So, hello everyone.
My savings for AWP had a bit of a snag this plasma donation, it started off well enough.
… but eventually ended up like…..
This wouldn’t be such a big deal, the whole blowing out a vein thing is kind of a lame reason to get pissy. The biggest problem is how the payout works for plasma donation. Your first draw is substantially less than your second draw of the week, in terms of karma funds, it’s an incentive for you to donate twice in seven days.
There are things that can suspend you from drawing temporarily such as, oh I don’t know, a bruised arm from a blown vein that they caused from effing up.
Okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic, (I’m definitely being a bit dramatic) but now I’m behind on my schedule and I didn’t account for set backs, which was pretty stupid of me.
I have to get back on target! I have to blaze a path forward like the Shonen hero I wish I was!
Ah hell. I have to quit smoking.
I know, the guy who doesn’t have money for his goal has money to burn away?
Yeah, but, well, shut up.
Though, with money as my motivation maybe this could work…if I throw the (roughly) ten bucks a week I funnel into cancer expenses into AWP instead that’ll add another 40 bucks into my bucket each month.
So, no more excuses, no more using only my blood for funding! Time to quit smoking!
AWP Savings – 60
Editing progress – 14 pages
One down, some unknown number to go.
The plasma bit wasn’t what made this donation suck, in fact that’s be easy part. It’s scheduling everything else around it.
When you’re a writer the hardest part shouldn’t be the writing itself, but if you’re shitty with time management that quickly becomes the case.
After my vampire charity I drive over to B’s house. B. is my partner in an IT business venture, after I drafted up some e-mails for his company he brought me on board as his copywriter/anything else, we’ve been friends for pretty much all my life though this doesn’t prevent him from being, as he puts it, a straight shooter.
“Hey sorry I’m late to the meeting man, doing the plasma thing.”
“Damn, the struggle that rough bro?”
“Yes and no, I’m actually trying to save for AWP, it’s this writers conference in LA, I figured since I finished my book now is the perfect time to go.”
“Cool, do they have any technical writing stuff going on? Any network opportunities for us?”
“Nah not really, it’s geared toward literary fiction.”
Then the thoughtful head nod, the sigh , and the ever growing concern that I’m not committed enough to our goal. It’s a worthy one, and I’m excited to be a part of something so new, but I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm from my partner.
“Listen Charles, I’m a straight shooter,”
“I don’t think you’re wholly committed to BlahBlah Corp. I don’t think you’re aware of what we have here man, so just try to stay a little more focused.”
He isn’t wrong. Between ADHD and a mismanaged schedule everything is a little half assed, and I believe in my friends vision…it’s just I also believe in mine. Neither of us are wrong, but we both can’t be right.
The second Saturday of every month I host a writers group here in Columbus so after my meeting I head over to setup. To say I host it is a bit of an ego stroke, my publishing credits end at college literary journals and I could throw an anorexic feather any which wa and probably find someone more qualified. No lie, as soon as I typed out that lame metaphor a feather just blew across my bluetooth keyboard, totally taking that as a sign it’s worth keeping.
Anyway the group goes well, as it always does, we have open discussion about our struggle with the pages in the hopes of finding way through them. We nerd out about literature, create in house prompts to read between one another and just vibe.
I don’t know how to play the guitar I bought that suspiciously sits in my old MySpace profile picture, but I think it’s something like jamming. That moment you take just to vibe with others that understand you, and realize your insanity is shared.
I make my way home, and while peace is waiting with her there is also grocery shopping, there is also the weird smell emanating from your utility closet that you really need to take care of homey, there is the dog you need to walk and the cat that wants to murder you. There’s fucking life bro.
Ah well, there are always tomorrows that you can balance transfer to. As I make it one step towards AWP 2016, as awesome as it would be it doesn’t mean much without the completed manuscript, but hopefully the prioritization of time will get better in te days to come.
Until next time
AWP Savings : 70
Manuscript 2nd draft progress : 8 pages
So I host a writers group here in Columbus, and one of the members posted a prompt challenge to Facebook.
“A large set of double doors set within a brick wall, slate gray with a smooth finish, and no visible exterior handles.”
I thought I’d add a challenge and make it second person, so here we go!
This is it. The double doors, smooth and slate gray sat embedded in the brick wall before you. I wonder, did your legs quake at the realization? Staring with your fawn like eyes as the ashen zig zags of those that came before you paint abstract allusion to the fires you rush to become?
You’re still a child. You’re still a fraction of the former that held the same onyx blade trembling in your hands. You’re still you.
You of course can’t know this, but I am not the beast you’ve crawled and clawed to reach. I’m so much more. I see as you pray without hands but perched lips that the blood you seek will be yours.
You place those bandaged hands at the pulse of door an push, it opens only as I wish it to open, I’ve been far too bored for far too long.
“How are you doing that?”
How am I doing what?
“Is this how you killed him? Did you enter his mind too? Did you try and fool him into thinking he was less than you?”
I didn’t try to fool anyone child.
You and the other mortals like you, do you age so sadly? That false flesh you wear, is it to somehow honor the last hunter? He wore that same sigil, that same-
Well, that’s not very honorable, and now you’re less one sword.
“I have so much more than just a sword Half Horn, I have my masters skill, I have the blood of those you’ve sent against me in your cowardice, I have the unending thirst to-”
Give yet another speech. Half Horn is not the name that I have been given from things older than you or I, it’s the name you think will sting me. The Half Horn adorned atop my crown is half a horn more than the little pebble in your pants men like you piddle with.
“Half Horn. Whore Of The Door. Dream Consumer. Bitch Of Beezle. Kamvarde’ the Cu-”
Kamvarde, I suppose that will do. You throw your damnations as if I don’t smell the small bit of magic you yourself trifle with dusted over this blade. You wear the skins of my kind so boldly, handwoven hypocrisy.
Why are you waving your hands about so- oh, this is a spell, a binding enchantment from the stench of it. Your former at least had some sense of honor, had the balls to try and best me. Do you think you’re the first to try and cast me away from the outside world?
“I know you cannot leave this prison. Here you remain for none to claim, my blood oath be your bind. Stay your call for man of all and no longer to this gate be bait.”
I haven’t seen someone try a binding spell in a long time. It’s adorable, and actually tickles a bit. The things that tethered me here, that gave me reign to draw in those I so desire trump your little casting.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
I’m not so sure.
“I’ve trained under the high seven.”
I’m sure they fancy themselves important.
“I’ve learned the divinations of-”
Your kind, always so beautiful as i burn you. Let my voice be the last that haunts you this way into the afterlife. I’m not very fond of the screams though, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken them from you. There will be another after you, and after that, and yes, after that. You’re probably wondering why you haven’t died yet, as the peach skins drip to the ground beneath you and flame dries out your sight. I don’t kill, little fawn, I never have. I just, burn. Your flesh, now becoming a dull ash does, I suppose, die, but not you. you oh stone throwing hero will stay here to sling your barbs and whine as all the rest.
You will watch, as another comes to claim the half horn, and yet again rattles my door.
Hope you enjoyed, and looking forward to the next prompt 🙂
So, I’m not quite JK Rowling in the paint yet, and I don’t have the appropriate funds to fuel my trip to AWP, so it’s time to get creative.
Let’s start with what is AWP?
AWP is pretty much the comic-con of writing conventions in the US. It hosted thousands of writers, agents, and other cogs in the literary machine.
I’d like to think I’m not naive. Well, I mean you kind of have to be on some level to be a first time novelist (I’d of just said novelist but after that first publication I’d imagine it’s not so much naivete but a knowing of “Huh, I can do this.”). I’m not expecting to catch the networking golden snitch, which would be randomly bumping into someone like Dan Lazar, or any other of the agents I unabashedly stalk across the web. As if somehow a ‘meet cute’ would happen with one of my dream agents, who would of course demand my manuscript because they just know I’m the writer they’ve been waiting for.
I’m not expecting it to be the third act upswing in my romantic comedy of a life. I’m not expecting it to somehow make me feel like I’ve arrived, nor should it.
I’m expecting to meet other writers, to understand the biz a bit more, for it to help me realize what strengths I have as a self promoter of my craft and bring greater focus to how I can supplement a bounty of weaknesss.
That all being said, I have to fucking get there first.
I don’t make great money, which is a understoood first world problem. I mean I have a job, even though it doesn’t give me the room of my own that Virginia Wolf demands, it does afford me the privledge to eat, and occasionally take the lady friend somewhere nice.
It doesn’t allow me to save however, so I need a way to add to my income without subtracting too many hours from my other activities like school, work, relationships, writing, etc.
But wait! I’m walking around with liquid gold!
I’m not a huge fan of needles, but I am a huge fan of sitting around with one in my arm while I catch up on my reading if it means I can get to AWP.
Plasma donation is basically getting the monetary value of your earned karma points on a prepaid Visa card. At least it’s better to think of it that way instead of it as selling your whore blood to vampires.
Two donations a week for 60 bucks, 240 bucks a month and my AWP breakdown is as such:
- 240 – Registration
- 100 – Hostel
- 600 – Flight to LA
It’s doable, and with the right goal in mind I’m reasonably confident that I can actually avoid using my monetary karma on BS. AWP itself gives me a self imposed deadline to have my beta readings and final edits done as well, I may just make it yet.
It’s done. To elaborate on my intentionally obscure opening I’ve finally finished my novel. I did a thing. So what now?
Well the short answer is edit, beta readers, edit, publish!
The long answer?
EHRMEGERD EDITING IS THE WORST I’M THE WORST WRITER IN THE GODDAMNED WORLD WHO THE HELL WOULD WANT TO READ THIS SHIT OH HAI ALCOHOL GET IN MY BODY WAIT I CAN’T HAVE YOU BECAUSE I NEED ALL THE FOCUS! I WANT TO CRY, OH MY GAWD YOU GUYS LIFE IS SO HARD MMMM CHIPOTLE.
And that’s pretty much just step one.
I need an occasional reprieve, some kind of busy work and something I can look back to for perspective. So, blogging.
In all my research about the business of being a writer I used to distract from actually just writing there were a few common suggestions, chief among them the importance of having a presence on social media.
Anyway I hope to look back at this as something awesome, and hopefully through all my mistakes and mishaps someone can look at this able to say,
“Wow, I won’t do that, look how it worked out for him, what a dumbass.”