I will skip the next two updates as well. I would rather take care of school stuff right now.
Don't worry, I'll post longer updates to compensate.
Maybe...
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Trail part 1 (Trouble Part 7)
I was pondering where I should take this new train of thought, when the phone rang. I picked up, expecting my father to give me some new ideas that popped up in his mind. My instinct was wrong yet again, Madeleine had called me. She had news: apparently her husband was going on a business trip of some sort, three or four days on the old continent. She invited me over to look through his stuff. This would be a great opportunity to get more information, maybe get in his head a little. I asked Madeleine what airline he was flying, and I lucked out. I knew someone who worked for them at the airport. This case was starting to be a lot more than I expected, so I was fully prepared to pull in some favours all over town. I made arrangements to meet Madeleine two days later, and called my friend. No luck, it ended on his voice mail. Whatever, I left a message and hopefully he will pick it up before tomorrow. The promise of a nice bottle of wine should be enough to get him to help me. And since I was told cost was not an issue, I won’t end up with the bill.
After a day of relaxation, and laundry, I was ready to meet with Madeleine. I picked up a copy of all her books at a book store on the way over, I figured I might do a little extra for my father. On the way over, I started regretting doing this, she might see me as a star struck idiot. I was starting to feel like such a fool that I considered throwing the books out on the way from the bus stop to her place, but this was a nice neighbourhood that lacked in recycling bins on the streets. I was heading toward her place when I decided to check my messages yet again. My friend had not called me, and he was unreachable by all the means I had tried. When I reached her house, I remembered why I hated this neighbourhood. I guess you can never get used to the difference between the richest and poorest people in town. I rang at the gate, which opened almost instantly. Even under the rain, it was obvious the garden was well maintained, the grass was green and the flowers nice. Yet I could not help but think about how much space was wasted in this neighbourhood on houses with huge backyards with no one to enjoy them other than the people hired to maintain them.
I went up to the door, trying to forget my issues with this part of town, and knocked. She answered wearing simple clothes. She hadn’t been crying today, and she was much more attractive than last time I saw her. She also spotted the bag with the books and after greeting me, she asked while looking at them: “Learning a bit more about the client?” I had no choice but to explain that I had read her books before, and that I bought these hoping she would autograph them for my father. She smiled said it was not a problem, and asked what I thought about her view of the world of detectives. I politely explained that when I managed to stop being so critical of her outsider’s misconceptions, the books were actually entertaining. I also told her that it wasn’t her fault this type of job had been romanticised and that obviously a simple cheating spouse specialist like me would not provide much material for a novel.
She apologised for the state of the house, she casually mentioned she asked the cleaning service to come after my visit, that way I would see his office in its natural state, and it would cover my tracks a little better. If only all clients were that smart, I guess she does have the ability to think like one of us. Noticing a motion detector, I asked if their security system was linked to a station. She told me it wasn’t, the cop had come once by accident and Albert felt it was too much. I asked if he had any cameras in his office, and she said she did not think so. I decided to make sure of this before I would go in his office, she seemed curious at that idea. At that point, I felt it was my duty to tell her that I suspected her husband of being involved in some sort of fiscal evasion scheme or something worse. She first laughed, but then decided to ask about the evidence. She said we were in no rush, and that she would be offering dinner if I had to stay too late because of her questions. I decided to first look at the wiring for their security system, nanny-cams can watch a lot more than a babysitter, and a DVR would be easy to spot. I went downstairs, with a flashlight, but did a first inspection in the dark. I installed so many surveillance equipments, that I knew a bit what I was doing. And it turns out my instinct was right, there was a camera watching over a DVR in a locked box I managed to open on the first try. I would have hated to show my only client at the time that I had a hard time picking locks. Thankfully, I knew what type of setup he had, and I knew what to do to make it fail to see us snooping around. This particular brand had an extremely high default encoding rate, but a small hard disc, it was meant for day to day backups, and would certainly fill up quickly judging by the 6 video feeds it was receiving if it was on default settings. I also knew that these things went back to default setting after a loss of power unless you changed these defaults, so I simply went to the breaker box in the dark, killed the power to the DVR, unplugged the battery, and then reconnected everything and started the whole system. I then waited in the dark to see the little red light warning about the lack of space turn on.
[Again, I am slowing down my story. No sense in rushing it, right?]
After a day of relaxation, and laundry, I was ready to meet with Madeleine. I picked up a copy of all her books at a book store on the way over, I figured I might do a little extra for my father. On the way over, I started regretting doing this, she might see me as a star struck idiot. I was starting to feel like such a fool that I considered throwing the books out on the way from the bus stop to her place, but this was a nice neighbourhood that lacked in recycling bins on the streets. I was heading toward her place when I decided to check my messages yet again. My friend had not called me, and he was unreachable by all the means I had tried. When I reached her house, I remembered why I hated this neighbourhood. I guess you can never get used to the difference between the richest and poorest people in town. I rang at the gate, which opened almost instantly. Even under the rain, it was obvious the garden was well maintained, the grass was green and the flowers nice. Yet I could not help but think about how much space was wasted in this neighbourhood on houses with huge backyards with no one to enjoy them other than the people hired to maintain them.
I went up to the door, trying to forget my issues with this part of town, and knocked. She answered wearing simple clothes. She hadn’t been crying today, and she was much more attractive than last time I saw her. She also spotted the bag with the books and after greeting me, she asked while looking at them: “Learning a bit more about the client?” I had no choice but to explain that I had read her books before, and that I bought these hoping she would autograph them for my father. She smiled said it was not a problem, and asked what I thought about her view of the world of detectives. I politely explained that when I managed to stop being so critical of her outsider’s misconceptions, the books were actually entertaining. I also told her that it wasn’t her fault this type of job had been romanticised and that obviously a simple cheating spouse specialist like me would not provide much material for a novel.
She apologised for the state of the house, she casually mentioned she asked the cleaning service to come after my visit, that way I would see his office in its natural state, and it would cover my tracks a little better. If only all clients were that smart, I guess she does have the ability to think like one of us. Noticing a motion detector, I asked if their security system was linked to a station. She told me it wasn’t, the cop had come once by accident and Albert felt it was too much. I asked if he had any cameras in his office, and she said she did not think so. I decided to make sure of this before I would go in his office, she seemed curious at that idea. At that point, I felt it was my duty to tell her that I suspected her husband of being involved in some sort of fiscal evasion scheme or something worse. She first laughed, but then decided to ask about the evidence. She said we were in no rush, and that she would be offering dinner if I had to stay too late because of her questions. I decided to first look at the wiring for their security system, nanny-cams can watch a lot more than a babysitter, and a DVR would be easy to spot. I went downstairs, with a flashlight, but did a first inspection in the dark. I installed so many surveillance equipments, that I knew a bit what I was doing. And it turns out my instinct was right, there was a camera watching over a DVR in a locked box I managed to open on the first try. I would have hated to show my only client at the time that I had a hard time picking locks. Thankfully, I knew what type of setup he had, and I knew what to do to make it fail to see us snooping around. This particular brand had an extremely high default encoding rate, but a small hard disc, it was meant for day to day backups, and would certainly fill up quickly judging by the 6 video feeds it was receiving if it was on default settings. I also knew that these things went back to default setting after a loss of power unless you changed these defaults, so I simply went to the breaker box in the dark, killed the power to the DVR, unplugged the battery, and then reconnected everything and started the whole system. I then waited in the dark to see the little red light warning about the lack of space turn on.
[Again, I am slowing down my story. No sense in rushing it, right?]
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The trouble with trouble
I kept myself quite busy today. Didn't have time to write another part of the story. I'll take care of it tomorrow... End of semester is a bitch, I'm sorry.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The need for an audience.
Yes, this is another more essay like post. A good reason for that is that I am feeling some pressure in my academic career, and thus I am running out of juice. However, I have been thinking about some things and I feel I could write down these ideas, and hopefully it will spawn discussing among my readers.
As I have mentioned before, I study literature, and part of that is drama. Plays are interesting in a sense since what we read on paper is never the whole story. The “whole story” only begin emerging when the play is produced and presented to an audience. This, in a way, seems quite obvious. You need a stage, actors, and an audience for a play to reveal its full meaning. Having read a play by Claude Gauvreau, and seen another one of his plays, this becomes blindingly obvious: a play’s meaning is hidden in the actors’ performance. Or at least it seems to be that simple. In fact, the play being a collaborative work, its meaning is created by the way the actors portray a character, the way the director envisions the play, the way the author wrote it, and finally, the way the audience reacts.
When looking at my writing, I often comment that I have one or two readers, and while it might seem funny, this is what I believe. I am writing these stories and text for the people I pretty much remind that I have a blog. Truth is, without readers these words can’t really have any meaning. I can’t force people to read this. (I can try, but I would lose friends fast.) All I can do really is hope that I get good enough that some of you will mention this to your friends and so on.
So, why do I need an audience?
First of all, I would like more reactions. I am not writing this for the sole purpose of being entertaining. I want to help refine and define my approach as a writer. I can achieve that through feedback, feedback I can only get if people read this. But I can’t really go spamming my link everywhere, because I still don’t feel confident enough in my “craft” to share it with complete strangers.
I guess it’s another case of this ambivalence I always have. I want to get better, an audience would help me, but I don’t feel good enough to have an audience. I can’t really get out of this.
As I have mentioned before, I study literature, and part of that is drama. Plays are interesting in a sense since what we read on paper is never the whole story. The “whole story” only begin emerging when the play is produced and presented to an audience. This, in a way, seems quite obvious. You need a stage, actors, and an audience for a play to reveal its full meaning. Having read a play by Claude Gauvreau, and seen another one of his plays, this becomes blindingly obvious: a play’s meaning is hidden in the actors’ performance. Or at least it seems to be that simple. In fact, the play being a collaborative work, its meaning is created by the way the actors portray a character, the way the director envisions the play, the way the author wrote it, and finally, the way the audience reacts.
When looking at my writing, I often comment that I have one or two readers, and while it might seem funny, this is what I believe. I am writing these stories and text for the people I pretty much remind that I have a blog. Truth is, without readers these words can’t really have any meaning. I can’t force people to read this. (I can try, but I would lose friends fast.) All I can do really is hope that I get good enough that some of you will mention this to your friends and so on.
So, why do I need an audience?
First of all, I would like more reactions. I am not writing this for the sole purpose of being entertaining. I want to help refine and define my approach as a writer. I can achieve that through feedback, feedback I can only get if people read this. But I can’t really go spamming my link everywhere, because I still don’t feel confident enough in my “craft” to share it with complete strangers.
I guess it’s another case of this ambivalence I always have. I want to get better, an audience would help me, but I don’t feel good enough to have an audience. I can’t really get out of this.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Books I have read: Lullabies for Little Criminals
I will do my best to not spoil your reading of this book, because you all should go and read it as soon as you can.
The premise is this: we follow Baby, a 12-13 year old girl who is raised by her father Jules, a 27 year-old heroin addict. This novel contrasts the beauty of the innocence of childhood with the horrible realities of the world. We see Baby make friends, lose friends, and try to find her place in the world. The first person narration adds to the feeling of innocence and removes many of our personal judgements over the various elements in the novel.
Jules is not seen as a horrible father, but as a loving one, Baby's friends are not judged too severely on the basis of their actions, there is a sense of wonder and mystery even when Baby is exposed to the horrors of poverty, drugs, violence, and prostitution. This is a book that will make you go through a whole range of emotions, but if you are anything like me, when it ends, all you will want to do is hug Baby.
This is the kind of book that should be read more often, and I wish I could one day hope to rival Heather O'Neill's ability to write this type of story with a tone that does not leave the reader depressed. It's about human misery, but it is seen through the eyes of someone who does not lose hope, and it's refreshing.
The premise is this: we follow Baby, a 12-13 year old girl who is raised by her father Jules, a 27 year-old heroin addict. This novel contrasts the beauty of the innocence of childhood with the horrible realities of the world. We see Baby make friends, lose friends, and try to find her place in the world. The first person narration adds to the feeling of innocence and removes many of our personal judgements over the various elements in the novel.
Jules is not seen as a horrible father, but as a loving one, Baby's friends are not judged too severely on the basis of their actions, there is a sense of wonder and mystery even when Baby is exposed to the horrors of poverty, drugs, violence, and prostitution. This is a book that will make you go through a whole range of emotions, but if you are anything like me, when it ends, all you will want to do is hug Baby.
This is the kind of book that should be read more often, and I wish I could one day hope to rival Heather O'Neill's ability to write this type of story with a tone that does not leave the reader depressed. It's about human misery, but it is seen through the eyes of someone who does not lose hope, and it's refreshing.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Phone Call (Trouble part 6)
I waited until it was past 8 pm. I picked up the phone, took a deep breath and dialled. This would be the first time I would call my father asking for help since he left the business 7 years ago. It wasn’t pride that kept me from calling; it was that I never ended up in a case that warranted his assistance. The cases I had taken care of were simple, the request was simple, and the target was simple. I had to prove husbands and wives were cheating, employees were stealing, and people were on workman’s comp when they were clearly healthy. All it took was a camera, some patience, and people were quite quick into selling themselves out. This case, however, was something else.
Thompson had money. It was obvious by the few things he did own. The problem was that he left no traces anywhere of his money. It came in from many sources, all legit, but there was logic to these sources. He had some money in shipping, he had shares in a company that owned some buildings downtown, and the other shares of that company were partially owned by another company that reported to Thompson as well. I had talked with a friend more involved in the financial world, and while he wasn’t breaking any laws, it did not feel right for him as well. He had lots of money, but it wasn’t old money. He owned a lot of things, but mostly focused on companies that barely made a profit. He owned buildings entirely, but no one could see that because they were owned by companies he owned through other companies. In fact, if I had not spent about 6 hours reading financial records, I would still believe he was an average but lucky investor who made some good choices.
I had a list of questions I wanted to take care of, but I hadn’t talked to my father in a while, so I also wanted to take care of some civilities. When he answered, I started: “Hey dad, how’s it going? Still sunny in...”
“What’s the case about son?”
“What case, I just wanted to see how you were doing,” at this point, I wondered who contacted my father.
“Well, in the last seven years, you haven’t called on a Wednesday, you usually call much closer to 6 than 8, and Sherry called for the first time in years, saying something had made her think of me.”
“Well, I can’t really be surprised, you were quite the good detective back in the day,” at this point, I figured I should just tease him into helping me. “Familiar with the name Madeline Thompson?”
“The author, I love her books, is she in any kind of trouble?”
“Not really, her soon to be ex-husband is however. She asked me to make a list of all his assets. The problem is, the guy leaves as much of a trace as a snowflake in a blizzard.”
“Well, don’t go into too much details, you worry about those, tell me the big picture,” dad was still very much straight to the point, I missed that.
“Okay, big picture: I have pictures of him with a possible mistress, however, during lunch, they covertly exchanged briefcases. He owns small bits of many companies that are also partially owned by companies which also partially belong to him; so far I have a clear web of 20 to 30 companies each holding around 10% in some of the other companies, so that he becomes the only person owning all of these, but they all have various people hired to represent themselves on the boards, so that no one can clearly see that it’s all his,” as I was saying this, I realized how big this case actually was, we are talking about billions of dollars being moved around, and if it wasn’t for his wife, I would not be poking my nose in all the right spots.
“Well, I have a better idea why you called. This seems big; shouldn’t you be calling the feds on him?”
“Some laws may have been broken in obtaining this information, wouldn’t want to burn an informant with a big mouth. The other thing that bothers me is that what he does requires a high level of knowledge about business, but as far as I know, he hasn’t graduated from any universities in the country. He would also have needed a big amount of money to start his scheme, but there are no traces of that money as well.”
“Have you considered that he might not have always had that name?”
“Actually, I did, but there are no usual traces of a name change. He has a legit birth certificate, everything fits,” as I was saying this, I realized something but I felt like letting my father saying it.
“Laws have changed, so there might be some name changing involved, a simple way to get to where it started is to trace back the money to where it was before it was in this guy’s pockets. I can hear you thinking, I think you should look at the info you have from that new point of view. Also, you can always catch a cab and go to the companies in person. Sometimes, people who don’t know something is supposed to be secret will give you the info you need.”
“Thanks dad.”
“One last thing...”
“Yeah?”
“Can you get me an autographed copy of Madeline’s “Walker in the Dark” book? It’s my favourite.”
[No comments really, I like the progress, and I have a better sense of how to get where I want to get.]
Thompson had money. It was obvious by the few things he did own. The problem was that he left no traces anywhere of his money. It came in from many sources, all legit, but there was logic to these sources. He had some money in shipping, he had shares in a company that owned some buildings downtown, and the other shares of that company were partially owned by another company that reported to Thompson as well. I had talked with a friend more involved in the financial world, and while he wasn’t breaking any laws, it did not feel right for him as well. He had lots of money, but it wasn’t old money. He owned a lot of things, but mostly focused on companies that barely made a profit. He owned buildings entirely, but no one could see that because they were owned by companies he owned through other companies. In fact, if I had not spent about 6 hours reading financial records, I would still believe he was an average but lucky investor who made some good choices.
I had a list of questions I wanted to take care of, but I hadn’t talked to my father in a while, so I also wanted to take care of some civilities. When he answered, I started: “Hey dad, how’s it going? Still sunny in...”
“What’s the case about son?”
“What case, I just wanted to see how you were doing,” at this point, I wondered who contacted my father.
“Well, in the last seven years, you haven’t called on a Wednesday, you usually call much closer to 6 than 8, and Sherry called for the first time in years, saying something had made her think of me.”
“Well, I can’t really be surprised, you were quite the good detective back in the day,” at this point, I figured I should just tease him into helping me. “Familiar with the name Madeline Thompson?”
“The author, I love her books, is she in any kind of trouble?”
“Not really, her soon to be ex-husband is however. She asked me to make a list of all his assets. The problem is, the guy leaves as much of a trace as a snowflake in a blizzard.”
“Well, don’t go into too much details, you worry about those, tell me the big picture,” dad was still very much straight to the point, I missed that.
“Okay, big picture: I have pictures of him with a possible mistress, however, during lunch, they covertly exchanged briefcases. He owns small bits of many companies that are also partially owned by companies which also partially belong to him; so far I have a clear web of 20 to 30 companies each holding around 10% in some of the other companies, so that he becomes the only person owning all of these, but they all have various people hired to represent themselves on the boards, so that no one can clearly see that it’s all his,” as I was saying this, I realized how big this case actually was, we are talking about billions of dollars being moved around, and if it wasn’t for his wife, I would not be poking my nose in all the right spots.
“Well, I have a better idea why you called. This seems big; shouldn’t you be calling the feds on him?”
“Some laws may have been broken in obtaining this information, wouldn’t want to burn an informant with a big mouth. The other thing that bothers me is that what he does requires a high level of knowledge about business, but as far as I know, he hasn’t graduated from any universities in the country. He would also have needed a big amount of money to start his scheme, but there are no traces of that money as well.”
“Have you considered that he might not have always had that name?”
“Actually, I did, but there are no usual traces of a name change. He has a legit birth certificate, everything fits,” as I was saying this, I realized something but I felt like letting my father saying it.
“Laws have changed, so there might be some name changing involved, a simple way to get to where it started is to trace back the money to where it was before it was in this guy’s pockets. I can hear you thinking, I think you should look at the info you have from that new point of view. Also, you can always catch a cab and go to the companies in person. Sometimes, people who don’t know something is supposed to be secret will give you the info you need.”
“Thanks dad.”
“One last thing...”
“Yeah?”
“Can you get me an autographed copy of Madeline’s “Walker in the Dark” book? It’s my favourite.”
[No comments really, I like the progress, and I have a better sense of how to get where I want to get.]
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The Split
It’s Wednesday no more. Thursday rolled in as I was experimenting with a new form of poetry. It was a waste of time really, so I decided to opt for another type of writing: the essay. More precisely, I decided to write an actual “blog post” to justify my lack of creative writing tonight. However, the real question is: can this post be seen as creative?
It’s the sort of thing you don’t really think about; I know I didn’t when I first started this blog. To what standards was I measuring my posts? I felt that I should only write creative stuff; therefore I would have to write fiction. In fact, my original goal was short stories. My goal was to make a blog where I could post every so often short fiction. To be honest, I did not think I would make it this far. In a sense, I’m a very split person. Part of me did not see this go this far because it is filled with the conviction that I am an utter failure at everything I do. For that side of myself, nothing is good enough. And tonight, writing this is almost admitting to that half that it is right, that I cannot create as much as I expected to.
The other side of that coin is the part of my that wished I would not be doing this for that long, that my writing style would draw some attention, that I would have a book deal, and I would be making money. And I think that this aspect of my personality is the most dangerous. I wish I could be somewhere in the middle. But the duality of my personality is something I have learned to accept. I can’t really say I have a split personality though, because these two sides have a unifying factor. They are more like the engines that keep me moving, one motivated by a fear of unforgiving failure, and one by dreams to fanciful to ever see happen. These two parts of me drive me in a single direction, and that movement is rather interesting.
Because of the dream of failure or the nightmare of success, I have to keep at it. I would not consider going to bed before the word count of this text reaches a minimum level. To hell with the idea that only short forms of fiction are appropriate, I have been doing a lot more than that anyway. I have to remember that this blog is not just about what I write, but also about what my writings do to me. For instance, the “Trouble” story has been forcing a new type of pacing in my work. “Lunarity” made me realise that I cannot write something I like every time. And every story has made me think about my place as a writer. But there are other forms of creative writing I am getting acquainted with. I wrote a sonnet. Not a good one but still. I also tried to write something like a play. I have much to learn about these forms. (While I don’t care about poetry, dramaturgy is about to become an important part of my academic career, so you can expect to see me experiment more with it.)
All of these writings however are just a part of my fractured self. I am a lot more than my creative writings. And whenever we do an essay or presentation on a specific author, we have to keep the author in consideration. The same sentence can be written by two authors at the exact same time, and have two very different meanings.
I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I am going to try to turn this blog in a better direction. I will force myself in the “two post minimum” schedule a bit more. I will, however, give myself a lot more liberty and I will try to write about who the words you read belong to. Not that it really matters, because my reader base is usually pretty close to me. Here’s the new deal I propose: the two post minimum rule will adjust in my mind to tolerate the inclusion of “essay-like” posts such as this one, as long as they focus on the act of writing. I believe there is more to being a writer than simply an end product, and the uncertainties of the writer are part of what should comprise my “journal.” Post of a “diary” nature will start popping up if an event happened in that day that warrants such a post. I will also try to introduce a book review feature. I read a lot, I think my readers might be interested in what I read and how I feel about said books. Over the next few months, you might even see essays about my field of study pop up. These are also part of my “career” as a writer. Not everything I create is fiction, but it is still my writing. However, due to a form of either academic shyness or simply intellectual property ideas, I will keep my actual thesis, term papers and various writings done specifically to earn an M.A. under lock and key.
So, what to expect from this blog from now on: More information about my life, more information about my academic career, and more information about my views on the writing process. This will not affect the production of “Trouble” since I like it a lot. With the exception of personal life interference, it will be on my Saturday line-up until it is done. As for Wednesday posts, well, I might include nonfiction centered on writing. In between all of this, I may post opinions of parts of life I feel like commenting on. Not everything has to be fiction.
This is the part where I reveal a twist ending where I actually am writing on the unholy typewriter of the thirteenth layer of hell. Also, the guy’s dad was a chick or something.
There... this should fill the requirements of my readers who favour fiction over anything else.
It’s the sort of thing you don’t really think about; I know I didn’t when I first started this blog. To what standards was I measuring my posts? I felt that I should only write creative stuff; therefore I would have to write fiction. In fact, my original goal was short stories. My goal was to make a blog where I could post every so often short fiction. To be honest, I did not think I would make it this far. In a sense, I’m a very split person. Part of me did not see this go this far because it is filled with the conviction that I am an utter failure at everything I do. For that side of myself, nothing is good enough. And tonight, writing this is almost admitting to that half that it is right, that I cannot create as much as I expected to.
The other side of that coin is the part of my that wished I would not be doing this for that long, that my writing style would draw some attention, that I would have a book deal, and I would be making money. And I think that this aspect of my personality is the most dangerous. I wish I could be somewhere in the middle. But the duality of my personality is something I have learned to accept. I can’t really say I have a split personality though, because these two sides have a unifying factor. They are more like the engines that keep me moving, one motivated by a fear of unforgiving failure, and one by dreams to fanciful to ever see happen. These two parts of me drive me in a single direction, and that movement is rather interesting.
Because of the dream of failure or the nightmare of success, I have to keep at it. I would not consider going to bed before the word count of this text reaches a minimum level. To hell with the idea that only short forms of fiction are appropriate, I have been doing a lot more than that anyway. I have to remember that this blog is not just about what I write, but also about what my writings do to me. For instance, the “Trouble” story has been forcing a new type of pacing in my work. “Lunarity” made me realise that I cannot write something I like every time. And every story has made me think about my place as a writer. But there are other forms of creative writing I am getting acquainted with. I wrote a sonnet. Not a good one but still. I also tried to write something like a play. I have much to learn about these forms. (While I don’t care about poetry, dramaturgy is about to become an important part of my academic career, so you can expect to see me experiment more with it.)
All of these writings however are just a part of my fractured self. I am a lot more than my creative writings. And whenever we do an essay or presentation on a specific author, we have to keep the author in consideration. The same sentence can be written by two authors at the exact same time, and have two very different meanings.
I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I am going to try to turn this blog in a better direction. I will force myself in the “two post minimum” schedule a bit more. I will, however, give myself a lot more liberty and I will try to write about who the words you read belong to. Not that it really matters, because my reader base is usually pretty close to me. Here’s the new deal I propose: the two post minimum rule will adjust in my mind to tolerate the inclusion of “essay-like” posts such as this one, as long as they focus on the act of writing. I believe there is more to being a writer than simply an end product, and the uncertainties of the writer are part of what should comprise my “journal.” Post of a “diary” nature will start popping up if an event happened in that day that warrants such a post. I will also try to introduce a book review feature. I read a lot, I think my readers might be interested in what I read and how I feel about said books. Over the next few months, you might even see essays about my field of study pop up. These are also part of my “career” as a writer. Not everything I create is fiction, but it is still my writing. However, due to a form of either academic shyness or simply intellectual property ideas, I will keep my actual thesis, term papers and various writings done specifically to earn an M.A. under lock and key.
So, what to expect from this blog from now on: More information about my life, more information about my academic career, and more information about my views on the writing process. This will not affect the production of “Trouble” since I like it a lot. With the exception of personal life interference, it will be on my Saturday line-up until it is done. As for Wednesday posts, well, I might include nonfiction centered on writing. In between all of this, I may post opinions of parts of life I feel like commenting on. Not everything has to be fiction.
This is the part where I reveal a twist ending where I actually am writing on the unholy typewriter of the thirteenth layer of hell. Also, the guy’s dad was a chick or something.
There... this should fill the requirements of my readers who favour fiction over anything else.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Honest Discussion 2 (Trouble part 5)
“What do you mean by ‘proper behaviour’?” That seemed out of place, and she said these words with more anger than anything else. At this point, I knew I was veering away from my investigation, but there were some things I wanted to find out, and it had been a few boring months, might as well make this investigation worth my time. When I started this business, I was more interested with ending a case; the details were just getting in the way. Rookie mistake really. The more time you spend looking into subtle things, the better you understand a case. The better you understand a case, the easier you avoid the obvious pitfalls.
A couple of years back, I was looking into this mistress case. It was similar to Madeline’s, the friend saw the man with another woman. I did not pay enough attention to the story and did not notice some details that might have clued me on the truth. The husband had been with the wife’s friend. From that point on, everything got messy, and I almost had to face a lawsuit. Thankfully, everything was resolved before any permanent damage was done to my name and my career. I was afraid I would have to fall back on my nursing degree. And that’s why you need to pay attention to the details; missing one could mean the end of a career, so I paid attention when Sarah started talking again.
“He was annoying with this ‘proper place’ speech. He wasn’t old fashioned, but it’s as if he had married Maddy without knowing she was somewhat famous. Back then, she wasn’t really to be honest. But her works were selling, and her name was becoming more commonplace. That’s when he started changing. In fact, I remember one day in particular, we were all eating in a restaurant. In those days, I still tried to be friendly with Albert. Suddenly, there’s this woman that walks up to Maddy, asking for an autograph. After the fan had left, Albert went ballistic. I think that’s when he realized she would not depend on him like he hoped, but that she had a career of her own. It should have been a great day for her too, if it weren’t for her husband. What was worse was that the woman had approached Maddy talking about one of the books that had money given to a gay and lesbian foundation. That’s when he started getting on my case. Some of the things he said... So yeah, he believed that women were meant to stay at home, and not be famous. He said he was doing everything to keep Maddy happy, and that it should be more than enough for her. He got angry, but he never got violent. And a few days later, he was back to being nice and mellow. I did not forget what he had said however. I think Maddy never forgot as well. But she loved him; she told me he loved her. And at some point I probably believed as well they were both in love. But with what I saw here, I became sure he had never truly loved her. Call it a sixth sense, but the look in his eyes with the other woman had nothing in common with the way he looked at Maddy.”
These words stuck with me as I was reading my notes on the bus on the way back home. He looked at his mistress with more love than his soon to be ex wife. That was another detail that stood out. It’s not something I had heard before. Cheating husbands tend to hide behind a mask of guilt and shame. He had none. He loved her. I almost regretted not asking more questions to the owner, but he seemed to prefer not saying anything. I don’t mind, he’s allowed to respect his customers’ privacy. Too many things stood out now. The briefcase, the hatred of fame, the love between Albert and his mistress, and the place where they met; all details that made this more interesting than a regular divorce case. However, my gut instinct told me I might be in over my head. It might be time I called my father; he had known interesting cases back in the day.
[Not much to add really, I felt the conversation could have a bit more to it, and so I added more. A wonderful thing really. At this point, I am noticing how much revision my previous parts will need. I want to end my first draft however, and it might take longer than I originally expected.]
A couple of years back, I was looking into this mistress case. It was similar to Madeline’s, the friend saw the man with another woman. I did not pay enough attention to the story and did not notice some details that might have clued me on the truth. The husband had been with the wife’s friend. From that point on, everything got messy, and I almost had to face a lawsuit. Thankfully, everything was resolved before any permanent damage was done to my name and my career. I was afraid I would have to fall back on my nursing degree. And that’s why you need to pay attention to the details; missing one could mean the end of a career, so I paid attention when Sarah started talking again.
“He was annoying with this ‘proper place’ speech. He wasn’t old fashioned, but it’s as if he had married Maddy without knowing she was somewhat famous. Back then, she wasn’t really to be honest. But her works were selling, and her name was becoming more commonplace. That’s when he started changing. In fact, I remember one day in particular, we were all eating in a restaurant. In those days, I still tried to be friendly with Albert. Suddenly, there’s this woman that walks up to Maddy, asking for an autograph. After the fan had left, Albert went ballistic. I think that’s when he realized she would not depend on him like he hoped, but that she had a career of her own. It should have been a great day for her too, if it weren’t for her husband. What was worse was that the woman had approached Maddy talking about one of the books that had money given to a gay and lesbian foundation. That’s when he started getting on my case. Some of the things he said... So yeah, he believed that women were meant to stay at home, and not be famous. He said he was doing everything to keep Maddy happy, and that it should be more than enough for her. He got angry, but he never got violent. And a few days later, he was back to being nice and mellow. I did not forget what he had said however. I think Maddy never forgot as well. But she loved him; she told me he loved her. And at some point I probably believed as well they were both in love. But with what I saw here, I became sure he had never truly loved her. Call it a sixth sense, but the look in his eyes with the other woman had nothing in common with the way he looked at Maddy.”
These words stuck with me as I was reading my notes on the bus on the way back home. He looked at his mistress with more love than his soon to be ex wife. That was another detail that stood out. It’s not something I had heard before. Cheating husbands tend to hide behind a mask of guilt and shame. He had none. He loved her. I almost regretted not asking more questions to the owner, but he seemed to prefer not saying anything. I don’t mind, he’s allowed to respect his customers’ privacy. Too many things stood out now. The briefcase, the hatred of fame, the love between Albert and his mistress, and the place where they met; all details that made this more interesting than a regular divorce case. However, my gut instinct told me I might be in over my head. It might be time I called my father; he had known interesting cases back in the day.
[Not much to add really, I felt the conversation could have a bit more to it, and so I added more. A wonderful thing really. At this point, I am noticing how much revision my previous parts will need. I want to end my first draft however, and it might take longer than I originally expected.]
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Who?
[Sorry about the tardiness, I was busy with somethings and I could not write earlier. Or at least, I could not put the words on "paper."I have been writing that for a while. Also, this time, it is a preface I decided to include. What follows is a glimpse of what goes on in my head, it is not always like that, but some events tonight have placed words in my mind that were... Well, I tend to overthink things, this is one of these things, but then again, I felt I needed to let this out. I guess... I don't know. This is about me, but not entirely. This is about the self. I think. It might be about the self that should be in bed, hence my rambling... Oh well, sometimes this blog has to be a bit more about the author behind it. Hopefully, my 2 readers won't mind.]
I once heard the question: “What makes a true warrior?” and saw the answers. One would claim a true warrior is the one who no longer needs to fight. Another said that a true warrior is one who becomes a weapon for a master, one who has only purpose in being that weapon. The final answer was that a true warrior is one who is true to the purpose of destruction, and needs no master, nor principles beyond destruction.
I am no warrior. I do not serve a master, do not serve a purpose, and I am not freed from fighting. In fact I do not know who I am. I feel like I’m standing on water, my body is mist, and my mind a labyrinth. To question the nature of one’s purpose is interesting, to question one’s purpose is scary. To question the purpose of one’s existence is… No one really knows what it is really.
Am I a writer? Do I follow a greater purpose by writing what is held up inside? Is my sole purpose to write? And if I become the best, will I stop writing? One could assume that by writing I feel I am a writer, but nothing of the sort is true. I don’t feel I am any closer to other authors by virtue of putting words on paper. I write, I can write, I love to write. But that does not make it my purpose.
The same could be said of my being a student. I know what I study for, I know what I study, but do I truly know why I study? There is that story I tell, the one about the job I had to leave. But while I left the job to become a student, it was not the why of my nature. I cannot see that why.
I am not many things. I am not a musician. I am not a singer. I am not a painter. I am not a sculptor. I write but I am not a writer. I am not a critic. I study but I am not a student. I am friendly, but I cannot be my own friend. I am not a lover, for lack of a loved one. I am not a son, because I no longer need a mother.
I am lost. Lost in myself. Lost in myselfs. I cannot, will not, do not know why I am here. Why should I? But I wonder. Everyone has a purpose, a reason. Everyone I see is wanted, needed. Me? Me…
Do I exist simply to make others feel their sense of purpose?
I am a dreamer.
Are dreams my purpose?
Should I simply sleep?
The real question here is now what am I, but who am I? I should know that. I have a name. I have a place. But names are given, as are places. Where do I stand in the middle of this torrent of questions?
I stand, on a river, on fluid ground. Myself a misty self. My self a lost consciousness. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know many things about me. I do know one thing: I miss you. Now can you tell me who you are?
I once heard the question: “What makes a true warrior?” and saw the answers. One would claim a true warrior is the one who no longer needs to fight. Another said that a true warrior is one who becomes a weapon for a master, one who has only purpose in being that weapon. The final answer was that a true warrior is one who is true to the purpose of destruction, and needs no master, nor principles beyond destruction.
I am no warrior. I do not serve a master, do not serve a purpose, and I am not freed from fighting. In fact I do not know who I am. I feel like I’m standing on water, my body is mist, and my mind a labyrinth. To question the nature of one’s purpose is interesting, to question one’s purpose is scary. To question the purpose of one’s existence is… No one really knows what it is really.
Am I a writer? Do I follow a greater purpose by writing what is held up inside? Is my sole purpose to write? And if I become the best, will I stop writing? One could assume that by writing I feel I am a writer, but nothing of the sort is true. I don’t feel I am any closer to other authors by virtue of putting words on paper. I write, I can write, I love to write. But that does not make it my purpose.
The same could be said of my being a student. I know what I study for, I know what I study, but do I truly know why I study? There is that story I tell, the one about the job I had to leave. But while I left the job to become a student, it was not the why of my nature. I cannot see that why.
I am not many things. I am not a musician. I am not a singer. I am not a painter. I am not a sculptor. I write but I am not a writer. I am not a critic. I study but I am not a student. I am friendly, but I cannot be my own friend. I am not a lover, for lack of a loved one. I am not a son, because I no longer need a mother.
I am lost. Lost in myself. Lost in myselfs. I cannot, will not, do not know why I am here. Why should I? But I wonder. Everyone has a purpose, a reason. Everyone I see is wanted, needed. Me? Me…
Do I exist simply to make others feel their sense of purpose?
I am a dreamer.
Are dreams my purpose?
Should I simply sleep?
The real question here is now what am I, but who am I? I should know that. I have a name. I have a place. But names are given, as are places. Where do I stand in the middle of this torrent of questions?
I stand, on a river, on fluid ground. Myself a misty self. My self a lost consciousness. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know many things about me. I do know one thing: I miss you. Now can you tell me who you are?
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