Inspiration comes from a lot of places. A snatch of song on the radio, a phrase overheard on the street, the title of a book or blog. Some people get it from watching the OwlBox. Some people get it from staring off into space and waiting for divine lightning to strike. For me, for this story, it came from a blog.
Every week, Chuck does a column called “Painting With Shotguns“; it’s a catchall column where he talks about the miscellaneous things that have caught his attention throughout the week, and things he thinks his readers should check out. The column itself isn’t what’s important, the title is.
See, this week, the title caught my attention in a way it never has before. I started to wonder exactly how a person would go about painting with a shotgun, and what kinds of situations might arise from it. Me being me, I couldn’t do a story about a Gallagher-style artist who shoots paint-filled watermelons. No, my mind went darker places, and my fingers on the keyboard followed.
This story is not lighthearted. In fact, it’s downright disturbing. You can find it after the jumpcut.
Remember, I warned you.
A few weeks ago, I posted a #FlashFriday fic that started off, “The dragon selling hotdogs on the corner gave me the 411 on the dead unicorn.” It was a silly little fluff piece I listed under the heading “Suicidal Unicorns”. I had no intention of ever doing anything with it again (though I said I might someday), but the story just wouldn’t leave me alone.
This second flash installment weighs in a little longer than the first one, at around 950 words.
Back by popular request — here’s lookin’ at you, Julie — I give you the second installment of what I’m now calling Dead Unicorn Bridge.
When we left Mason, he was investigating the possible suicide of a unicorn named George who had either thrown himself or been thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge. The hotdog vendor, an unnamed dragon with questionable adherence to health code standards, gave Mason a lead to check: the unicorn’s live-in virgin, a girl named Sunshine, who’d left George the previous week for a guy she met online. With this information in hand, Mason returned to his car, hoping against hope that his elven partner would still be inside it, instead of out chasing butterflies and talking to flowers.
The story continues after the jump.
This isn’t going to be a how-to post on writing; I’m not nearly full of myself enough to do one of those. I have no real writing credits under my belt, and I lack the energy to get really in depth on how I feel you should go about scribbling down words and getting them printed. And hopefully be paid for doing so. No, I’m not that girl. What I am is someone who’s struggling along with trying to find my own pace and place in the world o’ writing.
If you want to read a blog about tips and tricks to help you learn how to write, this is not the place for it. Try over at Chuck Wendig’s place; he’s a shameless hussy who sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, even though he smells slightly like guacamole and stale beard. Publisher sites like Tor, Harlequin, agency websites, Google searches for “how to write [whatever genre/style]”; finding appropriate podcasts. Individual authors’ websites often contain links to helpful articles, some of them even written by the authors themselves. The #amwriting community at Twitter has a billion and two links on advice and helpful tips run through it per hour. Research is your friend, my friend. Do some.
No, this blog is none of that. This blog is opinion-based, and thus is biased towards me. If this is helpful to you, great! What a serendipitous thing! If not, too bad. It’s not meant to be, and fuck you if you think it is.
This was originally supposed to be the day I posted a review of something in the entertainment industry – a novel, a TV show, a movie, a game – and I had one almost ready to go last night. Close to two thousand words on The Gathering Storm, the latest instalment of The Wheel of Time series… and then MS Word took a giant shit and crashed out, then refused to let me auto-recover the auto-saved file. It even refused to let me bring back to life the saved copy I had, instead reverting to an earlier saved draft because of some sort of “corruption” in the file.
Six hundred words do not an adequate post make.
Then I was going to post a review of the last season of Lost since the next and final season begins Tuesday night, but halfway through, I realized that I just hadn’t watched it recently enough to adequately be able to sum up all the shit that happened with the time-travelling and Jesus-like resurrections and the Jughead nuke and the near-dozen or so characters they didn’t ignore for the entire season.
Yet, this is why I have a shit-ton of bandwidth. I fully expect that I’ll use up a couple of gigs of it tonight and tomorrow night rewatching the last handful of episodes of Season 5, just as a refresher as to exactly what the fuck is happening on that island.
So. Tomorrow on Monday Review: Lost in Cyberspace.
I know, my wit is lacking today. Fuck off, I’ve only had one cup of tea.
So today, instead of a Sunday Review, I’ve decided to offer up a piece of fiction from the depths of my Documents folder. Hopefully, by offering more and more of this every week, I’ll actually be motivated to finish the fucking thing off. It’s a sci-fi piece, but it’s not hard sci-fi. I call it:
Infinite Space in a Box