R2,G37: Knight in the Museum

Posted in FlashFiction2016, Writing on September 26, 2016 by redeemingthewizard

Sir Powell never let a little thing like fully understanding the situation hold him back from charging in to save the day.

Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away (truth be told, it wasn’t all that far. Two kingdoms over and up one, really).  Within this semi-far, sort of close kingdom there lived a knight.  He was a knight of valor, bravery and derring-do.  His name was Sir Powell and he was well known throughout his own kingdom, and tales of his feats were already the talk of every tavern hall, which was why he was traveling abroad (hence the one up) to ‘spread the word’ as it were.

One day, while riding through the woods he came upon a most curious inn.  It was three stories high, stood at a crossroads, and bore a large, brightly colored sign above the front door that read “MUSE-EOM o’ WUNDEr”.

It was also on fire.

In the crossroads stood a woman and a large bug waving at the knight and pointing at the building.  Spurring his horse forward, the noble knight rushed to their side, dismounting with a flourish.  The breastplate that held his family crest and motto flashed in the sun and both the woman and the giant cockroach flinched back from the glare.  They each wore faded work aprons in colors of the sign.

“It appears your shop has been attacked!  Dragons I presume!” he exclaimed.

“Umm…oh! Yes! Dragons!” stammered the cockroach.

“And poor Mr. White!  He’s still inside!” cried the woman.

“Is that so?”  Sir Powell looked to the burning building, before setting his face with determination.

“Was in the Map Room upstairs last time I saw him,” added her shorter companion, antenna twitching.

“Then there’s not a moment to lose. I will save your husband!”  As the knight spun to face the Inn, the woman reached for his arm, a look of confusion on her face but the cockroach beside her restrained her arm with a shake of his head.  Oblivious to the silent interaction between the two, the knight leapt forward, hurling himself through the front door, his battle cry the family motto “Respice Finem!”

“I really should learn latin someday,” he muttered to himself as he did each time he raced into battle.

Light smoke drifted about as the knight threw himself through a stand of Flags of Faerie that had been done in crayon on linen napkins and found himself face to face with the Dreaded Bwak Bawk Beast which consisted of three turkey heads inexpertly stapled to the body of a bear.  Beyond that, he found the stairs.

Ascending them two at a time into denser smoke, he passed a set of barrel heads mounted to the wall which had been crudely painted under a sign that read The 5 Shields of the Troll King Mog and just missed hitting his head on another sign protruding from the wall that read Map Room.

Bursting inside the smaller room, he found it wallpapered in pamphlets and brochures offering Guided Directions to the Huts of the Seven Witches of the Ichorbound Forrest, and another detailing Favored Ale Houses of King Dunganar in Holdmar City and the nearby town of Timberwollop.  The latter sported a 10% off coupon in the bottom corner.  Movement in the periphery of his vision kept Sir Powell from dashing back into the hallway.  A good thing as the groaning crash of failing wooden beams filled the hallway with smoke, cinders and heat.  The cat beneath a display rack hissed at this new danger, jumping up upon the desk on the far side of the room.

His exit blocked, the good knight scooped up the frightened cat and, intent on saving at least one life, charged forward throwing himself through the closed window and into the cool air beyond as a gout of flame licked at his back.

Thankfully the water trough broke his fall.

Sputtering and attempting to blow water off his face, Sir Powell found that a frightened, wet cat was synonymous with violently enraged cat.  Sir Powell extracted himself with a grimace of pain from the remains of the watering trough and held forth the struggling white bundle of claws and teeth to the woman and the talking roach.

“I only found the cat…” began Sir Powell, attempting with difficulty to both fend off and contain the ferocious beast.

“Mr. White!” the woman exclaimed!  “You saved him!”  The cat continued to eviscerate Sir Powell’s gloves and sleeves with the occasional swipe at his face.

“Me and the Mrs can’t thank you enough,” beamed the cockroach.  He hugged her leg affectionately with several free arms.

“Such a brave hero!” beamed the woman.

“Shrewd and clever too,” added the cockroach.  “Dragon attack looks a lot better on the insurance forms than Fire Beetle Nest in the attic.”

“The Mrs?” asked Sir Powell, dazed and in some pain from his fall.

“Funny bit of irony that exit, eh Sir Knight?” noted the cockroach.  “Well, with your family motto being what it is…”  The knight stared blankly at the cockroach.  “Respice Finem; Look before you leap.”

“Ah.  Yes.  That.”  Commented Sir Powell in a deadpan voice and the conversation withered along with the grass closest to the blazing Inn.  The three of them watched the building burn and Mr. White glowered at them all, clutched in the woman’s arms.

“Well I must be off!” Announced Sir Powell when the silence grew uncomfortable and he levered his bruised body into the saddle.  “I’m sorry about your business.”

“It’ll all work out,” said the woman with a wry smile.  The cockroach nodded in agreement.   Without another word, or a glance at his map, Sir Powell wheeled his horse around and set off once again albeit somewhat gingerly.

It’s safe to say that the curators of the “MUSE-EOM o’ WUNDEr” lived happily ever after when the fat insurance settlement from the Goblin Guild arrived.  Sir Powell less so, as his course took him down the trail to what his unused map identified as Burnt Bone Valley.

 

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R1,G37: Circinus Descending

Posted in FlashFiction2016, Writing on July 26, 2016 by redeemingthewizard

Single minded focus on a lofty goal can leave you blinded to dangers right in front of you. 

 

Angela’s lungs burned as she dove headlong through the overgrown brush trail, ducking her head to plow through the heavy palm fronds, guided only by the gibbous moon.  Sticky air, and condensation from her reckless flight through the fronds, further dampened her hair and made the bronze tube she clutched slip precious millimeters in her grip.

Bursting through to the open, the blond-haired woman flight propelled her onto the aging suspension bridge that spanned the ravine.  The bridge creaked, groaning in objection under her weight, and as if to voice its complaint, caught her foot between two of planks pitching her forward.  Angela landed hard on her elbows and knees, her face coming to rest on one of the dew slick slats of the bridge.  The river, swollen from the rainy season, frothed as it roared past.  She struggled to her feet, her burden still held tightly against her chest.

“Angela stop!”

The young professor spun at the command.  Michael.  Of course it was Michael, although gone was the well-groomed mogul of the pharmaceutical industry, replaced by a sweat stained t-shirt, boxers, and untied boots. He hovered in the space between the jungle and the yawning ravine, his dark hair ruffled by the disgruntled air that rose from the turbulence below.

“We need that!” he pleaded gesturing to her burden.  “Please!  This is everything we’ve strived for!  Think of all your work!  The weeks we’ve spent in this green hell!  We can’t quit now!”

“No!” The tenor of her voice surprised her: so much anger, resentment, and disappointment spilling out in one simple word.  “I won’t let you do this Michael!  This won’t be another wonder product to reap more glorious profits!”

“Please Angela!” Michael pleaded.  “Without that—I mean without you we won’t be able to triangulate the entrance!  Just two more days!  That’s all we need!”  Michael took a step forward, extending his hand over the threshold of the bridge, but she shook her head and clutched the brass tube closer to her chest.  “We’re going to be rich Angela,” he soothed.  “And you can spend all your time researching whatever your heart desires.”  He took a shuffling step forward but Angela took a larger step backwards, nearly losing her balance on the slick slats.  Michael froze as both the woman and ancient assembly of ropes and planks wobbled and swayed unsteadily.

“Please Angela!  Come back to camp.  We’ll talk about it. How about a percentage of the proceeds go to charity?  I’ll name a foundation after you.”

“Ha!” it was a cold and mirthless laugh.  “You remember what you told me after that night in Dhaka?”  Fire burned in her gaze.  “It was a lie, wasn’t it.  Every last word of it!”  Michael’s silence was damning.  “YOU BASTARD!”

He looked away out over the moonlit jungle, and when he looked back he wore his boardroom face.

“It’s too damn hot for this,” he muttered.  “But fine, let’s play hardball.”  Angela took another tentative step backwards and the bridge creaked in subtle menace.  “Not exactly flush with options are you m’dear? You think you can run faster than me carrying that?  Or maybe you think you can hide better than Derrick and his team can track?”  Angela shot a look over her shoulder to the dark jungle awaiting her.  “Two days march back to the last village we saw.  Think you can stay ahead of them that long?”  He chuckled dryly.  “I’ll make you a deal.  Give me the telescope, and I won’t tell Derrick you ran away until morning.  Nice little head start eh?”  Angela glowered at him, hesitating before setting her it gently at her feet.  “Good girl!” Michael smirked while Angela backed slowly across the bridge, one hand on the rope rail and the other fingering the handle of knife she’d nicked from Derrick’s tent.  Get to the other side.  Cut the rope.  Slow them down.

“Shit Angela, you were always too altruistic,” Michael taunted as she went.  “Made you easy to dupe, easy to manipulate and even easier to seduce.”  She felt her face flush and she spun on the bridge drawing the knife to face him.

“You think so?” she shouted.  “Well your chart’s incomplete!  I wasn’t going to commit everything to paper for you and that thug!” Releasing the rail she jabbed a finger at her head.  “It’s safely up here and you’ll never get it!” Defiance raged across her face as stark realization flooded his.  Cold prickles crawled down her neck at her mistake.  She brought the knife down to the opposite rope rail continuing to back up.  “What did pet Derrick say? ‘Four days walk to ford the river?’  Wonder how he’ll handle the news.  Still going to wait ‘till morning to tell him?” she spat.

“He won’t have to,” Derricks deep basso carried over the river’s churning as he emerged from the jungle, pistol in hand.  “I think we’re done here.”

“What?” demanded Michael.  “Put that away. I’ve got this.”

“You overplayed your hand jackass, and now you’re useless to us.”  The rapport of the .45 careened off the ravine walls as Michael staggered backwards propelled by the impact of the shot.  The aged support post let out an objectionable crack under Michael’s weight and was quickly joined by a chorus of smaller, sharper notes as vines and ropes surrendered quick succession at the loss of their ancient anchor as both vanished over the edge.

“Damn it!”  Derrick lunged forward as the bridge spasmed, the brass telescope hopping before tumbling end over end, the moonlight flashing off its polished surface.  Angela felt the bridge tense before attempting to buck her.  Then everything slewed sideways.  Without hesitation, she threw herself over the failing rail towards the center of the river below.

“Son of a bitch!” Derrick cursed as he watched Angela disappear into the darkened ravine.  “Armando,” he called back into the jungle.

“Yeah chief?”

“Wake the boys!  Find the bodies then we do this the old fashioned way.”

NYC Midnight 2016 Flash Fiction contest

Posted in FlashFiction2016, Writing on July 24, 2016 by redeemingthewizard

Just a quick note to let folks know that there’s going to be some new things dropping in here over the next few months as I use this platform to host my Flash Fiction entries for the NYC Midnight 2016 Flash Fiction contest.

I was given my first assignment on Friday at 11:59 PM; Genre: Thriller. Location: A Suspension Bridge. Object: a Telescope. I’ll post the results here soon!

With Apologies to Nicolaus

Posted in Life Lessons on March 20, 2016 by redeemingthewizard

Recently things have been pretty hectic.  Before that they were, well, depressing.  Or depressed.  Or just Winter.  Take your pick I suppose.  It was my own 3 shades of gray without any of the bestselling juicy bits.  In any case, regardless of the name you want to use for it, I slept a lot.  I also did a fair bit of Netflix & Chill during that time.  (I don’t know what everybody is going on about that either; it’s kinda boring just sitting there on the couch gorging on a giant bowl of microwave popcorn that, despite the serving size recommendations, you know you will finish by yourself…) Long story (3 months of Winter long) short (see note on sleeping all the time above), things have progressed to hectic.

Some of that would be the general hubbub of Spring. Birds, bees, rabbits, dogs, cats, cows all in some state of twitterpation, and/or frolicking in the newly re-discovered warmth of the sun.  It can be a racket for sure…

Another generous portion of that would be the not-insignificant backlog of things that I didn’t ‘get around to doing’ the prior few months.  Which brings us to the hectic that is currently rushing about me these days.  All caught up?  Good.

If depression makes me want to sleep and disengage, hectic chaos can cause similar feelings only without the imagined narcolepsy.  Back to Netflix & Popcorn again.  Or beer.  Or cookies.  Or just the damn dough because I like to bake with alcohol and it’s really just killing two birds with one stone that way…

I digress.

Hectic feels like a tornado.  Or rather, because that’s far too life threatening, dramatic and grand, Hectic feels like a merry-go-round that you would ever so dearly like to get off.  Getting whipped around and around, and it’s not slowing down, and your stomach is getting ready to make it’s own efforts to counter the spin however spectacularly ineffective it may be, and there’s very little you can do about it because you’re busy keeping arms and legs inside the vehicle until it’s come to a complete stop.  In short: you feel out of control.

That last bit is the hard part.  Feeling out of control.  Feeling swept along on something that’s inducing astronaut training level G-forces into my gut while Henry (you know the big kid on the playground) really puts his back into keeping things going around, primarily because he’s really only got one job that’s appreciated at recess and, truth be told, he’s secretly a bit of a perfectionist.

That’s what hectic feels like to me.

Now the other morning in the bathroom while getting ready for work (I’m not going to lie; I do some of my best thinking in the shower), and I had this thought.  It started ricochetting around my head like a bullet in one of those spaghetti westerns.  You know the ones where the shot careened off every available surface to finally it hits the target dead center much to everyone (particularly the targets) amazement? Yeah.  Like that.

The thought was this;  Copernicus seriously messed with everyones Cosmological World View.

To paraphrase K.J. Rowling; “I solemnly swear that I am getting to a blasted point.”  No.  Really.  I am.

Copernicus (by way of a quick review) was the chap who spoke up suggesting that the Earth revolved around the Sun made a bit more sense of the way things worked in the heavens than the previously accepted Earth is the center of everything view point.

It all came down to perspective.  Standing on the Earth, it doesn’t feel like it’s moving but we see the sun and the moon and the stars all getting about their days and nights around us.  Copernicus observed some very subtle motions that tipped him off to the idea of a different set of movements for the Earth (and therefor us as passengers) around the solar system.

Back to point.  So what if I’m not spinning on the merry-go-round?  What if it’s spinning around me?  (And yes, I am aware of the irony of that rather blatant Anti-Copernican statement).

I remember attempting to deal with Merry-go-round’s moving at Henry velocity by staring at the battered and scuffed diamond plate floor of the ride.  Inspecting the weld points where the bars had been welded to it’s once shiny surface.  It was moving with me at my speed and spinning through all this just like I was and didn’t prompt my stomach to rebel quite as quickly as the blur of screaming, cheering faces that were whirling past.

This raised the following question; so what if I’m not spinning in hectic chaos, but it’s spinning around me?  I’m the man in the center of my own little storm.  And the center of each storm hold an eye of calm.

Bullseye.

Just like that, I went from being twirled about on an out of control merry-go-round to being calmly at the center of my own personal whirlwind.   And if I’m standing there, feet on the ground, then its suddenly so much easier to be calm and at peace.  Storms come and go.  Winds blow and howl then turn gentle and fresh.

What’s important is the realization that this is happening around me, not too me.

Armed with my newly adjusted worldview, hectic is just a strong breeze messing up my hair and tugging at my shirt tails.

I got this.

Dreams that drive away sleep

Posted in Life Lessons on December 14, 2015 by redeemingthewizard

I awoke from my dream crying because I had heard my father’s voice.

As I lay there in the dark, not bothering to wipe away the hot trickles that I knew were dampening and cooling on my pillow, I was suddenly reminded of a passage from Henri Nouwen’s The Wounded Healer.

        “He is sitting among the poor covered with wounds.  The others unbind all their wounds at the same time and then bind them up again.  But he unbinds one at a time and binds it up again, saying to himself, “Perhaps I shall be needed; if so I must always be ready so as not to delay for a moment.”

In my dream I had been traveling abroad by myself and was playing with a ball near a garden while remembering words of comfort for travelers.  “If you find that you have nothing left and must set out on new roads, know that many have gone before you and paved the road ahead.  You are in good company.”  The ball bounced into the bushes and I went to retrieve it, only to pass two women, one very old and the other clearly her daughter.  Their familiar faces tugged at me and, taking my ball, I followed them, sensing family was suddenly near.  And there on a terrace, I was washed away by what felt like a memory; my father sitting with my sister and her husband with others gathered around and they were singing together.  I heard his voice lifted in happy song, not as an event but a memory so powerful that took me back to a moment—to the exclusion of every other sense.  I woke with his voice lingering in my ears.

It’s been a little less than year and a half since he passed.  And for the most part, the tears have dried up.  In part because life continues to flow. It builds and we are too small and too thin to hold back the river as it moves gently, inexorably forward.  My son has finished his first year of high school.  I’ve moved to yet another portion of the country.  I taught my boy to drive a car.  Once again I’ve stretched relationships taunt over distance; both time and miles.  Some snapped, some frayed but others held, resonating with different sounds in this new configuration.  Time, like the mighty Mississippi has continued to roll along taking us to new places with slow, steady progress.

Yet, in the middle of the night, I felt rent.  Like the morning light revealing the furrows cut clean through a yard as flash floods worked at night.  The efforts to repair my yard had been in vain and insignificant in the face of powers and forces much greater than I.

It was here that the words of the dream came back to me, that there have been many who have passed this way before me.  Many who have suffered sudden loss; to violence, to time, to a poor decision. Though grief feels like a road never seen before, it is well paved from the footsteps of thousands who have walked it first.

Dreams are funny things, and ask five person to interpret one and you will have  have six interpretations when you are done.  I don’t know what Freud or anyone else would say about dreams of balls, gardens, family and song, but I know this; I am wounded.   Like an old injury flared to life that I thought in my past, moving up river and into my history.

My loss cuts deeply, seemingly as fresh as year ago, so I set to the task of binding my wound.  Again.  Painfully aware in this moment, that I will most likely bind it again sometime in the future.  This wound (like all grief) is slow to heal and deceptive in its progress.  Like a injury to the leg that feels hale, whole and useful till moved just so and suddenly drops us to our knee, or lays us face first in the dust.  Again.

These words are for me.  They are my binding.  They are the effort and time I take for myself, to re-bind this wound.  You are free to make of them what you wish, but I use them to remind myself that I am not alone.  That contrary to the way it feels, grieving is a path we will all traverse and while we may not see our fellow travelers in that moment through watery vision, they are most certainly present around us.  I bind my wound today because I may be called upon to help another bind theirs on this journey.

This is not magic. To give and to serve another human being, to be ready to lend what aid I’m able, does not obliterate my own pain or fears or failings.  It most certainly does not make it ‘all better.’  If I am called to help it will be on the same wounded limb that I have just re-bandaged.  It will be through the pain of that wound.  It will be with shiny, wet cheeks.

Because I miss my dad.

The Disaster Beard

Posted in Life Lessons on December 10, 2012 by redeemingthewizard

700 Words a Day Postmortem

Posted in Life Lessons on December 4, 2012 by redeemingthewizard
A year ago last week, I set about a pretty grand design.  I wanted to write 700 word each day.  For a full year.  I didn’t know if I could do it.  I’d never imagined writing 255,000 words in succession.  Thanksgiving 2011 was my start and, now that it’s over, I thought I’d put down some thoughts on the experience.

The Data
First, I should go over the numbers themselves (those of you who find that kind of measurement boring can skip a bit further down).  I tend to like this kind of thing because when you can look at the data, you can see all kinds of things about your work when it’s done, and I can now say that empirically.  Total words written for the year; 102,380.  For those keeping score at home that well under half of the total goal.  Hmmm…  What happened there?  Back to the logs for a quick review shows that by March I was trailing by about a weeks worth of writing.  By April, 12 days.  …and then it all went to hell.  When the wall came, I was at 91K, over the next 8 months, I managed about 11K, or an average of 1300 words per month.  Final feelings on all this minutia are that I now have a new personal best.  102,380 plus 1is the new goal for number of words I can composed in a year.

Who – On Having an Audience
Early on, I chose to involve friends in this project.  I’d ask them for 3 words, and then run with that to compose my 700 words.  Usually I’d ask for whatever came to mind, and if I was feeling cocky, I’d ask for the genre/setting as well.  This created a nice piece of accountability for me in that I had told someone I was going to write and also a nice bit of affirmation in that I got to share what I wrote as well (because, hey, I’m more than happy to hear the words “Nice!  I really liked that!” as often as friends want to tell it to me.  Some would call that whoring for attention, but I like to call it being Highly Susceptible to Positive Feedback.  I should note here that my skills at writing marketing emails at work improved dramatically during this exercise.)

In choosing to write for a specific audience, a very real and personal presence in my life, I was able to focus on pouring a good deal of intention into what I was working on and found that, ‘drafting’ vignettes, or scenes, or (sometimes things that might have bordered on a short story) for someone I knew was very rewarding.  There is of course a danger to that as well.  If the connection with that particular audience fades or is disrupted, it can be a disruptive event for the writing.  To do it again, I think I would find a writing group to share with (even if that meant making my own).  Having the specific people to write ‘for/to’ in my head when I’m composing is fun & helpful, but to constantly rely on one or two people for that reader/response connection didn’t serve me well in the long run.  My new advice; crowdsourcing is entertaining and quick, but don’t become dependent on it.

What – Topics and methods
Having no grand novel that was simply hanging around the birth canal of my imagination waiting for the opportunity to be pushed out into a brave new world, I opted for writing exercises.  Three words; random, unrelated, and the more creative the better.  I consider my vocabulary to be very well rounded, but I did enjoy having to go and look up a new word to make sure that I used it correctly in what I was writing.  I quickly added a forth ‘bonus’ category; genre/setting.  In the course of the year, I wrote 1st person, 3rd person, fairy tales, spicy tales, zombie apocalypse, Steam Punk, Noir, and some rather endearing boy meets girl something-or-other.  One of my initial postulations about this kind of a project was that, if you write 250,000 words and you can’t find content you can publish in there, you probably missed something…

The writing exercise turned out be be a double-edged sword, at least for me.  I was able to do all kinds of creative and interesting things with three odd words and a goal of >700 words.  I could quit at 721, or it could roll onwards up to 2,300.  Sometimes I would take 3 words for 3 consecutive days and try and bring the new words into the continuation of what had already started the day before.  Unfortunately, when it came to writing longer pieces, pieces of sustained length (say the 30k needed to even crack into the novel arena), I was at a loss.  Starter exercises did not prepare me for the continued work of building a series of scenes that came together to form a story of any kind.  It was easy to jump from idea to idea like a dragonfly in the summer morning, without settling down to do the harder work of writing a connected and woven story that tells a tale.  Here, I’m my own worst enemy, discarding ideas before I even try them and being overwhelmed by the ‘entirety’ of the story.  I’ve had three ideas that I quite enjoyed (and still do as bits of them parade about my head before bed each night), but the act of sitting down and attempting to write the sustained story of what happened to these characters, overwhelms me and I find myself shutting down before I even begin.  Lesson learned; don’t get locked into one way of doing things; even if it plays to your strengths.  The point of all this is to grow in my ability to write.

Where, When & How
Having a place to write has proven to be very important.  I’m not convinced I need a single magical place to work, but I have found that I can’t do it just anywhere.  Well, I can, but I’m most productive in my bedroom, and at my local Starbucks.  It needs to be a distraction free environment.  That’s actually the key factor.  My Starbucks has failed me on many an occasion when it was crowded and bustling with a holiday weekend or some other cause.  My bedroom has failed me on occasions when the bed was just too soft…  There is something very important about having a place to go; a place that is for my writing.  I’m sure I could refine my selections in doing this again, but I’ve been pretty happy with my two places so far.

As an aside, I did learn that travel and writing don’t go well together for me.  Business trips and vacations were such a departure from any kind of schedule for me that I found myself unable to sit and focus on writing when I did have time available to write.  I have a new understanding as to why so many famous writers were such creatures of habit and even homebodies.  I need to know when I’m going to be writing.  I have to plan for it and prepare myself.  That’s step one.  As one of my writer friends is oft to say when she quotes Adair Lara, “Putting ass to chair” is the other step…

I’ve written in the mornings, during the day, and in the evenings.  I feel that each has it’s place.  I’m sharpest in the AM, able to make leaps from one idea to another and linking creative baubles into strings of whimsy with alarming ease.  The distraction of the clock is usually the downside of the AM.  10 minutes till I need to head to work and I just hit full speed on an idea.  Nothing like watching a train of though derail as it comes to a crashing halt.  

Evenings are free of any real interruptions for me most days.  The night owl in me loves the opportunity to burn the candle late, but there is a cost to that, and days on end of such behavior seems to increase how good the bed feels when I sit down to write at 11 PM.  I’m also not at my sharpest.  The grindstone of the day has more often than not, blunted the edge of my intellect.  That’s not to say there isn’t something good that comes out of being tired.  Things I would fret over or worry about the wording for, or how to make the idea pop, just get left behind in the tired and I push onward.  Inevitably, when I read over things the next day, I found very little I wanted to change.  Being tired helped me push past age old trap of “perfect is the enemy of the good.”  Editing is always for after you have something written, not during.

In Conclusion
This was a grand experiment for me.  Did it go as I had hoped?  Not quite.  When things hit the skids, lost traction and clipped a couple of telephone poles in April, I spent a good portion of the summer cursing my inability to put my ass in any chair to string even the most meager sentences together.  I did have moments of energy into the fall.  Ideas that bubbled up and I found myself eager again to write them down.  I knew it wasn’t over yet, but I felt like I was off-roading in a ’62 Buick most of the time.  Ponderously unfit for the terrain and doing as much damage to the car as the scenery around me.  Having passed the deadline of Thanksgiving, I can look back and say that it wasn’t as bad as it felt at the time.  I wrote more in the last year than I did all 4 years in college!  I set a new personal best.  I know what I do well, and how to get started writing.  I also know what I need to work on.  Hard earned truths I can take with me moving forward.  

So, without further ado I announce:

December 1, 2012 to November 30, 2013.
700 words a day. 245000 words.  (Allowing for 5 weeks of travel.)
I’m gonna blow my previous record out of the water!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and write a quick piece involving Moist Scrumptious Buffalo.