Journal Update 1-20-13

Ahhh!!!!!

 

I hate editing. I’ve almost, and quite nearly, rewritten the entire novel–granted, it’s better but . . . still.

 

The book is coming along quite nicely. It’s fluffy, it’s dark, it’s funny, it’s sad. I’m pretty damn proud of it.

 

I don’t think I mentioned it in any of my post, but I come from a large family. In fact, counting me and my parents, we were a family of thirteen. Yeah. It’s not the luckiest of numbers if you’re the superstitious type.

 

For the most part, our luck as a whole, didn’t do anything to diminish the superstitious belief in the mysticism surrounding that unlucky number. If anything, we enhanced its reputation and infamy. But, I love my retarded siblings, and our family as a whole. This book is a way for me to immortalize them and the little farm we grew up on.

 

The story actually takes place on that farm. The mention of Kirby’s Pond, or trash pile we called the Heap, and even stealing apples off the neighboring farm were all things we did when we were kids. I put them in the book. My brothers and sisters who’ve read the rough draft appeared to enjoy the flow of memories. I won’t know for sure until they try to sue me after it gets published I guess.

 

My daughter has instructed me to “shut up”. I keep reading her excerpts from the story on the weeks that I have her, but she wants to read it from beginning to end after it’s done and is worried that I’m going to ruin it for her.

 

It is the worst kind of torture keeping that promise. If you write, then you know what I’m talking about.

 

That’s my update–three chapters left to edit and the epilogue.

 

Oh. I almost forgot. For you sci-fi nuts out there, my daughter wants to start her own anime comic. She’s obsessed and actually a very capable artist at the age of nine.

“She really has her own style.” That is a quote from her art teacher. She is obsessed with drawing. In fact, I bought her a box of twenty notebooks for Christmas–she’s already filled them up.

 

I’m writing another story right now, as well. I’m using the story to create the world that my daughter will draft her anime story arcs off of. It’s called the Church of Echoes.

 

I’m on the third chapter right now. It’s sprinkled with humor, action, and an interesting shift in the world culture–fossil fuels have run out, an attempt to counter global deforestation and rising pollution has gone horribly wrong–turning the world into a jungle planet, and the space program was completely abandoned, resulting in some bizarre advances in the field of DNA manipulation. It’s going to be an interesting read.

 

Well, cats and kittens, I’m out of coffee and ignoring a phone call. Till next time.

 

Good-bye.

Journal Update 1-17-13

Journal Entry

1/17/13

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Nestled away in the southern-most portions of Missouri and northern Arkansas is a series of hills and winding roads populated with simple down-to-earth people and this area is called the Ozarks.

 

I call this place home.

 

My life has spanned thirty-nine years, one elementary school, two middle schools, four high schools, two junior colleges, one state college, and residences in four separate states. In the beginning, I grew up in the Ozarks. I was a hillbilly, though, truth be told, I liked to preen myself and pretend I was a redneck.

 

There is something to be said for the primitive style of living that accompanies the life of a hillbilly. For instance, living free of technology and the trappings of the paradigms of modern society, I found it easy to believe in the existence of fairies, leprechauns, and elves.

 

I recall finding smallish tunnels through the orchard grass in the remote end of my father’s orchard. I ignored the fact that the tunnels were created by field mice and imagined a tiny community of magical creatures responsible for the spiraling grass avenues. The quiet stealthy crunch of fallen leaves beside the road–It must be fairies. It couldn’t possibly be the slow slither and slide of snake seeking a place to hibernate.

 

This? This was my christening ceremony. I was officially and irrevocably a dreamer from that point on, and it has now become my legacy which I pass on to my daughter.

 

When she was younger, maybe three or four years of age, I began to weave for her fantastic tales of fairies and trolls and elves and pixies, and when that wasn’t enough, I created my own.

 

My daughter’s favorite fairy tale creature was one of my own fabrication. A big-footed, big-bellied, giant-nosed prankster with itty-bitty eyes who lived in the bed springs of every child’s bed.

 

The creature’s name was Carl and he was a Git’chem Got’chem. They were the ultimate pranksters. They were the ones who drew mustaches on you while you slept. They were the ones riding your pets around the house in the middle of the night, but most importantly, they were the ones responsible for ridding your room and your closet of monsters.

 

After my divorce, my daughter developed an acute fear of the dark. Stories about Carl got her over these fears. I would trek into her room every so often and find her on the floor half-way beneath the bed looking for Carl’s home. I couldn’t have her doing this. It was nasty under the bed. I told her if she wanted to find out if Carl really existed, then all she had to do was leave a peppermint on her night stand. You see, Git’chem Got’chems go absolutely crazy for peppermint.

 

Every night, she would leave a peppermint on her night stand before falling asleep. And, unfortunately for me, every night, I would eat that peppermint and leave the empty wrapper for her to find. She literally gushed when she told her friends at school about Carl. The children loved her recanting of my made-up-on-the-spot bedtime stories.

 

We progressed through this and every Halloween, my daughter would dress up as a different kind of a fairy. One year, she was a woodland fairy, while the next year she was a meadow fairy. I would make her wands or carve them and then off we went in search of candy and compliments.

 

Her love affair with my story telling reached an all new high for us last year. When upon exiting our house, we spied search lights racing in a clover pattern on a cloud bank overhead (A marketing gimmick no doubt for one of the stores near the mall.). My daughter pointed up to them and asked me what they were. Without missing a beat, I told her that they were moon fairies flying about the clouds. The look on her face as she watched the lights above was simply angelic.

 

So, now she’s growing up. She’s nine now, and though her interests have changed, she still enjoys these stories and looks forward to each one.

 

So, what’s a father to do?

 

Well, I wrote a book to immortalize her favorite characters. I’m currently in the middle of editing it. My daughter  has read excerpts from it and is eagerly waiting for me to finish it. She’s made me promise not to tell her anymore about it until the book is done and ready to read.

 

She doesn’t know it, but I’m halfway through with the second book already.

 

I’ll try to post a new journal entry each week with updates on the progress of my novel. The working title is “The Beauty of a Trap.”