Here are the last two “paintings” I did while flying from the OC to Seattle yesterday. Yes, the flight was very boring, and, yes, I had nothing better to do with the little rock hammers there were playing a cacophony in my head. Enjoy.

and...

I know I’ve resisted meta-writing for a few weeks, but that’s going to end. While trying to find sleep last night, I daydreamed ideas for the Sandra story. What I wrote yesterday, at least the parts that were part of the “story,” I will chuck and start anew. I’m not sure what length the story will become—of course, discussing any length will jinx it as a never-to-be-done story. Here’s where you would have read about all the brilliant notions I came up with last night, but I’m now drawing a blank. All those thoughts are vanished. Do you see what I get for not recording my thoughts immediately?

Here I am, again with little to say and no writings related to a story on the horizon. I’ve grown bored of boring you with my daily happenings. I did not start this site to record my daily life because, to be completely honest (a) my life is not terribly exciting, and (b) even it was interesting and entertaining, the discussion of my daily life will not further my goal of publishing, which is why I started doing this in the first place. Sure, there are days, such as my Taiwan trip, where my normal life takes a short break and exciting things happen that are worth recording and that might be interesting to use as fodder for future stories (like Loud Neighbors). But reviewing my daily life and frantically searching for something to write about so I can feel “successful” about writing for the day is getting old. This has become more about the search to say something than the search to say something valuable. Of course, this paragraph, in and of itself, is worse than reporting on my daily life. I’m not saying I’m going to give up on diary entries, instead, I’m saying I’m going to try not to pretend that diary entries replace real writing.

Do I have a solution? When I bitched and complained to Doolies yesterday, she told me to write another story. It sounded so easy when she said it that I laughed. Sure, all I have to do is write another story. She even recommended a genre: we watched two or three sci-fi movies, so why not write a sci-fi story. It’s as easy as that, she said. The reason I laughed is that it’s not as easy as that. It’s fucking hard. That’s just the excuse, though. That’s the Carl answer. I started on the Sandra story yesterday because I wanted to write something and a story about exploding seemed like a good idea at the time. When I thought about it last night, I started evolving it into something more interesting. While I forgot some of the details that I dreamed up last night, the basic ideas remain the same. I need to expand those ideas and find a plot line, characters, and then write the story. I’m obviously not a writer who writes from nothing. I need planning and outlining. (But, at the same time, I’m not a writer who does well with outlining. What type of writer am I? Not a writer at all, obviously, but that won’t stop me from pretending.) That’s what I’m going to do: pretend to be a real writer and see what if anything I can come up with for this story.

I’m finished talking about writing about writing. Instead, I’ll talk about writing, continuing in the vein of the brief notes I wrote yesterday. I’ll try not to set myself up for failure as I did in the Pink Sweater. I ended up dwelling too much on nothing (powers of the sweater) and no time planning the plot (sweater taking control, lives wasted, etc.).

The beginning: Sandra—don’t choose this story as your first female protag. Samson is the prophet. He pushes aside traditional religion. He has powers, and people respect powers. Advanced technology looks like magic. He’s an everyday person before he realizes what he has. What does he have? Does he have advanced technology? Should I tie this in with the aliens and no-death idea? What is the religion? Why would people want to follow him? Charisma is the first part. He’s a talker, and people want to be near him. Should he be a late bloomer—the fat kid who makes good and finds his inner strength? Maybe. What is it in the world that he wants to change? He doesn’t want to change anything. He’s selfish and wants power? Why are we going to like him? He starts off because he wants powers but finds out that it’s not just powers he’s after. He begins to believe the message.

Now take those notes and write something with them. That’s the difference with what I was doing before. Before, I wrote notes for the sake of writing notes. Now, I’m going to write notes to write a section or a thought or a paragraph, something to get me off the chair and say, look what I did, as I swing my hands wildly. (Or that was the plan. Don’t you love cheering me on only to see me fail miserably?)