Tag Archives: writing

38,458 of ??? #writeathon

265 words today.

Why I’m Writing for the Clarion West Writeathon

In my journey as a writer, I’ve been plugging away at short stories and have tried my hand at self-publishing. The next peak to scale is my first novel. I’m just over 38,000 words so far, and I’m hoping to land it at around 43,000+.

I’ve been eyeing the annual Clarion West summer workshop for a couple of years now as a way to help take my writing to a new level, but I’ve had way too much going on in my life to justify applying to attend.

I have found a way to participate vicariously, and that’s through their concurrent write-a-thon. I’ve signed up this year as a way to motivate myself towards applying for next year and to help them raise some funds for future workshops and scholarships.

My goals are twofold: help them raise a few dollars and prod myself to finish my novel so I can bring in the draft for my second novel next year.

If you’ve enjoyed reading my short stories and poetry here, I’d appreciate it if you’d sponsor me. I’d really appreciate it.

I’ll be posting updates under the writeathon tag, so you can follow along.

Thank you!

Chris

37,653 of ???

Writing again…finally. 425 words over the past two days.

Mute

I have vignette writer’s block.

Everything’s a one-way trap right now. The world tumbles into my brain, sloshes around, and generates all sorts of feelings and sometimes snippets of thoughts, but I’m unable to form any sort of narrative.

It’s the evoked memory of feeling carefree as a child while looking at electric blue Forget-Me-Nots against a field of green, but having no story around that memory other than the moment of standing there, looking at at flowers.

It’s the undifferentiated rage that erupts past the seams of many layered, buried, and compartmentalized moments of anger across a lifetime, triggered by something completely outside of my control, leaving me shouting demonic gibberish at the universe in my inability to articulate anything coherent.

It’s the tender moment of a son reaching for my hand as we lay down together for a nap.

It’s the juxtaposition of a sublime, solitary pleasure while harvesting oysters and enjoying the wonders of the varied life in the tide flats contrasted with the unsolvable horror of turning to see the shore swarming with people and realizing I’m part of the swarm decimating the environment.

It’s the lost in time drowse, unsure if the memory gliding through is from today or years past.

It’s feeling the inevitable pull when looking at a demographic chart and noticing I’m already halfway or more, if I’m lucky.

Each moment a dewdrop that evaporates with the rising sun, but there’s no story to tie them together. No story at all.

Fire

Sour swain scallywags sauntered slowly southward, while wains with waifs watched woefully.

Ash blew corkscrew designs, embers flickered grotesquely. Haltingly, Ichabod joined keening laborers, mournfully nailing open pastureland. Quails rushed sidelong, thrashing under view, westerly. Xeric yellow zephyrs zoomed, yawling xebec-like, whooshing virulently. Undeterred, Tom sought rare quiescence, perspiring. Orange nightmares mocked, leaping knolls, jumping isthmus hedgerows, growing. Firefighters erratically doused cornrows, bathing alluvium.

“There it is again!” a woman screamed while pointing towards the inferno. All eyes turned towards the fiery vortex. Through the haze, twin red eyes glowing like ruby lighthouse lenses could be seen surveying its doom.

“All is lost! All is lost!” a farmer cried.

The beast roared. It roared in triumphant anger and satisfaction, and exhaled Hell upon the land, hotter and hotter.

Screams joined the atmosphere with the smell of burnt animal fleshes and acrid smoke, and then were drowned out with the greater conflagration as they were consumed like fuel.