paring down to below 2,000. It taught me to keep things concise and to get to the point, but once I got that down, I let the words come back slowly – I just tried to make each word count and it’s immensely helped.
I Hit Consistent Goals
Looking back on things, I realize that I achieved what I was looking to attain. There’s fifty-two stories, and when I take the total number of words (145,000 approx.) and divide it by fifty-two weeks, you get an average word count of 2,788 – which is beneath my desired 3,000 per story word count. I have some that go over (highest I think was a bit higher than 5,000 words) but some were in the 1,800’s when I was really learning how to cut out unnecessary crap. Obviously I have fifty-two stories. Plus, I kept the world informed of progress while I did it.
This is one of the first times I’ve made a plan and stuck with it.
I Failed a Couple Goals – And That’s Okay
I did of course meet with some failures.
The most consistent personal failures I feel came in terms of some stories not feeling like fully fledged stories so much as a glimpse into a larger world. Nano Noir and the Road stories come to mind – but the good news is that in these vignettes, I do feel like I latched onto something larger. There’s a deeper story waiting to be told about Kyle, Butch, Slim, and Auntie Bellum. Nano Noir has an entire arc all ready in my head to be laid out and tweaked.
Additionally, I feel like I sometimes phoned the work in. There are some weeks I just didn’t feel creative as I’d like. Sometimes the Script I used to create stories didn’t jive or I’d start writing them and have to junk it when things didn’t work out right. I could expound on which stories to me were awful – but I’d rather not. You can figure that out on your own I imagine, reader. And, like my dad kept telling me: “Don’t preface things by saying ‘this isn’t my best work’ because no one will read the damn things.”
So, from those failures, I have learned lessons and can begin to correct them.
I Found Out a Lot About My Shortcomings
There are things I am goddamned terrible at. I’ve learned that for some reason, my body is trained to say the same thing twice – sometimes three times – under the false pretense that it adds emphasis. It’s a bad habit I have no idea where I picked it up from. The challenge helped me find it, recognize it, and start gunning it down. It still crops up here and there, but I’m getting better at it.
I also know my most villainous typos, common turns of phrase, and that a lot of the time my first person perspectives often sound too alike.
The great thing about finding out your shortcomings though is that once they’re out and running around your keyboard you can smash the little bastards with a hammer, then get back to writing.
Quite A Bit of My Effort Is Pointless
I sat down with one of my alpha readers at a book club meeting and we got to talking about process as we often do (he being a creative as well). He was really kind of surprised when I told him one of the big things I learned: write the story, then take about the first thousand words out and start there.
I remembered having the same reaction the first time I heard this myself back in the Liar’s Club classes. Can’t remember which teacher told us this – but it’s true. My first thousand words are almost always warm up that doesn’t really convey anything important to the reader. By the time I’m a thousand words in, that’s where interesting stuff is finally happening. Scene setting (different from world building) for me isn’t really important as it was to me any longer. Start with action or dialog. Get people invested in that first paragraph. Sometimes I can hack that stuff out from the get go, and other times I have to murder a thousand words to get things right.
I have learned a lot about killing the proverbial darlings in my life. And I’m getting better every day.
The World Can’t Be the Only Thing Fantastic
Another friend of mine at that very same book club meeting had read my published short stories Kowloon-M and Halfway House and honed in on another realization.
I’ll paraphrase him here – we had all had a beer or two by this point (great benefit of meeting for book club at a bar). He said: Kowloon-M and Halfway House are great setting pieces – but your characters should come through just as developed. Shift your focus a little. Take as much time building them as people as you do building the fantastic circumstances.
He’s right too. When I look back through my stories, the setting and world build the crux of the story while characters facilitate it. To do better, I need to turn that equation around. Let the characters drive through the world and expose it. And make sure those characters have more drive and motivation. Short stories don’t give a lot of room for development – but it doesn’t mean it can’t be done and it’s a goal.
Apparently, I’m a Horror Writer
This is something I think I always knew, but the challenge brought it out where I could see it. As I’ve been writing these stories, I take the finished process and collate them into Scrivener which manages all of my serious work in a manageable format. It’s how got my final word count and how I divided my efforts up into three general categories: fantasy, science-fiction, and horror.
Surprise! Horror was the biggest category by a landslide. Twenty-three of the stories – almost half – were based around a concept rooted in the macabre. I had one reader actually tell me that when she read ‘Now, Watch,’ that she couldn’t get past a particular scene where there was a rather detailed and gruesome description of someone unsuccessfully trying to keep a nasty wound closed. Another told be they got goosebumps at the end of ‘Take Only One.’ Clearly, I have the capacity to give people the willies.
And, weirdly enough, I enjoy writing those stories. That may sound pretty messed up – but there’s something very cathartic about the horror writing process. I learned a lot about horror these past two years. My girlfriend almost died of a severe pulmonary illness. My mother was struck by a car and developed severe problems with vertigo. Both grandparents rapidly deteriorated and ended up in hospice care or nursing facilities, then died. So much fear and dread and terror built up in me. If I have to have those wretched experiences, I figure I ought to make them useful. These topics and more, old anxieties, unspoken fears, and my always present fear of the unknown pour themselves out into the pages. I’ve learned that if you want to scare the living shit out of people, you have to write about what personally scares you. Death itself, the process of it, loss of control, watching people change suddenly and drastically – it’s bad enough I have these fears, but letting them cling on uselessly?
I plan to chain those things up in words. Put them out there where I can see them like I have with my shortcomings in craft. There’s something about the idea of everything in the process, including my fears, being out in the open that appeals. Because once you can see a thing and can label it, you’ve taken the power of the unknown from it. They’re just as ugly of course, but once everything’s in front of you… you can start dealing with all of it.
You Have To Let Yourself Write What Feels Like Crap Some of the Time
This was hard to learn. But there came times when a story had to come up because it was deadline time, or I was already a week or two behind. Part of the challenge was accountability, and when you are forcing yourself to write, you sometimes don’t come up with the best stuff.
I’ll be the first to admit – I hate some of these stories. I won’t go into specifics, but I really didn’t like some of what came up. Some of my readers did – which stuns me a little. But, it has come to show me that even if it’s not your favorite, people may love it. I’m told that Tchaikovsky absolutely hated The Nutcracker Suite and wished he’d never written it, but every damned Christmas, the world pulls it out and parades it around. Perhaps I’ve written a few Nutcrackers of my own.
But, this bridges into…
There’s Nothing You Can’t Edit Later
I’m multi-disciplined when it comes to creative stuff. I went to school for training to become an Animator. I have always loved the visual arts (my first artistic love as it were). I’m trained in design. I can draw. If you put a gun to my head, I might even be able to paint you something in acrylic. I’ve done graphic design for print and television, I can take pretty good photos without a big need for equipment. But, all of those mediums seem harder to fix in post than with writing.
I can’t count how many times I had to crumple up a paper or throw away illustration board or waste a canvas because I messed something up so badly it could not be fixed or covered up. With writing, if I have crap in front of me, I can fix it. In writing, turds can actually be polished with enough drafts. There’s almost never a need to entirely go back to the drawing board because you can raise the corpse of your present story. Amputate its limbs, cut off its head, and rebuild from a tiny sampling of guts – it’s not always easy, but nothing ever worth doing really is.
I Love This
This is something I already knew, but it drove it home. I love this. You can’t be a writer without loving the act of writing. You wouldn’t spend several hours over the course of a week doing it if you didn’t (time in schooling being discounted, mostly). There’s so much other stuff you could be doing – but you find yourself writing, putting one word down after another and you feel something inside you stretching and moving and being born. Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth, other times it’s like taking a piss after drinking half a six-pack. But, in both cases, I’m never quite as happy as when I’m in front of a keyboard for the explicit purpose of writing things that I hope people will enjoy.
I want to make this my living some day.
New Goals
And it’s taught me that I need to set goals. I work better with deadlines. I work better with accountability. I work better with friends and family reading my work as I go forward. So I’m going to take what I’ve done this year and run with it. I think I have enough work in here for at least two anthologies and I’m setting out my goals here.
In the first three months of 2016, my goal is to select twelve of the stories seen on my Writing Challenge page. I wish to pull them down from the site (sorry – this is a part of the process that has to happen) and get to tweaking. To making them the best stories I can possibly write.
In the fourth through sixth month, I intend to format them, then shop them around. I want to be able to have an anthology of my favorites – most likely from the horror category.
After that, I guess right now the goal is to keep writing. To keep the momentum moving. I may not be placing the stories here, but I want to do an article a week to go over progress or any daft notions that come through my head about the craft of writing or my process. I want to be out there with people from the Delaware Writer’s Group, to Reconnect with the Liar’s Club Coffee House. This should be the year of trying to become a professional at this.
An Invitation To Come With Me
Come with me through the process – because writing shouldn’t be a solitary process. As I’ve also discovered, it’s good to be with others doing the same as I have come to most Monday nights over at a friend’s place.
Thanks and Acknowledgements
There are so many people I really need to thank for the past year’s support and encouragement.
Mom and Dad – Dad, you always get around to the stories and you always have some kind of feedback, good or ill. Mom, you don’t always read the stories (sometimes, this is a good thing) but you always are on me to keep doing this because I love it.
My Girlfriend – You’re always willing to read my stuff right after I write it (unless you’re already asleep) and always ready to tell me without any reservation what works for you and what doesn’t.
Steve Myers (Premiere Alpha Reader) – For extended review sessions and telling me what I need to hear sometimes. Your input is always appreciated!
The Extended List of Alpha Readers – God there’s a lot of you. I’ve received a lot of feedback from the following folks: Dan Bogart, Jacob Jones-Goldstien, Nick Leamy, and Dan Lynn to name a few.
My Teachers – Janice Gable Bashman, Don Lafferty, Marie Lamba, Jonathan Maberry, Jon McGoran, and Dennis Tafoya to name a few.
The Monday Night Crew – Patrick Conlon, Marcella Harte-Conlon, Jacob Jones-Goldstein, Nick Leamy and Steve Myers (Double dipping here to be sure – but they’ve earned it).
I won’t get into details, but today has sucked. But, in a weird moment while I was waiting at a red light, I took a moment to look at rain spattering on my windshield. It’s been colder as Autumn is slowly giving way to Winter. My windshield was cold, not quite frosty, but enough to affect the fluid dynamics of the glass in front of me. I watched as a rain drop his the perimeter of one of those weird zones of demarcation that are byproducts of the weather. The drop headed down as it inexorably gave in to gravity. It did so in a slow and long arc. I watched as it made its way down and then the light changed.
As I sped up, I watched the dynamic again. The speed increased and the water reversed course. It suddenly had no other trajectory but up and fast. No gentle declines, no passive force.
Motion, moving forward. That changes everything.
If we’re not moving, we’re letting things drag us down. Water will always find the lowest point – but only if you stop acting on it. With enough forward momentum, you can make water defy its nature.
With enough speed and dedication to moving forward, you can reverse the course of anything.
If you stay parked, you’ll just keep falling.
Good reminder, that.
So, I’m plugging away at my day job when a friend of mine sends me a private message.
‘How many words?’ it reads.
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
So I write back the most creative response that I can think of: ‘What?’
And he says ‘NaNo!’
It’s no secret – the second manuscript I ever completed was a NaNoWriMo project. It was an amazing experience. I went for it again the next year and got really close to target but nowhere close to the end of the story. The year after that it proved to be too much. It’s difficult to juggle a life filled with work, a girlfriend, family, and a thousand plus words a day.
So, this year, I decided I wasn’t even gonna stand on pretense.
I’m not doin’ it.
I already have a challenge of my own and it’s a hundred and ten thousand words approximately. It’s been going on for a year and… NaNo taught me stuff. But I think I grew out of it. I had to find a new way to challenge myself that could be managed. And I’m eight stories away from hitting the goal.
When I get to the end, I’ll be sure to keep you posted on what the new challenges taught me. It’s a lot.
And I’m loving it.
When I was a kid, it seemed like the world was gonna get a whole lot of neat stuff down the pipeline. And you know, we even got some of it. Sure, our parents have been griping about a lack of flying cars (like they were promised) though honestly I can say that is a blessing in disguise. The average motorist isn’t in very good control of their vehicle, and honestly, adding a third axis to their navigation duties would be less awesome than it might seem.

You think GEICO had you over a barrel before? Wait ’til you see the premium on this brand new Ford Deathtrap, George.
My generation got computers. We got video games. We got the internet. We have video phones, and two-day shipping. We have more safety built into the things we love. We got advances in medicine. Cybernetic prosthesis. Sure – a lot of it costs an arm, a leg, and the promise of your firstborn child, but these things are here.

Now toss in a couple of limbs and we’ll call it even. Don’t even care if they’re yours (the limbs or the baby so long as its firstborn).
But, there’s one thing that we’re simply not getting, and with every passing day, it becomes more and more clear that the thing so many of us wanted will be outside of our reach unless we see a quantum leap in terms of longevity and quality of life in said longevity. And that thing is the stars.
From the birth of my generation, we had a guy in a god-awful turtleneck telling us all about this amazing place outside of our gravity well. A realm of infinite exploration. A place where we could unravel the mysteries of our world – and countless others. Our parents’ generation even got to go to our moon. Our freaking moon. Knowing that human feet have set foot on it, put flags there, and left at least one golf ball, I know it made me want to go there. I can’t look at photos from the Moon, Mars or even Venus without saying ‘what would it be like to see that in person?’
As a result, I loved reading about this kind of stuff as a kid. Between shuttle launches, space broadcasts, a trip to Kennedy Space Center, I’d digest my fair share of fiction and non-fiction. I’d possibly credit this as to why I only found the fantasy side of the science fiction/fantasy section at the bookstore so late. I was watching science fiction happen on television. Watched it become real, if with fewer laser beams, invading aliens, artificial gravity, and all of the rest of it.
Sometime in the late nineties though, it all kind of started to fade. We were still sending up missions. The ISS was starting to become a thing. But the longer people looked around and the worse the economy got, it seemed fewer people were enthused about spending money on space or a shuttle program. Not with so many earth based problems around us.
But, the aforementioned turtleneck savior, Carl Sagan was always telling us that the problems here on earth were shortsighted if humanity was going to do anything other than scrape by:
If our long-term survival is at stake, we have a basic responsibility to our species to venture to other worlds. Sailors on a becalmed sea, we sense the stirring of a breeze.
— Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space, 1994
Yet, decline the program did. There are days that I think the only reason NASA is still around is to make sure that NOAA and our armed forces are still collecting data from somewhere in orbit. That and to make sure that the satellites are still in enough working order to zap pornography between continents who so desperately need it.
As we stopped covering space so closely, as we started to focus on the practical, I suppose that’s about the time I finally bellied up to the bar and read Tolkien for the first time in college. I branched out into all sorts of stuff. Space was briefly forgotten in the lands of the fantastical that are likely to stay fantastical. I doubt I will ever see an elf. Minas Tirith is not under construction (yet). Neither the Underdark or the Feywild are real places, and while some people may claim to be Harry Dresden, those people are full of shit.
I spent a long time in the realm of the fantastical. I got to know a broader group of writers. Stephen Brust, Jim Butcher, Scott Lynch, Brandon Sanderson, and lots of others. There’s an appeal to Magic. It’s a nice, tidy way to plug the holes and caulk the cracks of the world we live in. It takes no proof. It’s just a thing out there. And it makes wonderful stories – even if it isn’t real.
But, as of late, I’ve come back to some of my original loves. I credit it mostly at this point on the backs of a couple of good titles: Leviathan Wakes for one, and also from some classics like Frontera. With the recent missions to Mars and the flyby on Pluto, I look to the stars and wonder again. As I read my science fiction, I am again reminded that science fiction has so much to practically offer. While Star Trek is not something I really love, it informed our modern technology. Smartphones? Tricorders – you’re welcome. Videophones. Yep, that too. Transparent Aluminum? Actually a real thing now.
I think it’s why I’ve always loved Science Fiction – you can look at it with both wonder and horror and think to yourself, this is possible. Fantasy is nice, but maybe, just maybe, we’ll see sci-fi come around in our lives.
So, buck up, readers. We might not get that sweet house on the moon we always dreamed of. But maybe our kids might.
So, here we are. Six months later, halfway through. The writing challenge has gone better than I ever anticipated it would. To be honest, I thought this would be the kind of thing that would peter out in three weeks, another self imposed thing that I would find falling by the wayside in three weeks.
But, here I am. Twenty-six stories all in place. Some are fragmentary as more than a few test readers noted, smaller parts or vignettes of larger works. Some are full formed, beginning, middle, end. Some are better than others. Unfortunately, all stories are not created equal.
But, I’ve been rolling around the whole thing in my head and I’ve been planning this for a few weeks. There’s a new benchmark I’m looking to meet.
The second half of the challenge will look a lot like the first part. I’ll be putting out a short a week right up until 2016. That will not change. What will change is the Writing Challenge page.
You’ll note that I’ll be un-linking some of the short stories at some point in the future. My goal is to select twelve stories from the challenge, a little under half of the stories to date, and continue revision or possibly even expanding some of the tales that I feel are the strongest or that people have been good enough to advocate for.
After that, I will begin seeking publication of the story as an anthology, either traditionally or electronically.
That’s the plan.
So, with that said, I’m going to be goddamned busy. Wish me luck.
It was a good weekend – kind of. There were definitely highlights and good times, but the part of this weekend that has profoundly affected me most was a spur of the moment decision.
I believe I’ve mentioned before that my grandmother on my Mom’s side is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s Disease. She’s been in an inpatient facility for the better part of a year now. I have not visited her as much as I ought, nor have my cousins. We talked about it – it’s just hard, unbearably so, to do it. I know that whenever I go, I have a bastard of a time afterward. Puffy eyes. Scratchy throat. My mind crunches down on hard facts, and it won’t let go. It’s not good. I cannot describe the sadness.
So, I finally went to see her again after a long time without having done so.
I could say the decision was made because I love her – and I do. But, it was guilt more than anything else. My grandparents love us. And just because it’s hard seeing her in the home doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it as often as I have the chance.
So, I pulled in for a visit a little after 11:30. I signed in, took the long walk down the halls to her room and found her there, eyes closed, chewing on a bit of her lunch, most of it uneaten. She’s a wisp of a thing now. She’s lost most of her weight and she doesn’t move around a lot. I pulled up a chair quietly, and let her chew for a bit. She never really stopped and I never really saw her swallow whatever it was – pork maybe?
After a while, I spoke to her as gently as I could. She asked who was there – her eyes were open, but far away, glassy. I told her that it was her grandson, LB (shorthand for Little Burt – a name we used frequently in childhood to differentiate between me and my father).
She said in a shaky voice: I have a grandson?
And in that one sentence, you can see all of the terror of this disease.
But, I was undeterred. I held her hand – the stunted one that never developed correctly in the womb before she was born. She never really liked people to do that, but it was the hand I could reach and she didn’t fight me. It was surprisingly warm.
Continuing to hold her hand, I told her it was Little Burt again and she came out of what I’ve come to call Nanaland a little. Little Burt. she echoed. Immediately followed by You have a girlfriend, right?
I told her I did. She smiled a lot then. Said my girlfriend’s name. It’s amazing what she does and doesn’t remember.
We chatted a little now and then. I asked if she’d like a bird feeder outside the window, provided the care facility would let us. She seemed to like that, and then we just kind of talked about whatever came to her mind.
And then, the strangest thing happened. She just says out of nowhere: we never got to know each other very well did we?
I felt sadness and a bit of shame at that. Because in a way, that was my fault. Nan immediately brought up my other grandmother who fought jealously for time with me. My Nan and Pop on my mother’s side had all the time in the world when my older sis was born, and they doted on her and spent a lot of time with her and built up a connection I never had. The day I was born, my paternal grandmother just pushed Nan and Pop out of the way saying this one is mine. She literally said that. And it was so.
Both of my grandmothers were real pistols.
But it wasn’t just my paternal grandmother that caused the rift – though she affected it. The other half was me.
I was nineteen when Nana Hopkins passed. It affected me profoundly. I had never lost someone in my almost-adult life who was so close. And it hurt. It hurt so badly I can’t adequately describe it. And I decided that I would never, ever feel that way again. It thought wasn’t worth the pain.
I was stupid. A dumb, hurt kid, making a dumb, hurtful decision.
I disassociated myself from my remaining grandparents because I was hurt and scared. I didn’t want to feel that pain and suffering again. It was an awful feeling, hitting me at about the worst time it could. I was in a bad relationship, I was in college, away from my family for the first time. I had nothing. It was the dead of winter. The heady mix of hormones, late teen angst, and the crushing pressure of reality and being something not grown up but no longer a child made me think that I knew how to handle things best in my own life.
And I pushed them away. I pushed for… I don’t know how long.
Long enough that Nan noticed.
I have never felt so ashamed.
But I held her hand. I let her know that yes – we didn’t get to know each other as well as we might have liked. But I let her know that I love her. That I always have. All of the grandchildren. Even if we were lautenspaker (sp – I am told it is the Danish word for ‘shitkicker’ which contextually translates to a profane version of ‘troublemaker’). She called all of us that, and she smiled and said who taught you that word?
I told her she did. She smiled again. I added that she loved all of us to spite being lautenspaker, that it was hard not to love a lautenspaker. She nodded.
I lost it – that chance to know her. I lost it a long time ago. The disease that ravages her mind and body now started whittling away at her a long time ago. In the past ten or so years, her famous temper was quick to come out, quick to wound, quick to humiliate or hurt. She’d always had the tongue of a viper and swore like a sailor – ironic given how even-tempered my Pop is, and that he was actually a sailor. It’s one of the first signs – the abusive streak in behavior is the hallmark first symptom I’m told. So even when I was able to see her outside of the confines of a home… she was already not really all my grandmother any longer.
I offered to stay a while longer. She told me it was okay, that I should go. I want you to live your life she said to me.
I kissed her on the forehead and said goodbye.
When I signed out it was only twenty minutes later.
It always feels like much longer, but time is illusory. You never can accurately hold it in your mind. You don’t get enough of the good, and get more than you ask for when you’d rather not. Even when the brain is working, memory distorts, it gets away from you.
Time got away from me. I had it. And in a moment of youthful pain, I forsook it.
But, I think my grandmother and I… we worked it out – and I think, I hope, she forgave me.
There’s still time I guess. I hope to see her again soon.
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