Every Day is Tuesday
It has officially been two months of Safer at Home. I wish I could say I've fallen into a routine and the new-new has been normalized, but I can't.
First, a quick writing update: I've managed to eke out some creative time and been able to write most days. There have been a few Instagram live sprints I've jumped into (I'll link the hosts below) and that’s been a massive help. I'm slightly over 14,000 new words on this new incarnation of Rat and feeling pretty good about it. I've also entered a couple short fiction contests (I’ll link those below, too). I'm still waiting for notes back on Bearwalker, but I should have those back by early next week and then I can jump into edits.
Also, I was interviewed by Magic and Moons about the importance of critique partners. You can find that article here. I loved being able to talk about my experience and hope my answers are helpful. Be sure to check out their other blog posts about indie authors — some great stuff to learn in there.
That being said, it all looks better on paper and I’m struggling to tell myself it’s okay. To be patient and understanding with the circumstances.
But it’s hard.
My friends and I have been keeping each other company on our writing Discord. We post memes, like responsible semi-adults, check in with each other, recommend media, etc etc. Our server is also filled with us asking each other, “wait, what day is it?”
The answer is always: “Tuesday.”
That’s been our running joke since about three weeks into quarantine. It isn’t that funny, it’s not original, but sweet hells, it feels right.
As you may have noticed, I have not been updating my quarterly goals. In this limbo-like existence, my goal setting and keeping has tanked. Where once I would schedule my whole week to the day, now I can barely drag my ass out of bed by 9am and reliably make coffee.
But just because I’m not doing what I was able to pre-Covid, doesn’t mean I can’t do something, right? And if I just float day to day without any planning or lists, my depression will get the better of me. So, I’ve told myself to do four things each day:
Work, write, meditate, and yoga.
That’s about all I can handle. And what I mean by that is I can reliably do maybe three of those every day. If I hit four, it’s a damned good day.
But what I have noticed is this: If every day is Tuesday, you get to do each day over again. Every day is an isolated clean slate. Sure, yesterday-Tuesday I didn’t do yoga or meditate, but today-Tuesday is a new day. I can tackle those things, do my best. And if I don’t? I’ve got another Tuesday lined up tomorrow. I have to remind myself of that and when I do, I find I’m able to handle things better. I feel less anxious, less stressed, and can even, sometimes, focus better.
I’m not saying I’ve got all the answers and I know my situation isn’t yours. But I’d still like you to think about what I’m saying. Figure out what you can’t handle and what you can, be kind to yourself, and try again tomorrow. Be good to yourselves. Be generous and understanding. I know it’s easier said than done, but trying is enough.
And don’t forget to make yourself some tacos. It’s Taco Tuesday, after all.
Let me know how you’re handling this endless parade of Tuesdays and don’t forget to check out the Instagram sprint hosts and short fiction contests below.
Instagram writing sprint hosts:
Short fiction writing competitions:
Loud Coffee Press - A 250 word picture-prompt with a theme of Summer.
Bethany Wish - A 100 word prompt you should sign up for ASAP.
First Novels
First novels, am I right?
If you’ve been following along, you know I’ve been working on Rat for about three and a half years. Over that time, I’ve written several different versions of it and had two rounds of beta readers. Every draft was stronger than the last, but I was never able to take it to the next level. That is, it never stopped being rewrites and started being editing.
Halfway through the tenth rewrite, I decided I needed an extended break from it. I put it down around October 2019 and told myself I wouldn’t pick it back up until April of 2020. That would give me several months to explore other projects and cleanse my palate.
I ended up doing some of my strongest writing during that break. The words came easily. I was able to settle into characters. Even with COVID1-9 gumming up the works, I was able to finish Bearwalker, a second draft of a Latino-futuristic novel, and several pieces of short fiction (some of which have been accepted for publication). I was productive, satisfied with my efforts, and happy with the results. With that energy and a clean slate, I returned to Rat.
On Tuesday, April 28th, I sat down, opened Scrivener, and froze. Just like that, all the insecurity, the frustration, and the disappointment came flooding back. All the energy I had built up for Rat evaporated.
I realized I wasn’t in love with it anymore. Sure, I liked Falwar, whom I had just written a novelette about, and I liked some of the ideas I had but there were still massive issues. A siege story? For an entire novel? Barely a setting change, barely a change in action. It didn’t work.
And I didn’t want to do it anymore.
I spent several hours on Tuesday breaking Rat down, combing through my feelings about it, and debating what my next steps should be. Was I willing to walk away from Rat in its current form? What of my plans for the series? What would I even work on next?
It was a difficult few hours. I ended up staring out the window, trying to plot out what a new novel would look like, what I could take from Rat, what I could take from the series, if I could hold onto the titles I had come up with. I was filled with uncertainty.
And then things started to click.
I loved Falwar. I had just spent a couple of months living inside of his head for and felt comfortable with him. He was strong and exciting and I could feel my passion for writing stories with him. Did that mean I should write short stories and novellas about him? Little one offs? How could I weave him into a greater story and still stay true to the grander arc I had planned for my series?
Then I thought about Istasya. I’d had trouble pinning her age, getting her motivations clear, and figuring out her personality, but I knew her backstory well. I knew where I wanted her to end up. I’d always seen her as a heroine that, by the end of the series, would battle a cosmic horror for the fate of her world. That’s not something I wanted to lose.
Captain Ardanna, on the other hand, was less compelling. I’d struggled to breathe life into her and she didn’t have much to say in the greater story. She was less fleshed out and I didn’t have a clear visual in my head of her. So, I gave myself permission to just put her aside. She didn’t have to go anywhere, but she also didn’t have to be in the story.
Okay, great. Falwar and Istasya. Where could I go with that?
With Bearwalker basically finished, I started to think of the implications. Of what happened to the world. There had to be consequences. What did those look like? What happened to Falwar after the hunt?
As I was mulling over these questions, my other novel started to intrude. A cyberpunk city. A noir hero. Corruption, drugs, criminals.
Why did they have to be separate?
And then, in the space of a few moments, it all came to me. A new novel idea with characters I love, in a world I love, that had the potential to feed into a series and the arc I had already planned.
It meant giving Rat up, though. It meant giving the Latino-futuristic novel up, too. I would be cannibalizing two novels.
But that’s the thing. We grow as writers all the time, right? Rat was my first novel and I’d been holding onto it for over three years, smashing my head against the brick wall of many, many revisions, trying to make a story work that was, perhaps, intrinsically flawed from the start. Maybe it was time for me to let go and grow?
I pitched the new idea to some of my writer friends and received encouraging comments, including one from my good friend Christopher Zerby:
“[First] novels usually go in the drawer. Like 99.999999%. The people who can’t move on are the ones we’ve never heard of. The writers who can take it are the ones we all love.”
And, like in most things, I think he’s right. I was holding onto a story idea that wasn’t even a true story idea, and letting it dictate my journey. I was afraid to move on, afraid of having wasted three years on a novel, when in reality, those three years were what I had needed to grow as a writer. I needed the time and space to look at the problem objectively and to realize it was time for me to move on. To move up.
So, that’s what I’m doing. I’ve plotted out the barebones outline for this new novel and I’ve written the first two scenes. This is going to be my next novel and this is the one I'm going to query.
I’m being intentionally vague, of course, about my story idea. It’s still developing and there is a lot of exploration to do, but I can tell you Falwar and Istasya are in it and it occurs in the Free City of Lirium. Everything else, you’ll have to read when the book comes out.
How about you? Are you still working on your first novel? Have you left it behind? In what form does that novel exist for you? I want to hear about your decision making process and the outcome.
Stay safe. Stay home. Manage your well-being as best you can. You are loved.
Pandemic Rules
That's what my writer friends and I have been calling these times.
“I slept until noon today.”
“Pandemic rules.”
“I started drinking at 10:30am.”
“Pandemic rules.”
“I was only able to get an hour of work done and zero writing.”
“Pandemic rules.”
You get the picture. And based on what I've been seeing on social media, I'm willing to bet you've been experiencing something similar. Because, guess what? Nothing is normal right now.
We have the ability to adapt to anything, us humans, and quarantine is no different. But trying to move forward and get a grip on the new normal by refusing to acknowledge the horrific times we are living in is not the way. Things are fucked up, and we need time to process.
A factoid I've seen circulating around the internet is that Shakespeare wrote King Lear when he was under quarantine, implying we have to write a masterpiece during this time or we are wasting an opportunity.
Fuck that.
We are on the brink of massive economic changes, we are surrounded by fear and uncertainty, and we do not have the proper structures in place to provide any sort of confidence in regard to our future.
Plus, ole Will didn't have the 24 hour news cycle and Twitter to add fuel to his anxiety.
Now, all that being said, there is comfort in structure and routine. I've found the days where I feel better, feel more like myself, are the days where I'm hitting the big things on my “daily list.” Yoga, meditation, writing, working, and push ups. Those are the five things that I tell myself I am going to do every day, whether or not I actually do. If I hit at least a little bit of each of those, I've been way more forgiving to myself when I need time to just stare out the window in a panic. Or zone out watching YouTube. I'm not here to shame you for not being able to do anything, only to encourage you to try.
Listen, if your best way of coping with this new world is by penning a masterpiece, that's awesome. I'll be proud and jealous of your accomplishments. But if you're like me and you're struggling to be consistently creative, I'm telling you it's okay. For once, I'm telling myself that, too, and believing it. Just do the best you can and take it one day at a time. Do what you can, when you can. Try to inject a little structure into this void of anxiety.
We will make it through this. If you're struggling, reach out to me. If you aren't, share what your experience has been like. Encourage and support others. Never judge. Never belittle.
Be well. You are loved.
Oh, and if someone asks if you want to play Diplomacy during quarantine, be smarter than I was and say no.
The Statue
First published in Murder Park After Dark, Volume II
Have you ever woken in the middle of the night and known something was wrong? No hesitation, no doubt, just an overwhelming terror, punctuated by the wild hammering of your heart inside your ribs. You stretch your eyes wide, trying to pierce the darkness around you to find the source of that feeling. Is it something watching you? Is something there? Or is it only the fading memory of some nightmare?
If you haven’t, I envy you.
Envy. My greatest sin.
Yours is ignorance. Ignorance of what lies outside our reality. Ignorance of the horrible things all around us, beyond our understanding. The things we refuse to believe are real.
So who’s better off? You? Unaware and blissful?
Or me, drowning in this knowledge and damned for it, with nothing to show for it but this statue?
This goddamned statue.
I shouldn’t have stolen it. I know that now. But it sits on my desk, glaring at me, and I can only watch the last reds and pinks of the day fade into night and know my time has run out. I have to get all of this written for whoever finds me so they can get rid of this statue and save others from it. To do what I’ve been unable to do.
Why does its alien face follow me no matter which way I turn it? How can such minute detail exist on volcanic rock? The geometric designs that collapse in on themselves, chiseled into the folds of the magma as it cooled, are dizzying. Its matte blackness drinks in the light of my room. It’s beautiful and hateful and it’s coming for me tonight.
I should explain. You need to be convinced.
I’ve long obsessed over the occult. Defined myself by it. Nightmare tokens, forbidden tomes, and Gothic decorations fascinate me. Anything edgy and dark to add a solitary thread of definition to my personality. Just look around my apartment.
I began my collection years ago. As soon as I added a new piece, I’d hear of another piece in another collection and obsess over it until I had it. A mummified hand holding up a single finger, a stuffed cat missing an eye with a splash of white around its neck, a leather-bound copy of the Necronomicon inked in human blood. Supposedly.
I needed them. Their acquisition consumed me. It wasn’t long before I turned to stealing. Stealing eventually became more.
Envy, greed, and other sins.
I first saw the statue three nights ago. I had taken care of the owner upstairs and was stalking through his study when it spoke to me.
Ba.
The whispered, near-imagined word sent a shiver down my spine and I whirled to find its source: this black idol, perched on the bookshelf. It stared back at me and the tightening in my guts filled me with joy. It was horrific and I needed it. Had I found something truly dark, truly occult, after all that time?
I don’t remember returning home. I don’t even remember taking the statue. One moment I stood in the man’s study, the next I was hunched over my desk, inspecting the idol in the pale light of morning. For an instant I thought I had finally found my most favorite piece, but soon my thoughts were turning to other possibilities. If something like this statue existed, what else was out there? How much larger could my collection grow?
I spent the day staring at it, trying to understand it. I must’ve gotten up to eat or use the bathroom, but I can’t remember. Morning became night and all I can remember are those geometric patterns folding in on themselves. I almost nodded off on my desk before I was finally able to tear myself away. Sleep came in an instant.
I woke in a terror. No nightmare, just a palpable, heavy dread emanating from the darkness all around me. That overwhelming feeling I wrote of earlier.
As I sat there panting, the darkness around me gained definition. The winged beast against my wall became my dresser, the ghouls in my closet became my clothes, and the floating specter became my towel hanging from my desk chair. But as my eyes chased away the shadows to find truth, something else was there, too. Something that didn’t leave.
It was darker than shadow. It sat on my desk, amorphous and terrible.
The statue.
I knew it was there. Knew it. But if I looked at it directly the thing disappeared, like it knew my blind spot. I rolled my eyes around, hunting it with my peripherals. That hunched, dark thing I knew was watching me.
Hai.
The same whisper-quiet voice. Steel dragged across a whetstone.
What would you have done? Gotten up? Thrown something at it?
Your ignorance is what makes you brave. I’m not so lucky. I threw myself back under the covers and pressed my eyes shut. Calmed my breathing. Tried to calm my heart. It was only a statue, taken from someone who no longer had need of anything. Only a statue.
I don’t know how I fell asleep, or after how long. One moment I was shutting my eyes to the dark thing, the next my alarm was blaring. It wasn’t until my morning coffee was brewing that I even remembered the experience. I ran back to my room and found the statue where I had last seen it, hunched on my desk.
In the light of day, the statue was haunting and beautiful. Mesmerizing. Its intricate carvings folded in on itself to make a larger creature with a bulbous, alien head. From one angle it was tripedal, from another, tentacular. The stone seemed wet, dark brown on black, dried stains. It terrified me and seduced me and I didn’t regret taking it.
Not yet.
I spent that day searching for those two words it had spoken to me. Ba and hai. Ancient statues and lost religions. Pagan cults and pre-Christian rites. Hauntings and unexplained sightings and urban legends. I hunted for knowledge, drank it in as I tried to find where the idol had come from. The greater my curiosity grew, the stronger my fanaticism to find something, the further away I moved from sanity.
By accident, I found it. Three and two. Vietnamese numbers written on a takeout menu.
The sun slid across the sky as I pondered the meaning of the two numbers and it was late at night when I finally retired, my eyes bleary from researching on my phone, since the internet had cut out earlier. My last thoughts were of the statue and the code it had whispered.
I woke later gasping for breath. I hungrily tried to gulp down air, as if I’d stopped breathing entirely, but I could only draw shallow breaths. I couldn’t move my arms. My legs were pinned to the bed. Only my eyes could move, could roam the dark room thick with malice, hunting for the source.
I couldn’t see the statue. But I heard it move.
A slow scratch filled my ears as it dragged itself across my floor. The madness of imagining its movements without being able to see them overwhelmed me. I tried screaming, tried flailing, tried doing anything, but I could barely make my lips tremble. I ground my teeth together, fighting to move. All the while it came closer.
It dragged itself onto my bed. Slithered up the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, across my frozen legs, until it sat heavily on my belly, looking down at me. Its glare was palpable. Once more, I rolled my eyes, trying to get the faintest glimpse of it, but it evaded me. It was only with my eyes firmly on the ceiling that the top of its alien head became visible, peering down at me. I could barely fill my lungs with its weight on me. Its head tilted slowly, side to side, and it spoke once more.
Một.
The sound of a razor slicing flesh. My razor.
Tears leaked out of the corner of my eyes from the effort to move, but I couldn’t even blink. The world blurred around me, acid bubbled up my throat, and then I woke.
It was light again. I could move. The statue was no longer on my chest. It sat where I had left it. On my desk, watching me. I understood the numbers now.
I tried to get rid of it. The surface seared my hand when I grabbed it. I tried with oven mitts, and suddenly it was too heavy.
I’ve tried leaving, but the door to my apartment won’t open. The wood is warped and swollen into the frame. I banged my hands bloody calling out to neighbors to help, but no one has come. The internet is still out and now so is the cell service. My windows won’t open. I’ve tried breaking the glass, but everything simply bounces off.
The sun’s almost gone now, and I can’t stay awake forever. Throw this damned statue away. Sink it to the bottom of the ocean or throw it into a landfill away from human eyes. It’s too late for me, but maybe not for others.
At least my collection is finally complete.
A Good Funeral Director
First published in Murder Park After Dark, Volume I
The sky threatened rain. Pewter clouds swirled in the sky like a bubbling cauldron, stirred by the deep autumn wind. On the ground, dead leaves moved with the spinning clouds above, mesmerizing vortexes of orange and red and yellow that danced across the cemetery. I tried to focus on the memorial service, the reason I was hunched in a crowd around a black, shiny casket. Nature teased me in the casket’s reflection, threatening to distract me again. I had to force myself to ignore the beauty around me and focus on the morose, like a good funeral director.
I gripped the handle of the black umbrella in my hands. My eyes drifted to the rows of gravestones around me, stretching out in every direction. Crosses, angels, obelisks. Marble, granite, fieldstone. Moss. Dead flowers. I looked at the squat stone of granite in front of the black casket. The man’s name. “Father and Husband”. The years he lived, forty seven of them.
I focused on the silent tears that fell around me. Friends and family of the deceased man, shocked by his sudden death, saddened by his passing. I could see the questions in their eyes, their frustrations with the world, the universe, their higher powers. I could practically hear their thoughts. He had been so young, so full of life. What a tragedy.
I focused on the wail of the widow being held up by her daughter. She was trembling. The white handkerchief in her hand fluttered, a contrast to the black ensemble her daughter had chosen for her. Her back couldn’t have been more rigid if she had her spine stapled to a wall. I could see her face partially covered by the veil; she’d been beautiful, once, but age and tragedy weighed heavily on her. She’d been crying when she thanked me at my funeral parlor, too. She didn’t know, wouldn’t understand, that it was a ritual for me. I take my work very seriously and my process is nearly perfect.
I focused on the daughter. She looked angry. Angry that her father had been taken from her so unexpectedly. Angry that her mother had devolved into such a blubbering mess. Angry about her job or love life or whatever other oh-so-important thing that was affecting her. I could see the tightness around her blue eyes, the same blue eyes she shared with her late father. Not that you’d know from the closed-casket service.
I focused on the words of the pastor.
“On this mountain he will destroy the veil that veils all peoples, the web that is woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever. The Lord God will wipe the tears from all faces.”
This preacher had real gravitas, and a genuine solemnity to him that worked well for the funeral. I had already decided I would use him again.
I looked back to the casket, blanking out the reflection of the beautiful dead leaves, focusing instead on the widow’s choice of construction. Solid wood, well-polished. It had been too easy to convince the widow to choose the casket with the understated elegance—befitting of her husband, of course—along with its high price tag. The daughter had argued, briefly and almost out of earshot, but I’ve been doing this a long time and my pitch is well-rehearsed. My words carry weight during devastating, confusing, and unfamiliar times. One widow to another. That bitch hadn’t stood a chance.
I could see in her reaction that I was right to be proud of my work. The wide eyes, the fear, the sorrow. The soft sobs, barely audible over the voice of the preacher. I might not have noticed, had I not been staring at her from behind my dark glasses.
The pastor finished speaking and the widow led her daughter to the elegant coffin. I would have to lower it soon, but not before the wife and daughter had their last moments with the deceased. Soon, the body of their father would descend into the ground, and neither they nor I nor anyone else would see him again.
Finally, I focused on him.
I remembered the way the hammer felt as it penetrated the bones just above his left eye. It had been a surprise, a gift I gave as I rode him, his erection still in me. The metal had cracked through his eyebrow and entered his cranial cavity and gotten stuck. The metallic odor of blood had sprayed up at me as I pulled the hammer loose from the mess of grey-matter and chipped bone. It had felt like cracking open a crab, searching for the sweet meat hidden inside. He went limp shortly thereafter.
The hammer was the centerpiece of my ritual. Each time it rose and fell, the sounds of the brutal damage washed over me. I worked the ritual until my right arm tired and I had to continue with my left. When that, too, had grown weak, I plunged my bare hands into the mince of flesh and skin and bone and brain. I felt for the shattered teeth and the pockets of eye jelly. I squeezed the warm mixture of gray matter with the sections of the tough tongue muscle. I destroyed everything that made that man what he was.
And then, a few days later, I built him up again, when his family brought him back to me at my funeral home. Closed-casket had been a wise decision for the service. No mortician in the world could have fixed that face.
Fat drops of rain fell from the tumultuous skies above. The pastor closed his book. It was time. I pressed the button and lowered the coffin into the ground.
It was only right for me to have attended his funeral. It was some of my best work yet.