Cool Story Heath… OH SHIT! Zombies!
Posted on May 3, 2012
Yeah it was bound to happen. I feel like every dude writer has to get a couple stories about a zombie uprising out of his system. Well here’s the first of 5 that I’ve written:
Terry is getting ready for work one morning when a stranger in his yard tries to bite him. It is the beginning of an epidemic that is sweeping the eastern seaboard.
When his neighbor dies after being infected, Terry knows he must get out of there. He picks up his girlfriend and he gets to his brother’s house in West Virginia.
But is he safe? Is there an unseen danger lurking in the forest?
A story about what happens when you can no longer trust your fellow man.
Hot Dang! Now THAT sounds like a good time. And HOLY CRAP! It’s only $0.99 cents? That’s literally less than a bottle of your favorite soda pop.
This is the first of a series of zombie stories called ‘The Living Survivors.’
Links!
Amazon: Terry: Escape from the City (The Living Survivors I)
Barnes & Noble: Terry: Escape from the City (The Living Survivors I)
If you like it, please leave a review. If you don’t, send me an e-mail.
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Write Right: There’s Some Use In Spilled Water
Posted on May 2, 2012
This picture is a metaphor.
Different reactions for different characters.
Making convincing characters is tough. This post is in no way the end all be all to creating dynamic characters. But it is a ‘trick’ that I’ve started using and will help you decipher whether or not you have a diverse cast.
Let’s start by discussing what we don’t want. We don’t want carbon copies of characters sprinkled throughout the story. If we’re talking fantasy, you don’t want to have two rangers in your squad do you? No. You only need one person who can track trolls or what have you. If you want to be some literary snob about it, you don’t want to have two characters that occupy the same schema do you?
No. Every character should bring something new to the table. So how do we do this?
We sit them down for dinner together. The protagonist spills the water. Every character should react differently. The one eyed badass with a heart of gold swears and starts mopping it up. The girlfriend starts comforting the protagonist because lord knows he’s had so much trouble in his life that he just doesn’t need this he doesn’t. The best friend gets up and leaves because he’s tired of this shit. The indifferent goth, who they need because he’s the only one who knows how to pick locks takes the opportunity to play his DS but he should help because he’s the one RIGHT NEXT TO THE WATER.
Of course this is a metaphor. Each one of your characters should react differently to a problem. Remember at the beginning of the Lord of the Rings when they assembled the fellowship? Everybody has a different plan for taking care of the Ring.
Another way to think about this is to imagine that every character brings out a separate aspect of your protagonists characterization. You can’t have two people that inspire loyalty. That just doesn’t work. In this case LoTR is an exception because the two Hobbits bring out the courageous side.
Better yet, in your cast of characters, you can have characters that bring out opposing values. Based on the advice of the badass with a heart of gold, our protagonist should just take the F that he’s going to get on his exam because the ends don’t justify the means. But the girlfriend says that he should hack the system and change his grade, because she wants him to look out for numero uno.
Being pulled in different directions is what makes interesting characters. It should never be a choice between right and wrong. There has never been a choice between right and wrong. Hitler most likely thought, in no doubt a psychosis brought on by strict vegetarianism and amphetamines, that he was doing the right thing for the motherland.
So, next time you’ve got a conflict, make sure all of your characters are coming from different angles. Make sure you keep it convincing. Their choice has to be organic. If it isn’t, well, that isn’t a story.
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Bird by Bird; Book by Book
Posted on April 30, 2012
Bird by Bird
By: Anne Lamott
Steven King was once asked how he got his writing done. He answered, “Well, I write one word, then I write another. Then I keep going.” That’s about the best advice any writer can give or get. At a certain point, you have to sit down and write. In ‘Bird by Bird’ Lamott gives some pretty solid advice for dealing with whatever barriers you have to sitting down and getting to work.
The title of the book comes from a story about her brother that took place in their youth. Like any child destined for greatness, he had put off a huge project until the night before. He had some report to do about birds and he asked his dad how he was going to be able to finish this monumental task. His father replied, “Bird by bird.” The meaning, of course, is that you just take things one step at a time.
Good advice, but when it comes to writing, there are multitude of things that can prove to be fruitful barriers between each step.
Lamott helps you break through those things. It doesn’t hurt that she’s an experienced writing teacher and is pretty hilarious.
As it is with most writing books, there’s a great deal of autobiographical information in the book. Lamott’s an interesting person. However sometimes I feel like that sort of thing gets in the way of actual writing advice.
It should also be mentioned that I’ve never read anything else by Anne Lamott, and, based off of her writing here, I probably won’t.
That having been said, there is some solid advice in here that I’ve started taking. The first thing she mentions is to break down everything you do into shorter assignments. Writing a novel is hard. Writing a scene where a man tells his wife he’s leaving is easy.
Some of the most poignant moments were her dealing with the pain of failure. When she submitted her second book to her editor, it just didn’t work. After a bunch of edits it still didn’t work. It took her literally locking herself in a house, pawning her kid off on a relative and spreading her book out on the floor to edit it.
Fun fact, did you know that in ancient times people wrote fiction on typewriters? It’s so barbaric. We’re so civilized now with our electrons.
As with almost any subject, there are a lot of parallels to be had between writing and regular old life. The fact that we all have to figure out a way to sit at our workspace, silence that voice in our head that says, “You should be outside playing or at the very least not wearing pants you sellout” and TCOB. That everything is easier when you break it up into digestible chunks.
But of course we all knew these things. It’s just that Anne Lamott is such a good writer that in ‘Bird by Bird’ she finds new fresh ways to help us understand the why and the how. You will be a better person and a better writer for reading it.
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Throwback Monday: Oxygen: Caroline Wozniacki
Posted on April 30, 2012
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Fiction Friday: People Do Crime Because it Pays
Posted on April 27, 2012
None of you jackals are writing, so I’m doing my own thing. Today’s prompt, taken from plotto:
A lawless person, seeking by craftiness to escape misfortune foils a guilty plotter and defeats a subtle plot.
Pants on the Ground
By Heath Gordon
One final step. The diamond was behind a layer of glass. All he had to do was remove it, snag the jewel. He had five minutes and then the alarms would be armed again. He was so close that his breath fogged the glass slightly. He raised his gloved hand and grabbed one corner of the enclosure.
“Hold it.”
Jack did not move. He glanced into the reflection in front of him. There was a security guard standing at the doorway, brandishing a weapon. Jack couldn’t tell if it was a gun or a Tazer. Neither one was a pleasant proposition.
“Take three steps back.”
Jack thought about it. He thought about it long and hard. He was so close so fucking close. But a diamond in the hand wasn’t worth bleeding out on the cold marble.
So he took a step back. And then another. And then another.
“Get down on the ground.”
Again Jack obliged. And listened to the man’s boots as he crossed the ground quickly. Jack felt the tightness of handcuff’s around his wrists and heard the shallow,sweaty, breaths of a man, accustomed to sitting in a chair all day, when his heart rate is elevated.
Jack turned his head, so he could see the man, who was now standing, and watched as he put the gun in his pocket.
What the hell?
Jack looked closer. A faint patch of yellow shone through some paint. And there was the unmistakeable outline of a circular plug. It was a water-gun. A fucking painted water gun. Jack pushed himself up onto his knees. But the man kicked him onto his back.
“Thanks for turning off the alarm, Jack. In four minutes this place is going to be swarming with cops.”
“How do you know my name?” Jack could taste blood in his mouth.
“Who do you think put up a bounty on this jewel? All I had to do was sit around and wait for someone to break in, stop them at the last moment and take the jewel for myself. Have fun watching me fulfill that last step.”
The man in the uniform turned to face the jewel and without thinking Jack clocked him in the back of the knee. The man fell, and, luckily, hit his head on the ground. Not much time. Jack scooted over to the body, grabbed a key from his belt and, closing his eyes and fumbling, unlocked one of his hands, and then the other.
He stood and surveyed the situation. Eyeballing the man, they seemed to be about the same size. Jack stripped his clothes off. And then, with difficulty, undressed the man. It was harder than he thought it would be.
Jack looked at his watch. One minute and a half until the alarm was back on. He tugged his black pants onto the unconscious security guard and pulled the turtleneck over his hulking body. And then an alarm sounded.
Jack jumped into the pants, tucked the shirt in and then heard yelling from down the hall. His hands were still gloved so he knocked the glass cover onto the ground where it shattered. He pulled the diamond out of its older, stuffed it into his underwear and put the gloves in his back pocket.
Then he lay on the ground.
It was just crazy enough to work.
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Cool Story Heath… Minniwicket and the Magic Necklace
Posted on April 24, 2012
So, I published this a while back and I’m just now getting around to posting it:
Minniwicket and the Magic Necklace:
Minniwicket’s adopted mother is gravely ill, and the young gnome must travel in the harsh winter to get medicine. Before she can get it, she is attacked by goblins, and her money is stolen.
But it’s not all bad. She meets Rosa, a young fox, along the way. When do you know you’ve met your new best friend?
Together the two do everything in their power to get their money back, and deliver the medicine. But will they get back in time?
99 cents. That’s it. 99 cents.
Here’s the Amazon link: Minniwicket and the Magic Necklace
Barnes and Noble link: Minniwicket and the Magic Necklace
Gotta shout out to Veronica DeVore for the cover and copyediting. If you dig it, I’d appreciate a review. If you don’t, I’d appreciate an e-mail: gordon@heathgordon.com
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Throwback Monday: Excuse: Big Freedia
Posted on April 24, 2012
Sorry for the delay gang. It was my birthday weekend and my mother was in town.
If you are in the DC metro area you MUST go see Ito Jakuchu’s painted scrolls at the National Gallery. Mind blowing stuff.
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Fiction Friday: Insert Title Here
Posted on April 20, 2012
Okay so I didn’t give you a prompt. SORRY. But I wrote something anyway. Here’s the prompt I used (Ganked from Plotto and at some point, yes, I will finish ACT II of that thing that I started a while back):
A person of ideals, living a lonely, cheerless life and seeking companionship reverses certain opinions when their fallacy is revealed.
Thumbs Up
By Heath Gordon
At 10 PM on the Spring Solstice, by all accounts the loveliest day of the year, a Friday even, and, for all his classmates, a day mostly spent on the lawn, on porches or, in general, soaking up the sun, Kenny finally emerged from the library. His back ached from the weight of the books in his shoulderbag and he knew he should probably get a locker or something, but there was so much work to be done.
His single was close by. The sounds of parties echoed through air. But this was not what he was interested in. The only thing he wanted to do was go to his bed, and re-translate his favorite work, Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic War.
He loved everything about the Romans. Their clean architecture was the epitome of culture. No writing had ever been so pure as the formal Latin language. And the strict moral code that Augustus pursued was something that this and every country needed now more than ever.
Kenny was willing to dedicate his life to furthering his knowledge.
And somewhere along the line, with his finger in a rare excursion to a dictionary, he fell asleep in the fluorescent light.
His nap only lasted a little while, and he awoke with a start. He wasn’t entirely sure why. After rubbing his eyes, he heard a commotion outside. It wasn’t going to go away if he ignored it, so he crossed the room and opened the door.
There, wresting in the hall, were two men in togas. Was this a dream? Had he died in his sleep and gone to some sort of heaven that was a Rome/college hybrid?
Unfortunately no. One of the wrestlers looked up. “Sorry bro.” It was Trey, a guy from his ancient Greek class. Trey put his head down and summarily flipped his opponent onto the floor. He placed his bare foot on his foe’s chest and gazed toward Kenny.
Kenny strengthened his stare, extended his right arm and gave the thumbs down. A group of onlookers cheered as Trey recovered his 40 oz bottle of malt liquor from one of them and poured it over the vanquished scholar.
“Enough fun. I’m going back to work.”
“Are you kidding me bro? It’s Friday.”
“I dunno man, I don’t really have time for drinking.”
Trey wandered over to Kenny and put his arm around him, poking him in the chest. “Kenny, who was the greatest Roman?”
“Augustus.”
Trey paused, “Okay who was the second best Roman?”
Kenny answered immediately. “Varro.”
“Man fuck you! The answer is Mark fucking Antony! You know why?
Kenny shook his head.
“You know why?” Trey said louder.
“No. Trey. I don’t.”
“Because the dude stabbed all kinds of people. And then he got wasted all the time. He even puked on the Senate floor, like a boss. So why don’t you take this watered-down booze, put it to your lips and act like a god damned Roman.”
This was the last thing Kenny remembers before waking up with a splitting headache. He was nude except for a bedsheet attached to him with a tie. Next to him in on the anonymous futon was a babe in a similar fashion except her boobs were showing. A wreath adorned her head, and she gave her hair to the wind.
The gods smiled upon him that day.
» Filed Under Flash Fiction | 1 Comment
Flash Game Friday: Roar Rampage
Posted on April 20, 2012
It’s been a long week, gang. And what better way to vent than to imagine you’re an over-sized reptile monster who smashes down buildings so he can get back to his son? You walk around with the arrow keys and you blast buildings by waving your mouse around. Basically, if you’re so inclined, you could spend the rest of your day elbow-dropping skyscrapers. Blammo!
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Hey Read This… The Art of Over-Writing
Posted on April 16, 2012
The Art of Fielding
By Chad Harbach
I didn’t start watching baseball until I moved to the DC metro area. And it, like many sports, seems to be one inside joke. For me to have sat at a table and listen to a bunch of bros drop names and make matter-of-fact statements about the state of the game must be exactly what an outsider feels when he’s sitting at a table of old college buddies. And despite my growing affection for the sport, I can’t help but roll my eyes when somebody spends page after page postulating how we can see ourselves, our struggles, in a game of bats and balls.
There are a lot of things to like about ‘The Art of Fielding,’ but I found it flawed in many critical ways.
The novel centers around Henry Skrimshaw, a preternaturally gifted baseball player who, despite playing D III baseball, could very well end up near the top of the draft order, possibly putting his college, Westish, on the map. After an errant throw sends his roomate to the hospital, things start to fall apart, not only for him, but the people around him.
If there’s one thing that Harvard-educated-Chad understands about the Midwestern liberal arts colleges, it’s that your relationships are everything. While the book features baseball, it’s merely a vehicle for the lives of men and women to ebb and flow with each other. Lies are told, hearts are broken, beards are shaved.
On top of that, his prose is solid. I can’t fault him there. That’s what happens when you spend your post-graduate life polishing one work, it will come out tight.
But you lose sight of other things. For starters, the dialogue can be downright ludicrous at times. There is always going to be a difference between the written word and the spoken word, but when a sports agent refers to someone’s playing as ‘mellifluous’ (it means having a smooth rich flow, or being sweet, basically honeylike), well that just takes you out of the story. On top of that, locker-room talk is never polysyllabic, even at a good college.
Every time he used the word ‘freshperson’ I wanted to snap my Nook in half and drink its blood.
And the thing that really rubbed me the wrong way was all the nods to Mellville. Having never read ‘Moby Dick’ I don’t really get the appeal, but every aspect of this story is unsubtly affected by Mellville and his work.
I’m looking forward to Chad’s next work. ‘The Art of Fielding’ was nine years in the making. There’s a ‘chasing a white whale’ joke there somewhere, but we’ve heard them all. In many ways I felt like TAoF was written for me. Westish most likely ‘exists’ within 50 miles of the college I went to. I was a college athlete. But there was something missing. Undoubtedly Chad’s a great writer and I hope his next work is more mature.
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