NaNoWriMo 2012 - Day -1

So, I'm going to try and keep an update on my writing status during the course of November. It might not be daily, but I'm committed this year to finishing my NaNoWriMo project.

I'm excited. Probably more excited than I should be. But the reality is that I enjoy story telling. I enjoy creating worlds. I may be an avowed atheist, but I have found a sort of religious bliss in the art of creating stories.

There's a symmetry to it, a sort of order that happens when you start putting these characters down to paper that is almost too beautiful. It's not an easy process and sometimes it involves all of your emotional faculties, and you find the process hurts. But it's an amazing process.

We all hit those walls when writing. It can be excruciating. It can be the worst. But that's where the process can really do something magical. That's where you can see the source of my almost religious reverence for writing. So often, when stuck in a spot, a character has whispered in my ear the correct path, and suddenly, a new and beautiful set of scenes will play out before my eyes, and afterward, I can't imagine the story having played out any other way.

I love writing. And I'm excited for this year's NaNoWriMo.

Let the games begin!

"Piggy" Chapter One - Sneak Peek

(Below is an excerpt from the novel I wrote, called "Piggy." It's chapter one, though it does feel like a prologue. The story itself will take place 8-10 years after the events portrayed below. If you'd like to purchase it, you can do so here!)

Chapter One  

    

     The James family walked along the beach, young Emma James between her parents, her hands each held in one of theirs.

     Emma rushed ahead, letting go of her parents' hands and laughing. Barefoot, she took a big jump, letting her little feet plop into the water. This made her giggle. She enjoyed the feel of her feet hitting the soft, wet sand. She loved the sound of the water rolling up the beach. She could feel the wet sand push up between her toes. She wiggled her toes because it felt like the only thing to do at that exact moment.

     She looked back at her parents who both watched her with approving eyes. She gave them a big smile. Emma was only just old enough to understand the concept of a family vacation, but she was enjoying every minute of it.

     She couldn't imagine being sad right then. She wanted to live on the beach, even though she knew she couldn't. If she could, she would have a big house, so huge that she could have a gazillion parties in it, not just her birthday party, but a birthday celebration for everyone that she knew, and hopefully they could have a party every day. They would just fill the empty days when there weren’t enough birthdays to go around. They could all go to the beach and run around after cake and presents. It would be amazing.

     Oh, well, she thought. She would enjoy the beach while it lasted. She would enjoy being in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Or at least that she'd seen for all of her six years. Nothing could go wrong on a perfect family vacation.

*    *    *

     “Please don't cry,” he says to the young girl. He moves to sit next to her on the bed, but she sits absolutely still. She tries to go to find a happy place in her mind. She tries to remember what the beach sounded like. She loves the sound of waves and water. She likes the size of the ocean, how much space it had.

     Drip.

     Drip.

     She wishes he would turn the faucet off completely. The sound makes her fear worse.

     He puts his hand on her shoulder and she wants to throw up. She wants to scream, but doesn't. She wants to call for mommy and daddy but they aren't close enough to her to save her. No one can save her.

     Drip.

     She’s confused because she knows all of this is wrong. But she doesn’t know how to act.

     Drip.

*    *    *

     His name was Piggy. His actual name was Paul Peterson, but no one remembered where the name Piggy came from. The thought was that, in high school, someone started calling him Piggy and it stuck. His only memory of this was that it might have had something to do with Lord of the Flies. Piggy was overweight like his namesake in the book, so he figured for the better part of his adult life there might have been a connection.

*    *    *

     “I brought you this book. It'll make you feel better. It'll make you feel much better.” But she doesn't believe him. She just wants to leave.

     Drip.

     He decides he's going to read it to her. He realizes she's not listening.

     Drip.

*    *    *

     Of course, he had a hard time imagining any of his high school class actually reading any of the assigned books in English. Most of them engaged in the sort of activity and behavior that he himself was never able to do during that stage of his life, even if he'd wanted to. But Piggy never watched his fellow students with any need or desire to join in their youthful depravities. He'd save his own problems for later in life.

*    *    *

     “We can be friends. Good friends. Don't you trust me?” She shakes her head.

     He looks angry for a moment, but he doesn't yell. Instead, in this small room that seems too small for a man as fat as him, he gets up and walks to a different wall. He puts his hand on the wall and looks down at the floor.

     Is he crying?

     She still doesn't look at him. She doesn't want to. Because she knows everything that has happened was horrible.

*    *    *

     Piggy had a daughter named Justice. There were pictures of he and baby Justice, along with his wife, and from all accounts they must have been a happy family. He and his first wife, Annabelle, were married only a short time before he'd commit a horrible act that led to their divorce, when Justice was still very young.

    Much later, he'd start seeing a woman named Suzanne. There was a point, while with Suzanne, that Piggy would work hard to try and fix his life. But it never worked. His life would end when he put the barrel of a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

     *    *    *

     “You're such a pretty, little girl.”

     He keeps saying it like he’s he trying to remind her to make her feel better.

     “You didn't do anything wrong, you know? You're so full of life and so amazing. So you shouldn't cry. You should be happy.” He keeps talking, but she doesn't stop crying. She is scared of him and hurt and scared of what just happened. She wants to leave so very badly.

*    *    *

     Piggy was once convicted of child molestation, an act that far outweighed the moral failings of any of the sins of his peers when they attended high school. But he was convicted in a state where the state legislator was eager to try out more compassionate laws, laws that would try to rehabilitate the damaged criminal mind. Piggy was amongst the first test “subjects” for this little program. In lieu of jail time, he was able to undergo therapy.

     He immediately opted for the therapy, hoping that one day he would be able to see his daughter again and legitimately become a better person. He spent long nights during the course of therapy dreaming of the day when he could become a good father, someone to raise Justice without fear of his darker side.

     Upon completion of his therapy, he was heralded as a great success story. All parties involved made sure that the media was aware of his success. It was big, at least on a local and state scale, and the political machine involved was eager to make sure everyone knew what happened with this man. This brand new man.

     This was when he met Suzanne. And the connection was instant. She was a believer in his salvation, in his becoming a better person. They had a great relationship for several months.

     At a party featuring many political types, polemicists, and others eager to rub shoulders with important people, Piggy was invited to be shown off to all the eager eyes who joined in the chorus of singing for compassion over punishment.

     “Paul Peterson. Brave for taking this chance. A remarkable story of redemption amidst a horrible tragedy.” There would be those at the party that remembered state senator Jackson Willis' words, and would remember even then that his words almost sounded like he had no idea what Piggy had actually done, but was happy to take credit for Piggy's recovery since Willis' name was on the bill he co-sponsored.

The Willis family, an institution in their town, loved being a part of the spotlight, already heavily entrenched in everything going on, and in all levels of government in town and state level politics. Jackson Willis wore the smile of a man who had achieved a great victory. Compassion was the buzz word of that political cycle.

     Politicians always use compassion as a magnet for the votes of constituents. But politicians rarely know what it is that they fight for, even when their advisors hand them bullet point lists of the things their constituents would like them to say.

    Hollow words were spoken that night, hollow words spoken through clean, smiling teeth.

     Willis' own young daughter, Henrita, was there. And Piggy couldn't keep his eyes off of her the entire night. He put it out of his mind, as often as he could, but her image was in his eyes even when he wasn't looking at her. At one point in the course of the evening, he broke into horrible sweats as he kept staring at her.

     He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn't be thinking the horrible thoughts going through his head. But he couldn't stop himself from imagining.

     Would it be so wrong? He knew the answer to that thought. And yet…

     Henrita was precocious for a ten year old. She was open-minded and very curious about the world. She approached Piggy when he was standing away on the other side of the room. He nearly jumped when he saw her standing before him, her deep blue eyes staring into his.

     “You're the one everyone's celebrating, aren't you?”

     Piggy never answered her. He gave a few head shakes and nods at her deluge of questions. Eventually, he pardoned himself.

     He found himself in the guest restroom of this massive house. He wept uncontrollably. He prayed. He pleaded. He found himself talking to no one, asking for that invisible entity's advice. Then, he wrote a note to his daughter, with the letter titled “To Justice.” He found the senator's gun room, found a gun that felt right in his hands, and ended his life, as well as the party.

     The note was a very honest one, telling his daughter that people have to be held accountable for their actions and that he knew she could grow up to be a better person than he ever was. And it also destroyed the horribly flawed system of supposed compassion that Willis had been building.

     It was argued, by those who opposed the law and had found new voice, that little compassion was shown for those victims that were irreparably harmed by Piggy's actions. It was argued that there had been no justice at all until he ended his own life. Thank goodness, many proclaimed, that no one else got hurt.

     Rhoda James was a person who celebrated Piggy's death. She watched as the system in place, the system that was supposed to protect the innocent, failed the innocent, protecting him when her young daughter had been his last victim. Her rage was unmatched in her fight against the Willis law. Though there were many on her side, no one really matched her fervor, her passion, her hatred of Piggy and the people in power for the failure of the government to do what it was supposed to do.

     When Piggy killed himself and left that damning note, Rhoda was given the stage like never before. She was given a voice and she chose to use that voice as a tool to empower the system to protect her daughter and other young children from this sort of predatory act. She gave many speeches and addressed many people, telling them of the things she was thankful for.

     She was thankful that after the justice system couldn't deliver, the monster saw fit to do it himself. The fact that even he seemed to understand how horrible his actions were was very indicative that we all needed to embrace that same realization.

     “Quite frankly, I'm offended that people would even think to try and defend such a deplorable action.” She couldn't be more right, with there never really being much public support for the bill in the first place. But with a real life event that affected many lives sitting heavily on the public mind, there was no stopping what Rhoda was going to do to establish her cause.

     And she wouldn't start small, either. The support for her and her push was instant and incredible. Opposing politicians and normal, everyday citizens jumped aboard her push, and she found herself heading an organization that would push these ideals forward. Rhoda’s message to all was to protect the innocent victims. Her person message was something else entirely.

     It was the message she thought about every time she heard the name Piggy.

     “People don't really change. People just don't change.”

*    *    *

     He had asked her, “One more time?” He was pleading.

     She didn't answer, and now she sits very still. She waits for him to do something. She hopes he doesn't. He's crying now. He lays down behind her as she sits on the edge of the bed.

     Another drip.

     One more.

     The final one hits and she's suddenly filled with an urge that takes her.

     She runs. She gets to the door of the small trailer. She swings the door open and runs outside of the trailer, tears running down her cheeks, fear filling her chest.

     She hears him scream out for her.

     She doesn't turn.

     Don't turn around.

     She hears him stumble and curse. But she doesn't stop until she finds herself outside of the trailer park and into a residential neighborhood.

     There are no cars. There are no people walking around. No one to scream to. But she's not sure she can scream. She hurts, not just in her throat but all over her body. She tries not to think of why.

     Instead, she keeps running, hoping for something that will help her. She can't hear that man behind her anymore, but she's too scared to stop. To even turn and see.

     But eventually, she can't help herself. Her breathing is burning her insides. She's tired. She can't run anymore.

     She finds a dry ditch and curls up in it. She cries until she can't anymore. She can't sleep, so she just lies down until a bit of the sun starts to peak its face over the edge of the horizon. But it's still dark enough that she doesn't really notice anything going on around her.

     She doesn't see the police officer until his flashlight beam hits her. She doesn’t feel him pick her up and carry her to the police car as he calls in for an ambulance.

*    *    *

     “People can change. But they usually don't.” He’s whimpering to himself, all alone now.

 ©Copyright 2012 by Brit C. Tullis. 

Dreaming Qualities

My dreams have been all over the place lately. It's obvious why my brain is overly active right now, but it's odd the places my mind has gone.

Recently, I had a dream that I was standing in a line, in a sort of bank or MVD type setting. I believe I was standing there with my girlfriend, Melanie. It wasn't an unhappy line, but it was odd being there. I distinctly remember the color palette, which I usually do in my dreams as that's something I've always noticed in my subconscious land. The color of the area was composed of golds and beige. I remember looking over to the entrance and seeing my younger cousin Trisha leading my late aunt (Trisha's grandmother) Celia into this building, whatever it was.

Trisha lead Celia, holding her hand, weaving in and out of the lines. I knew that their moving ahead of the lines as to be okay, but I wasn't sure why. I knew that Celia was dead, even in my dream state, but I didn't question what I was seeing. I wanted to call out to Trish and Celia, but I hesitated, feeling like maybe I shouldn't say anything.

I woke up thinking, "What the hell?"

My aunt Celia died a few years ago, her body horribly ridden with cancer. It was a bittersweet time for my mom, in particular, because my son, her first grandchild, was born on a day where it was becoming increasingly clear that Celia didn't have much longer. I remember the day my mom came into my work to tell me that Celia had passed. She looked numb, but prepared. That's the only benefit of having to wait; it steels you for the imminent tragedy.

It's obvious where the dream has come from. My mom has been battling cancer and cancer related complications for a while now. While her condition isn't anywhere near as severe as Celia's, it's no less trying, scary, or painful. Mortality is a subject I've long hated and been afraid of, but chance has saw to it that we keep being reminded of it.

And really, it isn't chance. We all die. I'm not telling anyone anything new. We all know this fact. But I feel like I was among the many who didn't really understand that reality. Sometimes, we have the misfortune of having people taken away from us too young or "before their time." I don't put that in quotes because I don't agree with it. I put it in quotes because it's used often, and I hate that I have reason to use it. And now, as my mom plans her move to Colorado, I worry that this will be my last time with her. That hurts more than I could ever have imagined.

The dream I had last night was blissfully nothing to do with mortality. At least not directly. I dreamed of two people with whom I used to be good friends. And I'll say their names here because I have nothing really negative to say; Zach and Laura.

Our friendship ended because of paranoia, trust, and anger. Zach felt slighted by my doing a podcast with others. I think he channeled a rage toward me that pushed his thoughts toward me being a thief. And I became angry, wanting to remind him of my ideas towards the subject matter long before his store closed.

Only now do I look at my anger and say, "What was the point?" Was he wrong accusing me of stealing or feeling slighted? Sure. But I was wrong too.

One of the bad parts of my personality is this emotional wall I've built around myself. I'll listen to people's issues, help them through whatever problem, unless it somehow involves me. Then I put the wall up and get mad when people don't just get over it like I did. But was I getting over it? Not really.

The exact moment that bridge fell down was when I posted the short we did together, "Calendar Company," to try and raise funds for a feature I wanted to make. He took offense to my posting it and that was that. I called my anger at the time justified. "I directed it, I helped write it, I facilitated much of the project" blah, blah, blah. It's true, but it's also horseshit.

You see, I saw well ahead of time that there was conflict. But blaming them for all of it is a problem. Imagine if I'd said, "Zach, I'm going to post this video to help raise funds for the next project." Changes the landscape, doesn't it? Imagine, even more than that, if I'd talked to he and Laura much earlier about the problems that were perceived, because in hindsight, there weren't any real problems, just trust. If I'd told them Nick and I were doing a podcast ahead of the fact, it wouldn't have mattered. But I rationalized that I wouldn't have time with my kids around. Partly true. But a phone call, email, all of that was readily available. I should have torn down that stupid wall of mine and put it all on front street. Talked to them. I didn't.

I know it's not all my fault, but neither was it theirs. And it may be a cliché, but life is too short. Way too short. Grudges are really bad, especially when they are about nothing important at all. There are some people that I've cut contact off with that I'll never speak to again. But there were some honest wrongs committed. In the case of Zach and Laura, not at all. It was just a misunderstanding. Everyone has faults, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge that about myself, and it's wrong to ruin all of the good times because of these misunderstandings. And make no mistake, there were really good times.

Jokes, friendship, all of that was there, and I'm mad at myself that it's gone. I don't know if they'll ever want to be friends again, but I hope so. I don't care about apologies, going one way or the other, though I emphatically apologize for my part in it, my apathy, and my inability to open up emotionally. I know Melanie has a different view on it, and fair enough. She was never involved, in fact was pretty unaware of all of it, until she was sent an email and was dragged into it. She holds grudges better than I do, and in fairness to her, she had nothing to do with anything and was called out for no real reason. She needs to do what she needs to do. But she understand where I am and has as good as given me her blessings in that regard. Melanie's tale is hers, but I feel like she's finding peace with it.

Zach's an angry guy. But so am I. We've both experienced loss, painful loss. Chance willing, I won't have to undergo it again until the end of my days. And both of us are likely very angry at this loss. We've just channeled that anger differently. But I can't be angry anymore. Not like that. I don't know if I'll ever be completely free of that rage, but the rest of it I can channel into my writing. And as much as I tried when we were friends, I can't make Zach give up his anger. He has to find his own way. I hope he does. He and Laura are good people and I ultimately wish them the best, even if we never find our way into friendship again.

A lot of my friends have been good about everything going on. Nick and Andrew in particular. We don't discuss what's going on with my mom right now, though one might point out, justifiably, that I'm just walling off my emotions again. But I'm not ready for that right now. They've just been friends, and that's been therapeutic more than they'll ever know. I wish I could show gratitude in some way, but I can't. I don't know how to put it into words, but I hope someday I find a way.

Obviously, one who is older and/or wiser than I would look at what I've written and say, "Welcome to growing up." I would counter that and say one of the biggest fault of those who like to pass on wisdom is that very notion. You can't tell someone, "Oh, you're growing up. I've done that." It doesn't help. You have to let people grow up. You have to let them feel these pains and these changes and understand them as an experience, not as some vocal lesson that will ultimately ring hollow. It's hard, but I, like all people, deserve the chance to suffer this emotional growth my way.

I wonder what my dreams hold for me going forward. Catharsis? Longing? I don't know. The ultimate goal in the real world is that Melanie and I want to get to Texas and be with my kids. Have our life their. Along the way I'd like to make movies and tell stories, even if just for fun, while we establish our more practical and concrete futures. And maybe, once there, once with the two people I care about the most of all, with the girlfriend who has meant the world to me, and, if all things go well, my mom being happier and healthier, I can find some peace.

Free Writing 8

Much to do.
Much
To
Do.
But where is the time
To do it all?

I find the time
All around me
     But I filled it
     With my visions of fancy.
I've wasted the opportunity to do what's right
By throwing away chance for desire.

So please, oh, please, can I have a little more time
To pull myself out of these waters so murky
And do what I should have done all along.

Self Observation Time

Yup, it's that time. Time for some introspection. But fear not, dear reader, this isn't going to be weepy, whiny, pleading, or anything like that.

This will be my best attempt at some honesty about who I am. So, let's do this as a list, bullet, sort of thingy, kind of, -esque.

1. I'm a better actor than I've given myself credit for in the past.  Previously, I couldn't watch myself on film without groaning or picking it apart. That's changed. I do see the bad, yes, but instead of it owning the entire performance, I can see what I need to improve and see what I do well. And there are many things I do well. I'm starting with this one because it's happy.

2. I'm a very confident person with generally high self esteem. But I do have issues sometimes with self-worth. Not horribly. Not as bad as a friend of mine who goes to great lengths to tell "little" lies about his set of skills, his education, his job, and a plethora of other things. I don't need to build up falsehoods about myself to make myself feel better. But sometimes, I tend to lose faith in my abilities. I will feel these spells of hopelessness where I feel like I can't do anything. I'm going to correct this. The only people who should ever truly despair are those who know what's going to happen in the future. And no one is really in that position. I'm going to be more hopeful, but I'm going to ask for help more instead of trying to do everything on my own.

3. I'm afraid of vulnerability. Very afraid. It's actually one of the things keeping me at just being a decent actor instead of a very good one. You have to be vulnerable to let those emotions out. And I never do. For so long I've rationalized this as me just seeing emotions as a sort of weakness. Which is text book. Holy crap is that a text book, cliché problem. And I understand that. The reality about all things is that we were all born unique little snowflakes by virtue of DNA, genetics, and all of that biological wizardry. We shouldn't be trying so hard to be utterly different from each other. It's actually good to have similarities with others, as well as the differences, because it's the combination of those similarities that makes social interaction interesting.

And that social interaction shouldn't be a place for me to hide my vulnerability. A lot of my self worth issues that pop up here and there are probably tied into the fact that I don't open up. That's not to say I'm going to cry every time I'm with friends. But maybe I shouldn't worry so much about showing any kind of honest emotion.

With all of my mom's health issues, I'm starting to see things differently. I shouldn't be bottling this up so much and being more honest about how I feel about things.

4. I don't like Dr. Who. I didn't say the show was bad, just that I don't like it.

5. I love writing. And I miss theatre.

Free Writing 7

Nothing can be saved. Nothing will be found.
Please let me know why you don't stick around.

You can see,
                    I cannot,
                   Apathy
Makes me rot.

Withering junkies, bloated egoists
Self-destruction masks for marital bliss.

I can see
              Your li'l lie.
              Fooled me once,
Now I'll die.

The path was split, but you said it was whole.
Our sad undoing was your only role.

Hearts are dead.
              I can't see
              Broken thoughts
Sent to me.

It is he whom you have clearly chosen,
But it's I whose heart is dearly frozen.

Bloody blade,
                  Quickly slashed.
                  I know I've
Acted rash.

Dry those tears that stain your beautiful face.
All time passes, regardless of our place.

Deep breaths won't
                   Help you live.
                   You've giv'n all
You can give.

I'll say my goodbyes with a slight regret.
But nowhere near your great and sinful debt.

Close those eyes,
                     Just let go.
                     Have fun in
Hell below.





This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Cycles of Death, Part 4

PART THREE

[Exit MARY]

DOUG:
                                         But that's not
What I want. There are so many great things
About you, Mary. But sometimes I don't
Think you see it. Sometimes, I think you let
All the bad things and all the bad people
Affect you. I do dream, Mary. But not
Of fantastic places or near perfect
Ideas. I dream of you, and of myself
Standing at opposite ends of a long
Hallway, impossibly long, a gap that
Lies between us, impossible to cross.
You don't see it, but I always will. It's
My ever-present reality, a
Constant vision, a truth that I cannot
Deny. Static, stuck, stimying the wish
I hold closest to my heart. But you can't
See how much I hold you dear. But I won't
Stop trying. I won't stop until you see
How much I love you.

[Enter THE VOICE]

THE VOICE:
                                 You must let her bloom
On her own. She needs to grow. She needs her
Chance to be her own person.

DOUG:
                                              I can't change
How I feel. I can't stop my love. Why can't
I know the joy of love, of someone who
Will be there with me. Mary is great. She
is an angel, beautiful, wonderful,
All that I could ever want.

THE VOICE:
                                     But that must
Wait. She needs time. You need to be patient.
Give her this and you'll have a chance.

DOUG:
                                                        But I
Need more than a chance. I think if it is
Between another and me, I'll fail. I
Have waited so long for her. She was with
Eric. I was patient then. But now he's
Gone and I'm supposed to wait more. How
Long? How long do I have to wait? Will she
Ever see me as I see her? It's not
Fair that I have to wait. Eric never
Deserved her. Don't I deserve this chance?

THE VOICE
                                                            You
Can't force it. You'll lose yourself just as she
Might get lost. She needs a friend right now. Not
More pressure.

DOUG:
                       I've waited so long. Life's not
Worth living without her.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.