The Confabulator Cafe

Author: abaker

  • This Year vs. Last

    I can’t help but compare this years Nano to last years.  If I was less lazy, I would go to the Nano website, look at the chart for last year, and compare it to this year.  But I already know what it will show.  Last year I was either ahead or close to on pace to finish my novel on time.  This year, I am not.

    Last year, I wrote with a purpose.  I had a specific goal in mind.  Maybe some day I’ll even share that goal.  This year, my story doesn’t really have a purpose.  Or rather, it does, but it’s vague and hard to grab onto and more general then specific.  I’m finding this to be a much harder way to write a story.

    Actually, the writing is fine.  It’s the giving a crap about the story that’s the problem.  Without a specific focus to achieve, it’s hard for me to write, even when, like now, I’m sitting at my computer with nothing better to do.

  • You’ve Lost That Nano Feeling

    Nano Battle Report, Day Five.  Behind on word count, though not insurmountably so.  Have only been caught up on one day so far.  Never fear though, I shall intrepidly plow my way through this.

    First, a reflection.  Last year, I planned a whole month before Nano.  I made an outline.  A good outline.  One that I was quite pleased with.  And when I started writing, I followed said outline.  It took me exactly where I needed to be: 30 days, a beginning, middle, and end, and 50,006 words.  The plan and outline strategy worked so well that I decided to do something completely different.

    Different is going through some growing pains.  My story this year isn’t as focused as last year.  In fact, lots of it are quite rambling and stream of conscious.  I have several different stories going on at once, a man living a string of fantasies that may reflect real life, or they may become real life, or they may have nothing to do with real life.  I haven’t decided yet.  Mostly because the fantasies are much easier to write then the real life bits.

    Next year, remind me to outline.

  • Narration in The Hunger Games

    First person narration is a style that has its pluses and minuses. While restricting the reader’s perspective to one person lets us get to know that one individual better, it usually limits our view of the wider world and leaves other characters flat and uninteresting. When comparing the book and movie version of The Hunger Games, the central theme is how each media uses Katniss as the narrator.

    A quick confession, I saw the movie before I read the book. I know, I know, a shame onto my family. While the book confines itself to Katniss’ point of view the entire time, one of the advantages of the movie is the ability to follow other characters around. The time spent in The Capital is particularly enhanced by not being stuck in Katniss’ head. The behind-the-scenes look at The Hunger Games give us a different look at what the Games really are about. While reading it’s easy to become focused on surviving, because that is what Katniss is focused on. The movie never lets the viewer forget that it is just a game to most the people.
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  • The Ship

    The kid reminded me of myself, so long ago. The way he leaned against the railing was the way I leaned against the railing, back when leaning against things was something done out of convenience instead of necessity. His eyes moved quick over the pods, trying to count them all, to take it all in, just like I did when I first woke up.

    “How many are there?” he asked. It was my first question too.

    “In this room, sixty five thousand, five hundred and thirty six.” I knew he wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t believe it at first either, until I had counted them, adding my mark to each pod in order to keep track of them. My mark, added to the hundreds that already decorated each pod.

    The expected second question came. “How many rooms?”
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  • Storms

    The small child curled tightly under his blanket as the storm raged. The thunder rattled his bedroom window, the lightning flashing so bright it penetrated his blanket and his closed eyelids. Downstairs another storm was picking up tempo, the roars of of the tempest underneath him making him huddle tighter, his arms futilely covering his ears.

    Outside, God showed his disdain for the boy’s room, fierce winds whipping the hard rain and hail against the side of his window. He knew the storm was trying to get in, that it would batter his window until the glass shattered. Then it would get him. The storm would reach in with its cold, wet arms and plunk him, fighting and screaming from his bed, dragging him into the dark. Only his blanket kept him safe.
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  • Genesis

    In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth, and thought, huh, that was easy.

    He realized that telling the difference between the two in the eternal darkness was trying, so he went to work and created light. And He saw that it was good, so he kept going. Working quickly now, he caused waters to fall and land to rise, giving Him someplace to rest while keeping dry. But the land was barren, and boring, so after a nap, God decided to spruce it up.

    So He made grass, and trees, and fruits, and vegetables, and all matter of plants, and set them about the land. Just for kicks, he put some in the waters too. Wanting a little more change, He created the Sun, and the Moon, and in an act of legendary juggling, He set them all spinning about each other, creating Day and Night. For a whole day He was content with his creations. (more…)

  • Ten Minutes until the End of the World

    In ten minutes, the world was going to end. Henry watched the news, barely believing it was actually happening. If reports hadn’t been on every channel, every affiliate turned into the national news, he might have thought it was all a hoax. But unless it was the most elaborate hoax in human history, this was real. The Earth was doomed. This was The End. Armageddon. Ragnarok.

    Call it whatever, it didn’t change the fact that Henry Irvine, resident of 127 BB Lame, Apartment 16, had less then ten minutes to live. He pressed the channel buttons on the remote, scrolling through nearly identical pictures. Every time the screen flickered, it showed a stunned newscaster trying to make sense of the unthinkable, while in the lower right corner a digital timer ticked down. The faces changed, but the countdown stayed the same.

    Nine minutes. Henry got up and took a look outside. Yep, definitely looked like Doomsday. Outside, people were running around, screaming, crying, flailing about like children in a playground. He couldn’t quite explain his disgust with it all. “C’mon, at least have some dignity,” he muttered. His focuses changed, and his own reflection mouthed the same to him. He hadn’t shaved in two weeks. His eyes were baggy from alternating between being unable to sleep and being unable to wake up. His hair was a jumble of untamed curls. His last shower had been… when? (more…)

  • Publishing Revolution

    It will come as no surprise to anyone, but the Internet is upon us. And with the absolute freedom allowed to us with instant communication from anywhere to anywhere, it was only a matter of time before the literature began to flow. Printing and publishing is evolving in ways that will change everything, again.

    It is now easier then ever for someone to share their creative work. People are able to make something, and share it to everyone on the planet with a push of the button. A story can go from the imagination to a screen ten thousand miles away quicker and easier then ever before.

    I imagine that hundred’s of years ago, people must have had similar feelings when German’s started printing books at lightening speed. Gone were the days of hand-copying books in a monastery one page at a time. With the invention of the printing press, the publishing world must have been turned on its head.

    No longer were books a special privilege of the wealthy. Literature could be distributed to everyone at record paces. Information was no longer controlled by a few people in charge. There are a lot of similarities between then and now.

    With electronic publishing, the power is, in theory, given to the writer. No longer is the creativity of writers restrained by the whims of a handful of publishers. Much how the printing press gave access to the masses to the world of books, electronic publishing gives us access to works that would have never seen the light of day just a few years ago.

  • Night to Remember

    The following is an excerpt from my April Camp Nano project tentatively called Masochistic Tendencies.  Fortunately, it also fits one of the prompts for our Flash Fiction. 

     

    I never imagined I could lay next to a naked girl and not think of sex. How was that even possible, a younger me might ask, all the parts are right there! But here we were, her bare back pressed against my chest, my arms wrapped around her body, her hand holding mine between her breasts. Our legs were mingled together and my face rested against her shoulder. We were doing everything possible to make two separate people fit in the space of one. Despite that, being able to immediately transition into love-making of the finest caliber wasn’t even a blip on my personal radar. I don’t know what she was thinking, but my only thought was, “This is right. This is how everything should be.”

    It’s what I believed then, and it’s still what I believe now. Life is only worth living for moments like that, and that happiness is being so completely comfortable with someone that you are with them at your most vulnerable and still feel protected. Sure the sex was great and all that, especially at the time when we were going at it like rabbits every day, but sex can be had anywhere. At least in theory. Sex was more of a relief that our notions of attractiveness were compatible enough to generate a physical response. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. The peace of mind that came from that bed though was such a unique feeling in my life that I would have done anything to keep it.

    Strands of her hair danced against my face as I breathed her in. I nuzzled her slightly, that secret spot where her neck met her shoulder, and I felt her lips flex into a smile. Her hair on my cheeks was the only coarseness I felt against her smooth, cool skin, reminding me that this was real. Like when you pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming. It was a reminder that life had worked out, that all the bullshit in the past was worth it to spend this one night right here together.

    Amy muttered something in her half sleep, and I mumbled something back, my lips brushing against her skin with every half-realized word. The actual words weren’t important, just the confirmation that we were both still there for each other. Our mere touch wasn’t enough, I needed every sense to make sure she wouldn’t disappear in a puff of smoke. The shape of her bare shoulder loomed as a shadow beneath my heavy eyelids, the scent of her lilac shampoo overpowered me with each breath. Every twitch, every small movement, every breath was felt by each other, both of us relishing in the closeness of someone we loved absolutely and unconditionally.

    If there is a heaven, and if it’s the most perfect, happiest moment of my life, then I’ll spend eternity in that bed.

    I don’t remember the exact date this night happened. Hell, I might have it combined with a dozen similar nights. Or maybe I made half of it up without even realizing, going back into my memories and painting in the blanks the way they should have been colored. Maybe I’m giving into a wish fulfillment fantasy that didn’t exist.

    But the happiness was real. I know that. I’ve spent every minute since trying to get that feeling back.

  • Can I be wrong?

    There’s no doubt that criticism is important. It’s how we improve ourselves. And while it sucks, dealing with rejection is something that everyone will have to deal with at some point. How I respond to these things depends on one very important thing: do I agree with what I’m being told?

    No one is harder on me then myself. Chances are, any criticism someone has of me or my work has already been considered, gone over four times, and either accepted or rejected. When someone poses a criticism that I agree with, I will kindly listen and nod my head in assent. In my mind I have already acknowledged the criticism, and am working on ways to fix it.
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