Ideaphoria For Hire

So I took an aptitude test awhile ago that I really enjoyed. One of the things it said I was good at was ideaphoria, which by their definition is the ability to come up with ideas ad nausem. Which if you ever talk to my beautiful wife, she can confirm. Sometimes it is better to keep the mouth closed.

I find that this ideaphoria is both a blessing and a curse. Everyday I am bombarded with thousands of story ideas. Some that I like so much I want to write them down. So I sit down and unleash the wordflow and soon I find myself bogged down in the humdrum of novel writing. My creativity gets sapped by the reality of what is required to do it justice, and then an equal or better idea springs up and I bounce off chasing that one. So I end up with lots of unfinished stories. I know there is probably some medication for this sort of thing, but that is not the purpose of this post. I know what I need to do to overcome that. I just need to do it. But while i slay personal demons, I thought I could turn my idea habit into something productive. Consider me your real, live writers wheel. 

So, with that in mind, I have decided to put myself out there. If you need a story idea, or to resolve a problem, create a problem, develop some part of your book/world/whatever. I am willing, at no cost to you, to launch a barrage of ideaphoric missiles in your general direction. You don’t have to like them, you may mock them, do whatever you want with them. I am just letting you know that I am here to help. And did I mention the money back guarantee? Try me out. If you don’t like my taste, then go and get some taste!  

You don’t have to tell me confidential things about your story, just the general thing you are seeking help with and then I suggest runnning for cover.  I love shock and awe.

A Name

I need a name. Really, really, badly! So, since I can’t come up with anything myself, I am now turning to you, my fair reading public (all 2 of you). I need a name for a glorious Empire. One that will not make you think of wookies or jawas.  Something elegant, regal, easy to prounouce, fresh, original, and dripping with verve, or chocolate. Anything goes here at Frag blue and I will consider every (if any) suggestion with an open mind. If I end up using your name I will dedicate the book to you in its final form. Yes, it is that important. So be creative and help a struggling author out.

A Snippet

Here is a small part of a new piece I am working on. I know it isn’t much, but the rest is really rather rough. More to come! (unless you beg me to stop)

 

     The Emperor was dead. His family, advisors and entourage, murdered in his palace in Bache. His supreme military commanders, generals, and the Warlords, dead or in hiding. Confusion, panic, and freedom spread through the Old Empire. The oppressed were shedding the shackles of tyranny in an unprecedented revolution. Welles smiled. Now was the time to strike.

     “Charing, how do we look?” Welles asked. Standing on his balcony, He could see the entire city below him. He loved watching the ebb and flow of people going about their quotidian tasks. The city—his city—lived and breathed.

     “Excellent, m’Lord. If our intelligence is correct, the Empire’s garrison is currently only five hundred strong, the main contingent having left two days ago for routine exercises in the mountains.” Welles’ eyes wandered to the large Imperial garrison built into the massive north wall.

     “Good. And our numbers?” Welles asked. He knew the answer, he just liked hearing someone else say it.

     “We outnumber them 10 to 1, m’Lord.” Charing replied. Welles turned to look at his young intelligent captain. Charing was handsome, by Tainish standards. Tall and lean, he wore a red tunic and red breeches covered in the armor once favored by ancient Tainish knights. 

      “Tell Major Howe to move on the garrison now. Shock and awe, captain. Spare no one.”

Charing saluted and spun on his heel.

     After Charing had gone, Welles leaned against the stone banister, peering intently at the garrison building. There was no sign alarm. The usual patrols moved lethargically here and there. Otherwise, it was quiet, almost peaceful. He suppressed a smile. His entire plan relied on surprise. 

     Storming the garrison and ousting the only military resistance in the area was intrepid, probably stupid. But Welles was an opportunist. And this was his opportunity.

A cry pierced the quiet din of the city. Another answered it, and then another. Welles imagined consternation on the faces of the guards as they moved into position to ascertain the cause. Then in a roar of wild Tainish rage, thousands of armored conscripts charged the garrison steps. Welles turned and retired into his home. He could not watch the battle. Many young Tains would die today because of his greed.

     And they would not be the last.

Back again…

Well for the first time in ages I have decided to post again. I am going to actually do something with this blog. Just bear with me. I have so many things I have to do each day, posting just seems like a chore. When I get home I would rather just sit and twitch on my couch with my kids stomping on my vitals. But I do want to share my writing with you, so be patient and I hope that it will pay off.

Macbeth Update

Against my better judgement, I posted a tidbit from my Macbeth story on the Macbeth page. I wrote it all today in about thirty minutes without any editing. So read it at your own risk. Sadly it is another example of why I think I should go learn underwater basket weaving, and leave the writing to professionals. 

Fragmentary Flogging

I have not been writing like I should. And my back bleeds from loving welts and dripping gashes. My friends have tried to beat me into submission, and I stand before you now, a repentant and humble writer, who despite his serious injuries has pulled himself safely back onto the wagon. And I dare anyone to push me off again. I have had an epiphany, a near life experience. And now I must write. Or just wax poetic until you stop reading this and decide to flog me again!

Done Writin’

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

 

 

A blaring alarm broke the dark silence. The piercing artificial howl was uncomfortably loud in the confined space of the elevator. Frank heard his companion swearing softly under her breath.

He decided not to say anything. She slammed both of her fists into the emergency call panel, with little result. She picked up the red emergency phone but the line was dead.

 

“Hello? Hello? Pick up-pickup-pikup!”

 

“No need to get hysterical. I am sure it is just a routine fire drill or something of that nature,” Frank said. “They’ll have us out in no time.”

Frank could almost feel her eyes trying vainly to melt his brain. He swore another vow of silence.

 

“Hello?” she asked again, sounding miserably desperate. The huskiness of her voice increased the more agitated she became. Frank loved it.

 

“Ma’am,” a soothing voice replied.

 

“Yes! Hello. Listen, this is Marilyn Metropolis.” Marilyn, what were the odds? Frank thought. “I am stuck in the elevator and the power seems to be out—”

 

“That is not good,” the operator said. “You need to try to get out of that elevator as soon as possible.”

 

“Why? What’s going on?”

 

“The top three floors of the building are on fire. We are trying to get everyone out as fast as we can, but unfortunately the fire is spreading so fast that that is becoming almost impossible.”

 

“But…”

 

“Yes you are currently between the 3^rd and 2^nd floors. Again, hang up the phone, force the doors open, and crawl out now!”

 

She did. Frank’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he thought he could barely hear a crackling sound somewhere near. Marilyn, who had been crouching to talk into the phone, leaped to her feet and was struggling to force the doors open.

 

“Is everything alright?” Frank asked.

 

“No,” Marilyn grunted. “The building is on fire and we need to get this door open.”

 

“I see,” Frank said with feigned gravitas. He knew this was the moment; the reason he came to earth. Everything in his life led up to this. And he knew he would screw it up. He stepped up to the doors, his face set with determination. He wished it was not so dark, so she could see his focus. She stepped away from the doors, giving him room. He squeezed his fingers between the doors and heaved with all of his might. What happened next was something Frank would relish for the rest of his short life. He couldn’t tell if it was the fear or the unrelenting desire to show off, but the doors slammed open. He felt like Conan, or He-man. He heard Marilyn gasp. He smiled. She was definitely impressed. And she may have been. But that was not the reason for her exclamation. The now open doors revealed that they were stuck between floors. Three fourths of the bottom floor was visible, but a sweltering fire raged there. The floor above, which he could see only through a small crack about a foot high was fire free.

 

“He lied,” Marilyn choked.

 

“Hmmm?” Frank asked.

 

“The operator said the tops floors were on fire. But the third floor looks fine. We are stuck in the middle with no way out.”

 

She sat down hard, and began to sob. Frank looked through the opening to the third floor and then down at his crying Marilyn. Without thinking, he scooped her up in his meaty arms, pausing only to look one last time at that beautiful face in the firelight, and then heaved her up and through the hole. She squawked, but was too surprised to do or say anything more. When she was safe, he sat back down on the elevator floor and watched the flames dance and consume the paint and carpet.

 

“Frank! What in the hell did you do that for,” Marilyn screamed over the fire’s cacophonous crackle. Smoke had filled the elevator now and Frank could not see anything but a shock of her platinum hair through his wispy shroud.

He tried to respond, but only managed a wheezy cough. Tears streamed down his face from the stinging smoke.

 

“Frank. Hold on. I’ll get some help. You stupid—”

 

But Frank never heard what she was going to call him. Because at that moment with a loud pop followed by a stomach-wrenching whoosh, the elevator fell the remaining two and a half stories.

 

Blink. Blink. Blink.

 

The cursor smiled.

“The fire was an excellent touch,” Jaeric said. 

On Writing 3

Read part 1 here

Read part 2 here

 

 

Something is very wrong, Frank thought. The last sleepless 48 hours had taken its toll on his mind and body. Phantom phone calls, whispered voices, even his radio was playing tricks with him. He hadn’t done any marijuana recently. He hadn’t been drinking that he could remember. So he must be losing his mind. Can fictional characters actually haunt you? He remembered seeing some Will Farrell movie about something similar but that was a movie. This was real life. How could a character he had only written three or four lines about destroy his very existence? He chased his fourth donut that morning with a strong cup of coffee. Number ten on the day. His hands were shaking. There was a knock at the door. Startled, Frank dropped his coffee mug in his lap. He swore under his breath, wiping the hot Joe off his crotch. Frank quickly picked up a blank pad of lined paper and a cheap blue pen and said, “Come in.”

The door opened revealing a tall, squirrelly man with misbehaving red hair and frantic blues eyes. Frank recognized him as the guy that signed his checks, but couldn’t remember his name.

 

“Hey Frank,” his boss said.

 

“Oh hey, Jaeric. You caught me right in the middle of something,” Frank said nervously.

His visitor just stared at him.

 

“Oh my, I am sorry. Did I say Jaeric? Hah! I meant Jake…or Eric! Eric is your name.

The visitor looked confused.

 

“Are you all right Frank?” He asked.

 

“Me? Oh sure. Just working out some really good stuff here. Got a little caught up in it,” Frank lied.    

 

“I see,” The man said looking at the power cord lying on the ground underneath the wall jack.

 

“Why is your computer unplugged Frank?”

 

“Uh, that is a very good question,” Frank said. He wheeled his chair over to the wall and clumsily mashed the plug back into place. With a hiss and a beep his monitor and computer flared to life. Frank rolled back into place and smiled at Eric.

 

“Do you have that first chapter for me Frank? It’s almost been a month…”

 

“First chapter?” Frank stalled. “I will have it to you by tomorrow I promise!”

 

“Ok, that will be fine. Don’t kill yourself over it.”

Frank smiled and nodded. Someone passed in the hallway.

 

“Hey Ryan.”

 

“Oh, hi George,” Ryan said.

Ryan. Not Eric or Jake or Jaeric! Ryan-Ryan-Ryan. Frank scribbled a note to himself on a yellow post-it on his monitor underneath Marilyn Monroe’s measurements. 35-22-35, Oh yeah.

 

“Well I guess I will let you get back to it then,” Ryan said. He tripped over a stack of Sci-Fi magazines and fell against the door.

 

“Yeah, hey sorry about the mess in here and the name thing I am a little tired and have probably had a little too much coffee today but don’t worry I will get this all cleaned up and written and to you ASAP!”

 

Ryan winced at the Faulkneresque verbal barrage, glanced up and down the hall and then closed the door.

I am so dead Frank thought. He clicked the Word icon on his desktop, which today was sporting a suggestive picture of Keira Knightly as a Celtic Amazon. Frank braced himself for the tirade of abuse from his cursor.

 

Blink. Blink.

 

Frank stared at the clean white screen, willing words onto it. After a minute or two of unproductive silence he raised his heavy hands to the keyboard and began:

           

            Jaeric The Magician adjusted his—

 

His cell phone chirped and clanged at him. He reached for it mumbling obscenities.

 

“Hello?” Frank queried.

 

“Hiya Frank.” A garbled voice said.

 

“Who is this?” Frank asked. Sinister laughter rang in his ear. Then the line went dead. Frank tossed his cell on his desk and hid his face in his hands. Not Again! His stomach rumbled. He was starving.

Frank pushed himself up and out of his chair with a soft sucking sound. He grabbed his keys and phone and made his way to the door. He ran to the elevator in record time—for him.

Must get away from the office. With a fleshy thrust he crushed the down arrow and waited impatiently. When the elevator arrived he paused before entering. Standing before him was a tall woman, wearing a gray pin striped business suit and designer eye glasses. Her Caribbean Sea blue eyes were clear and intelligent. Her lips were lavishly covered with a dark scarlet gloss. Her light blond hair curled about her cheeks and face, cascading onto her shoulders with vigor. Her perfume he couldn’t place, but suspected a new viral pheromone. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

 

“Are you getting in or not chubby?” The woman asked. Her voice was husky, sexy.

 

“Uhm well I uh…”

 

“I’ll take that as a no.” She punched the button to close the doors. Well done Frank. Realizing the utter stupidity and the absolute futility of his actions, Frank hurled his body through the closing doors. The woman gasped and jumped back. She pressed herself flat against the elevator wall, scrunching her nose up exquisitely. Frank adjusted his bulk and tried to smile.

 

“I am sorry. I really can’t afford to miss this elevator, even for someone as literally stunning as you are.”

 

“What?” She asked. She eyed the lobby longingly while punching the close door button, again and again.

 

“I have to get away from my office. A lot of bad karma there right now. Just need to clear my head and get some food,” Frank said.

The woman only scowled at him. The doors closed with a satisfactory clunk and the elevator lurched into motion. Frank knew he had little time.

 

“Philamonger, Frank Philamonger,” he said holding out his sweaty hand. She stared at it. Frank clutched at his courage.

 

“I know. I know. Sweaty fat guy on an elevator, not exactly James Bond. But you know looks aren’t everything. A sense of humo—”

 

There was a loud crash of sound as the elevator jerked violently, shuddering to a stop. The lights crackled and popped and then went out.

There is a God!

Laziness

Lately I have been really lazy. No blog posts, very little writing, and I have even taken a break from my intensive reading schedule. So what have I been doing with all of my free time? Absolutely nothing. As the uncrowned King of procrastination, this shouldn’t surprise me. But it has made me wonder: why is laziness so rewarding? I mean if it was a vice as people say, why are so many people using it with so few repercussions. It plagues the rich and the poor. The successful and the failures. No one ca  

On Writing 2

This is a continuation of my first random writing experiment titled “On Writing.” It will not make sense unless you have read the first installment which you can find here. Enjoy!

 

 

The faceless Magician slowly lowered his hands to his side. Jaeric pushed himself up against the cold stone wall wiping his brow. The massive fireball hovering between them dripped rhythmically on the floor. The heat from the molten monster made Jaeric sweat. He stared at The Magician.

 

“Close call huh,” Jaeric said.

 

“Indeed worm. Nevertheless, the Creator will return soon and finish what he has begun,” The Magician said. He leaned casually against the wall, rubbing his invisible chin.

 

“I hope not,” Jaeric said, maneuvering away from the fiery sphere. “But you have to admit he is a terrible writer. I mean three weeks and we still don’t know where we are, or why you are trying to kill me.”

 

“Silence fool! It is unwise to mock the Creator. He works as he will.” The Magician glared at Jaeric.

 

“Where are we anyway?” Jaeric asked.

 

“It is not for us to know,” the Magician said.

 

“You don’t even have a name,” Jaeric scoffed. He found a nice cool place in the emptiness to wait. He sat down.

 

“True whelp, but my title and power are far superior to your feeble existence.”

 

“You can’t prove that. How do you know I am not just feigning fear? How do you know I won’t reflect your lousy fireball and hit you with one of my own?” Jaeric said. He looked pleased with himself. After a moment of silence, Jaeirc asked, “By the way what do I look like? I can’t really see myself.”

 

“You appearance is not important. You are only a prop in my epic story. Much like the red suited ensign who goes with all of the away teams on Star Trek, you’ll be dead before the prologue.”

 

“Star Trek?” Jaeric asked. The Magician smirked and turned away.

 

“So our “Creator” hasn’t described us or our location, hasn’t given you a name, and hasn’t explained why I am cringing on the wrong end of a fireball and you think we should respect him? I doubt he will ever even finish this paragraph let alone this epic thriller you speak of! He has been sitting at his desk for over three weeks. I bet he eats too many-”

 

Blink.

 

“Uh oh,” Jaeric whispered. Scrambling to his feet, he moved quickly back into his frightened position.

 

“Prepare to die sniveling cur,” The Magician said flexing his fingers and resuming his position as well.

 

Blink. Blink. Blink.

 

“What have I ever done to you? Why do you hate me so much?” The Magician’s eyes reflected his fireball like infernal flames. Jaeric gulped. Then he began to sweat. The combustive death was rather close. He prayed Frank would be merciful.

 

            With an impressive burst of flesh melting flame, Jaeric’s entire body vanished in a heap of   smoldering ash. The Magician smiled ruefully. He turned and walked silently across the cold dungeon floor.

 

Blink. Blink. Blink.