Stupid Title # 1

I worked on that novel I was writing that used to be a comic book for today. Since I basically started it from scratch recently, I'll go ahead and post everything I've written so far. Also, I'm very bad at coming up with titles, so for now this thing is called The Eight. I'll say again: I don't guarantee that anything written here will be very good. But hey, at least I'm writing, right?

PS-I've waited to post this toward the end of the day to give people a chance to catch up on the fact that I'm posting things on my blog again. If you are one of those people, be sure to read the previous entry as it will explain a lot.

The Eight

You know that moment, right before the zombie horde (raised, no less, by a man you thought you could call a friend) breaks down the door and kills those people you’ve come to love as a second family, and everything suddenly shifts into perspective and you realize there are a lot worse things than knowing that out of 1000 people you survived a freak industrial accident which left 992 dead, 7 now sporting equally freaky genetic mutations (aka superpowers), and all you got was a one-way ticket to tea with the Grim Reaper at an indeterminate, but most likely near future, time and date?

No?

Maybe it’s just me.

I could start at the beginning, but who can say where this all really began? Was it when a little boy named Benedict Chant was born to two of the wealthiest parents on the planet? Or maybe when that same little boy grew up and started having visions about the end of the world? Or when that little boy, now a grown man, decided he could save the world by creating an army of superheroes but instead just ended up making a lot of people dead?

No, it’s not fair to blame everything on Benedict. However misguided, his intentions were good. And to be fair, the accident that wasn’t really an accident, wasn’t his fault.

Maybe that’s where it began, with the ‘accident’. But that’s too painful to recall. It’s blurry and confused, full of shrapnel and panic. I’m not sure I’m up to the task of putting it into words. What happened after, that’s what’s really clear. Those years we spent together, the eight of us who survived, locked up on an army base while they ran test after test, (locked up, they said, for our own safety, and therefore not imprisoned exactly, just not free to leave) those memories are sharp and fresh in my mind. It was the first time I can ever remember being really happy.

I know that sounds bad. After all, as I’ve already mentioned, 992 people died in that ‘accident’. What right had I to be happy after that? And I wasn’t at first. But as the years went by, the eight of us bonded in a way unlike anything I’ve ever known outside of family. But more so. This wasn’t just a bond of blood, it was a bond of shared experience. An experience so word-stallingly huge it actually changed our very DNA. Or, their DNA, anyway, we’re still not super sure on what happened to me. If anything.

We are family. Even Michael. I mean, hey, every family has its creepy uncle, right? And every family has its disfunctions.

Listen to me, babbling on about how to begin. Why am I even writing this at all, you might ask. There are already three books about what happened, one of which will be coming soon to a theater near you. But I thought it might be nice if someone set down the truth. And, as I am the only author who actually witnessed the events leading up to the attack of the zombie horde on Chant Tower, I think that makes me uniquely qualified.

Let’s start with the cast of characters. You’ve probably already heard their names, unless you happen to live under a rock, but I’m going to start from scratch anyway. Everything you’ve heard is from the media, which, frankly, makes it rather suspect. So let’s assume that almost everything you think you know is wrong, and let me describe them in my own words.

Anzu: Perhaps the most beloved of all of us by the public. And she’s pretty hard not to love. Anzu was born in Japan to a woman named Suzume. None of us had a chance to know Suzume, who was killed in the ‘accident’. Anzu was only five years old at the time, and could not tell us why her mother had brought her to Chant Industries that day. She also did not know who her father was or where he might be now. Much about Anzu’s past is unknown. And the scientists could not adequately explain how Anzu had survived when her mother had not. Of course, the scientists couldn’t actually explain how anybody had survived, but that’s beside the point. What is clear is that Suzume bribed one of the scientists into giving Anzu a shot. More on that later.

Anzu is bright and curious and wise beyond her eleven years on this earth. She is also exhaustingly energetic, and stubborn. She’s closest to Sophie, who became like a second mother to her. Right after the ‘accident’, Anzu was listless, in shock (as we all were) and there was some concern that she would be emotionally damaged by the violent loss of her mother beyond anyone’s capability to heal. But Anzu proved stronger than that. It was the animals that helped her understand. I should mention, Anzu came out of the accident with the ability to speak to animals. I asked her once what it was like, and she cocked her head to one side, her pigtail bouncing jauntily as she did, and said carefully, “It’s like listening to music. Even when there are no words, you know what it’s saying to you. My friends don’t use words…but I understand them.” She shook her head, the pigtails whipping back and forth. “It’s too hard to explain. It’s hard for me to imagine what it’s like not to understand them, you know?”

Anzu can also grow things. At the compound where we were locked away for six years, she had a little garden which delighted her. She could make things grow instantly, but she said the plants didn’t like that, so she tried to let them grow naturally if she could. She can also control the weather to some extent.

I don’t know if there are any tests for this kind of thing, but I’m pretty sure Anzu is the most powerful of all of us. Thank whoever is listening that Anzu is Anzu, and not likely to abuse that power.

Sophie was born and raised in Athens, Greece, where her family owns a bed and breakfast. She learned English at a young age, as well as French, German, and some Spanish from the number of guests she met there. In her own words, Sophie described her family thus: “After one of my great-uncles was killed for being associated with the communist insurgents in 1949, my family decided to stick their collective heads in the sand and remain firmly neutral with regards to anything of interest. They decided just to run their little inn, make the tourists happy and not get in anybody’s way. Which, naturally, made me run screaming off to America the second I received my invitation from Chant Industries. If there was even the slightest chance that invite was real, and I might actually get the opportunity to do something in this world, I was going to take it.”

Sophie was 28 at the time of the accident, and had never been further from home than the city limits. It isn’t difficult for me to imagine her chomping at the bit to get the heck out. Sophie is incredibly intelligent, especially when it comes to computers. She’s also somewhat naïve in regards to the practical things in life, and I worry that she has learned essentially everything about the world through computers which can create an odd mixture of cynical know-it-all and innocent no-practical-experience-all. She projects a world-weary stoicism, but inside she’s a sensitive little girl, liable to get her feelings hurt at the smallest slight. She also has a vivid imagination which helps her create the elaborate illusions of light and color she can now project as a result of the ‘accident’.

The scientists spent a long time trying to figure out if she was actually creating these hologram like visions, or whether she was affecting the visual part of the brain of those around her. They have yet to come to any useful conclusion.

The Challenge

A high school girl, who has never before shown an interest in photography as an art, decides that she will take a photo every day for a year. At first the photos are bland, ordinary representations of the world around her. But the more she looks through the lens, the more she sees, and soon, the photos shift to something more. With just one photograph a day she discovers a previously unknown piece of herself.

A similar story, about an author (I forget who, but my sister could tell you) who wrote a short story every day. One would have to believe that out of 365 short stories, the majority will be trash, but even if only a handful of them are good, it would be worth the effort.

Thus the challenge: to write something every day for a year. Just writing that sentence sends fear galloping up and down my spine. Could I really keep that up for a year? Maybe a smaller goal would be better. Say, a month. But then that feels like cheating. Besides, I didn’t say that I had to write a short story every day, just something. It could be anything, really. It could be a few pages of whatever book I feel like working on at the moment, or it could be a blog entry about my daily life, or it could even be a rant about how I have to write something that day and oh woe is me I don’t know what to write. And, let’s be honest, that will probably be the most common form this exercise will take.

I’m also not promising that any of it will be any good. As I said, the majority will probably be trash, but the idea is to improve, isn’t it? I have always loved to write, and felt that if I could just stick with it, I might actually finish something someday. But I only wrote when “the mood” struck. And more and more often, “the mood” refuses to strike. Hmmm. I’ve just taken a break to read an interesting article on forming habits. I had remembered hearing somewhere that repeating an action for a certain number of days made it into a habit, but I couldn’t remember what the number was, so I looked it up on ye old interweb. The article (which can be found here if you’re interested: http://www.spring.org.uk/2009/09/how-long-to-form-a-habit.php) references a study which showed it took an average of 66 days to form a habit. Much longer than the commonly believed period of 21 days, which was probably the number I had been quoted. The article goes on to say that while 66 was the average, depending on the activity, it could take anywhere from 18 to 254 days to form a habit. More complicated habits, such as doing sit-ups every morning, took longer and more will-power than simply drinking a glass of water with every meal.

Will writing ever feel like a habit? Or will it always require great force of will on my part? Even this little introduction is beginning to feel excruciating. Every word dragged from my fingers as I struggle to make coherent thoughts.

Well, I’d best move on to the rules of this challenge. As I said, the writing can be about anything I want, though I will try to write the occasional complete story. Complete story. You hear that Julia? That means you can’t just peter out in the middle. Even if you have to spread that story out over a couple days. Which brings me to the next rule: it must be at least 600 words. That equals about a page. Which, when you think about it, is really NOT THAT MUCH. A page should be easy. I will also post it on my blog, which should keep me honest. I won’t necessarily post the entire thing, especially if it’s part of one of the books I’m perpetually writing, but I will at least post that I did write something, and what it was, and why I’m not sharing it.

Well, this has taken me right on through 700 words, so, I guess that means it can be done. See, that wasn’t so hard.

See you tomorrow.

Julia

Shoppers Beware...

...A Writer Lurks

I've been working on that story I was writing. No not that one, the other one. No. The other one.

I'm just messing with you. It's the one that was a comic book before I realized that I don't know how to write comic books. Yeah, yeah, maybe if I tried it for longer than a week I would actually LEARN something and it would get easier. The problem with that is that every time I would sit down to write I would find myself completely blocked by the format and unable to get anything out. So I took a breath, and started from scratch, this time writing a novel, the thing I marginally understand how to do better than writing a comic book. (It's not like I'm published or anything, so really, what DO I know about writing a novel?)

Anyway, it's going well. The proof is not in the 4 notebooks filled with notes and scenes, nor in the 12 pieces of scrap paper I have filled with, what is essentially, doodling (except in word form) which is later translated into a coherent narrative. Rather, the proof is in the flesh and blood (or ones and zeroes) six pages that I have typed. Not only that, but reading them over again, I STILL LIKE THEM. They're GOOD* pages. And there is a story there. Actually, there are lots of stories, all clamoring to be told, but once I started writing this first one, the others seemed to calm down and let me get to it. (Occasionally a particularly impatient scene will leap out at me and demand to be put to paper even though I know it won't fit in until after the first book. Well after the first book, sometimes. Which, of course, makes me panic. What do you mean there's a whole series of books? I'M NOT A NOVELIST, YOU HAVE CLEARLY CONFUSED ME WITH A REAL WRITER.

It does feel a bit like the story hit me accidentally while it was winging it's way to a proper published author who would, no doubt, be far more adept at interpreting and channeling it in a timely fashion. At this rate, I'll finish the first book in just under fifty years. Yahoo! Break out the champagne!

OK, back to the title of this nonsense.

There is a character in this novel who I haven't been able to get a handle on. His personality was clear in some ways, and weak in others. A large part of the confusion, I believe, was down to the fact that I couldn't 'hear' his name. It went through several incarnations: Victor Edwards, Victor Jarlath (what was I thinking?), and Victor Julius (clearly I thought 'Victor' was staying). And then, one day a man came into Otto to buy a gift for his wife and as I glanced at the name on his credit card slip it hit me.

Benedict Chant.

Suddenly, I knew exactly who the character was.

"Benedict Chant, my friends call me 'Chance'," he said, striding forward to take Ryland's hand. Ryland had a hard time imagining Benedict having friends, let alone ones that called him 'Chance'. But he also wouldn't have expected the head of Chant Industries to be quite so disarmingly eager-to-please, so what did he know? Benedict "Chance" Chant was pumping his hand with as much enthusiasm as though he were meeting his favorite movie star instead of some nobody Brit who had no business being here in the first place.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Chant," Ryland replied, politely extracting himself from the handshake. He could see the disappointment on Chant's face. Maybe he really doesn't have any friends, but has always desperately wished to be called 'Chance', Ryland thought, in which case, someone ought to tell him you can't give yourself a nickname.

Can you see Benedict Chant? Because I can see him clear as day now. Furthermore, I had no idea he was such a geek before, but now it all makes perfect sense.

As for the real Benedict Chant? He remains blissfully unaware that his name has been swiped for use by a writer. muahahahaha.


Amidst the writing, I work, I sing, I search for an apartment, I watch Mythbusters (which I'm totally obsessed with because it's AWESOME. First of all, Science! Second of all, Explosions! Third of all, Geeks! Put them together and you have an incredibly entertaining show. I was skittish about starting a new obsession after Hotel Babylon broke my heart, but I believe me heart is safe with Mythbusters. Whoops, I turned into a pirate for a moment. By the way, did you know that pirates may not have worn eye-patches because it was a cool fashion statement or because they got their eye gouged out in battle? In fact, many historians believe that pirates wore an eyepatch to keep one eye always ready for night vision in case they had to leave the blinding sun to duck below deck during a battle. They would simply switch the patch over to the other eye and use the dark-accustomed one to see. IT REALLY WORKS! I learned it on the Mythbusters pirate special. Science in action!).

That's all for tonight!
Julia

*Again, see the part where I'M NOT A PUBLISHED AUTHOR so what the hell do I know?

Dude, Where's My British Drama?

GOOD GOD, MAN! WHY MUST THE BRITISH RUIN MY LIFE?!?

Let me explain.

I found this show on Netflix. See, I like to utilize the instant watching feature on Netflix to a rather insane degree, meaning it can take me weeks to watch the actual DVDs I receive from Netflix, because I'm too busy watching the shows and movies which are available on my computer through their website.

Anyway, this particular show has often been recommended to me by whatever strange criteria comprises Netflix's recommendations, and finally, I decided to give it a chance.

It's a BBC show called Hotel Babylon about the staff which runs a five-star hotel in London, as well as the shenanigans that are got up to by the guests who are stinking rich and seem to think that means they can do and have anything they want. And for the most part, they can, with the help of the staff who not only cater to their most perverse whims but also keep their mouths shut about it, so long as you don't piss them off.

The characters are so much fun, and really well written and acted, so you feel for them and love them and want to be their friends (except for that slut Anna, but even she made me tear up a little when we finally got to see behind the facade) and want to see them succeed and not get found out because they did something bad in the past and...

You see where I'm going with this. The first season sucks you into their world and you are only too happy to stay there. So you do. You stick through the whole first season while they find their feet, and though they make a few missteps, all in all, they come out swinging with an excellent show.

Eagerly, you begin season 2. This, too, is very good, despite a few glaring flaws. But you brush them off because the characters are as delightful as ever and it's just so good to see them, and you are simply having too much fun to care.

And then season 3 begins and all hell breaks loose. Main characters suddenly start leaving left and right with no warning. Not that you can blame them since the writing is suddenly laughable. Except you're not laughing. You're crying and tearing your hair out and shouting "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SHOW!" at the screen. Five episodes into the third season and you've finally had enough. You are not watching anymore, and you are desperately trying to erase those five episodes and pretend that you stopped watching when it was still good and the characters were happy and not idiots.

Why? Why would they do that to a perfectly good show? A show that was so good I was starting to wonder why it hadn't been stolen and recycled the way America does with every other good British show. As though Americans were incapable of watching British actors. Seriously, what is up with that? They even speak English, for crying out loud, why do we need to recast? Oops, rant-tangent, they can happen to anyone.

And while we're on the subject, can someone explain to me why British television shows only have 8 episodes per season while American shows have around 22? That's a big difference. I'm just saying.

What was I saying?

Right, you should all watch Hotel Babylon, but do yourselves a favor and pretend it ended after the 2nd season and say, "Oh, man, I wish they hadn't canceled this show after only two seasons, it's so good! Oh well, I'll just make up my own storylines for these endearing characters." Then get on your computer and write some kick-ass fanfiction for me to read.

Well, go on! Do my bidding you little minions! Fly!

Julia

PS-Erm, I'll definitely write a post pertaining to real life soon. I promise. Hey, Wimbledon is coming up, bet there'll be some juicy stories about that, eh, eeehhhh? (Nudge) (Nudge) (Wink) (Wink)

Anyway, I'm off to watch the first episode again and begin the healing process.

Byee!

PPS-Though it pains me, I feel I am obliged to note that Hotel Babylon not only continued with a third season but also limped along through a FOURTH! I can't even imagine how horrible that must be, especially since I read through the episode summaries on IMDB, and it looks so terrible I have had to bleach my brain lest it become infected with those ridiculous plots. Shh, shh, shh, Julia, it's OK, that didn't happen. The second season ended and they all lived happily ever after, never mind what the nasty website said....

Olympic Fever BABY!

I heart the Olympics.

Sports are usually about a bunch of guys scoring points against a bunch of other guys, and it often involves a lot of complicated rules and lots of standing around in between short violent bouts of action.

But the Olympics are about human beings against physics, about finding the limits of your own body and then pushing past those limits. It's not even about the Gold (but, really, it's all about the Gold, right? I mean, Silver, Bronze...who the hell cares?) it's about doing your personal best with the world watching. I love the theatricality of it, the drama of each struggle whether that struggle is with the other competitors, the clock, or your own demons.

I'm typing this while watching the Men's super-G (I don't even know what that means, but it seems to involve guys skiing very fast down a terrifyingly steep mountain). The commentators mentioned that the athletes only got a chance to inspect the course once this morning which means they would need "a good memory and a lot of nerve".

What's not to love about that? "A good memory and a lot of nerve." It's like a proverb about life or something.

Oh goodness, they are going fast.

I have been watching all the coverage since it began, but I actually have probably only SEEN about three quarters of it because a lot of the time I'm watching with my hands over my eyes. Not only am I worried about them falling and hurting themselves, but sometimes I get so wrapped up in who I want to win (cough Evan Lysacek, men's figure skating cough) that I almost can't watch them perform. I basically closed my eyes every time it looked like Evan was going to do a jump because I didn't want to see him fall. Which, as it turns out, I needn't have bothered because he ROCKED IT!

Oh Bode Miller, please don't go so fast, I worry about you. Oh thank goodness, he made it down alive and in FIRST PLACE! Let's see if he can hold onto it...here comes a Canadian OH GOD HE FELL! Oh he's OK. Got right back up. Do you see what these boys do to my heart? Lindsey Vonn was the worst because not only did I really really REALLY want her to win, but I was also afraid that she would hurt herself, knowing that she came into the games ALREADY INJURED. Who does that? Why was she even training in the first place, doesn't she know that's dangerous?

Yeah.

Basically I become everyone's mother.

I really shouldn't shout at the TV, I think my neighbors think I'm crazy.

OK, I'm going to leave you now, I just felt inspired to share.

Later,
Jules

Crazy Feet

This whole "can't sleep so I get up and write a monologue instead" thing is sort of getting old.

Not that I don't want the muse to visit me because I do think this is another great one which I will perform next season, but why couldn't I have written it at, oh say, 5 PM instead of 5 AM.

Yes, 5 AM.

OK, granted I was watching The Big Bang Theory until 3:30 AM, but then I was trying to sleep. My brain wouldn't turn off. It just kept mulling ideas over no matter how often I shouted, "SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP." Eventually, I hit upon the idea for this monologue and started composing it in my head.

I stopped for a moment. "You'll never remember this in the morning," I thought ruefully. With a sigh, I sat up, hit my light, and opened my computer.

Now, I debated posting this because so much of it's humor depends on how it is performed. In fact, I think the actual monologue itself doesn't really have all that many jokes, it's more the character of the monologue which is funny. Well, I think it's funny, anyway.

I tried to give as much description as possible as to how it would be performed, but well...you'll see. I have also capitalized words to indicate emphasis.

Anyway, here it is.


"Crazy Feet: A Brilliant Performance"
By: Julia

(An actress, she speaks very slowly and clearly with strange emphasis and awkward intonations.)

Hi, my name is Julia, and I am going to do a…uh…Monologue, for you. Right now.

(She prepares in the cliched actor way, head down hand moving in front of the face like some sort of weird prayer gesture. She looks up, having been interrupted.)

Wha-? Oh what’s that? What is the Name of my Monologue? The Name of the monologue is “Crazy Feet”. Which, by the way, will be a lot more hilarious after you’ve seen it. In fact, I think if we all take a moment to just Meditate on the title “Crazy” “Feet” (laugh snorts) I mean, it’s just…it’s brilliant! Because ‘crazy feet’ is an amusing Theme of the Monologue “Crazy Feet”. (She smiles at them, sees that they are not joining the joke and deflates.)

Um…OK*, I’m going to start now.

(Prepares again, looks up and tries to start, but catches the eye of her audience and needs to start again. She prepares again, trying to calm herself, looks up and begins) “My feet” …uh… (she trails off looking like a deer in the headlights)

Golly this was easier in my apartment. See in my apartment there are no actual People watching me perform my Monologue. There are stuffed animals though. (Visualizes the animals as though there were hordes of them closing in on her) Lots and lots of stuffed animals. And dolls. See I put them on my bed, all lined up like a little audience of woodland creatures and…and…short people. And they watch me perform “Crazy Feet”. And no matter how much I suck, they just keep Smiling their little Frozen Fmiles. Frozen, Non-Judgmental smiles.

Sometimes, though their staring does get a little intense, so I turn them around and make them face the wall, and I don’t feel so….Watched. You know?

In fact, it would really help me if you would all just turn around and face the wall while I do my monologue “Crazy Feet”. (tries to laugh as though this were a reasonable request, but catches the expression of the auditioners.)

I’m not going to get the part, am I?


*(only Elizabeth will get this, but that OK is along the lines of "Oh good" in the style of Johnny Depp as Ed Wood)

Retail: The Show Must Go On

There are many things happening in my life that I could be sharing with all of you, but because they are all happening, I don't have time.

Working...too...much....

Dealing with cranky-bah-humbug-holiday-hating customers.

And also with men who have NO IDEA what they are supposed to be buying and therefore need A LOT of help as well as everything wrapped. It's extremely amusing listening to them try to describe their girlfriend/wife/daughter/sister/mother's size. "My girlfriend is about 5'8", and she's thin, but not emaciated thin, you know.....She's very leggy."

OK, how about a pretty silk slip with lace edges? Here's the small, do you think she looks like a small?

"Maybe a medium...she can exchange it, right?"

Also, something I never thought about when I took this job is how often I have to model things for men. I tried on a robe the other day so this guy could get an idea of the size. I've also had to stop wearing necklaces for the time being because I'm constantly slipping one on for a look. Sometimes I'll be helping someone else when I'll hear either Deirdre or Annette say my name. I look over to see them standing with a man staring intently at my body, and I know that they've just asked, "Is she about Julia's size? Because then you should go with the small."

It does hurt a bit when I'm asked, "What size would you wear?" and I say "small" and they come back with, "Really? Oh well then, my wife/girlfriend will definitely take the small. Does it come in extra small?"

Thanks.

Anyway, this isn't why I came on here. There will be time for this later, when I have time.

I really just wanted to post this video which I finished weeks ago and never shared with anyone.

This is about the death of Superman. Basically, he died, Luthor stole some genetic material and cloned himself a morally skewed Superman, and then the real Superman came back to life sporting a mullet and a new black costume to take him down. Enjoy.

(Oh, and it starts out quiet, so you might have to turn up your sound.)