The businessman set down his half-empty mug of coffee and once again picked up the day’s copy of the Wall Street Journal. Looking again at the top headlines he scowled. His newest investment had proven less than profitable as the CEO had fired his third head accountant in less than a year. Watermarx Industries was a digital security company that had looked perfect on paper. In reality, the businessman could see it had been suffering serious financial problems. It was a small investment, but would damage his financial portfolio nonetheless.
The businessman cursed before finishing his coffee and straightening his tie. He stood and walked across the kitchen of his small one-bedroom apartment to pick up his briefcase and shut the front door. Traffic at this time of day was fairly light, so he normally was not in a hurry. Today, though, he seemed in a rush.
“Time is money, and I’ve lost enough of it for one day because of that damn company,” he said, hitting the elevator call button a tenth time. The day had not started off with the most optimistic outlook.
---
A single shot rang out and she immediately dashed away from it. Heart pounding and feet beating the rubber path beneath her, the athlete took off down the track. Months of harsh training led up to this ten-second exhibition. Hard work that would be meaningless should the tape a few yards away not break against her chest.
The crowd was screaming for her and for those behind her, struggling to keep up. The athlete could hear nothing more than her own pulse pounding rapidly in her ears. The rhythm kept her pace and urged her forward, closer to the finish line still an eternity away. Seconds passed as hours and the adrenaline coursing through the athlete’s veins gave her clarity of mind and physical calm she experienced nowhere else. Crossing the finish line exhilarated her, but broke the silent rhythm of her sprint, thrusting her back into the chaotic excitement of the crowd and competition.
The athlete’s facial calm broke to a wide smile as she raised her arms in triumph to meet the ever growing cheers of her observers.
---
Another day, another dollar, the taxi driver though to himself as he accepted the wad of cash the old woman handed him through the window. I’m just that much closer to my future, he concluded as he waved to the woman before pulling away and weaving back into the heavy afternoon downtown traffic.
Unlike his father, the taxi driver was not content with working eight hours a day to earn a paycheck. He had brighter plans for his future. In the evenings, after returning his cab to the depot, he went to the community college to work on night classes. In a few months, he would have enough saved away to enter the medical program at the university. He had been awarded a full scholarship, but still needed some resources to make ends meet with bills and other living expenses. This side of five years, the taxi driver would wake up early not sit idly by as others lived their lives but to help save lives at the hospital.
His father had worked at the shipping docks for next to nothing almost his entire life. His mother had been a waitress at the local Korean restaurant. Ironically, she made more in tips than with her regular paycheck; neither or which was at all substantial. The taxi driver’s lifelong goal was to make his parents proud and help prove the American dream was possible for anyone with the drive and skills to reach out for it. Every passenger took him one step closer to accomplishing that task.
---
Writer’s block rarely plagued his mind, but today was different somehow. He had written scores of novels and short stories and had several ideas for these new plot lines. But rather than allowing inspired prose to flow from his fingers he sat on the couch, staring through excessive boredom at the television. He had nowhere to go and nothing of consequence to do, but could not find motivation to put his thoughts to paper.
His characters went about their lives in the inner recesses of his mind. Countless story arcs raced past in front of his eyes every time he blinked, but he could not convert the thoughts and vivid images into words on his computer screen. Thousands of hypothetical characters and activities were just an arm’s reach away, but only a handful seemed within his grasp; of those, many were too slick to hold on to and all but a few escaped back into the void that was his imagination.
He opened his laptop and began on page one, with no title. Writing furiously in spurts of five to ten minutes he hastily threw together three pages of his stories so they might not be lost to nothingness. With experiences and ideas given a voice through his words, the characters involved became tactile, real. Their lives, although existing entirely in the writer’s imagination, would continue whether the writer put words to them or not. They would continue to live, as would the universes they existed within.
Friday, December 29, 2006
The Businessman, the Athlete, the Taxi Driver, and the Writer
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
A story dies in its infancy
For Christmas, my brother bought me a Stephen King novel called Cell. I couldn't put it down and just finished it about an hour ago. I have to say it was a magnificent story, albeit one with a lackluster and almost disappointing ending. I just wanted a bit more of the story, but my imagination can fill in the blanks.
The biggest problem I am facing now is with my own story. The basic premise and plot outline are very similar to that of Cell, and I don't want to continue with my own story now out of fear of unintentionally incorporating King's work into my own (or being accused of doing so intentionally).
King's principle: An unidentified cell phone signal makes people lose all of their memories, conscious or otherwise.
My principle: A terrorist chemical attack makes people unable to distinguish between their memories and other information in their brains.
Similarity: Everyone affected goes crazy and the world is plunged into chaos.
King's plot line: A single and highly unlikely hero travels across states to save his son from Armageddon.
My plot line: A single man travels across a horror-ridden city to save his lover.
Similarity: Unlikely hero traveling a great distance to save a loved one from turning into a mindless zombie.
I can't keep writing this now. Even if I did, it would seem too much like King's work and either no one would read it, or I'd have to find some way to prove I didn't steal his idea. Considering I've now read his book before finishing my own story, I think that'd be kind of hard.
So, if anyone has another plot idea for a short story, please let me know. Until then, pick up a copy of Cell; it really is a good book.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Light Reading
I neglected to post yesterday, but I received my copy of Inside the Aquarium yesterday in the mail. It's hardback, but doesn't look too long. I plan to start reading it next week, over the Thanksgiving holiday break. I have a week off from classes and plan to spend at least the first half of my time away with my girlfriend. Unfortunately, her program is not nearly as benevolent as mine and I will be spending time alone with her cat for the first several hours of each day. Lots of free time to read, I guess.
If you have any other suggestions for reading material for me, please let me know soon so I can get my hands on it quickly. Specifically, I'm looking for recommendations of work on sensory deprivation. Anything and everything will help, but please keep in mind that I'm a layman and need any reading material to be either drastically simplified (as opposed to technical) or illustrated (charts work, too).
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Flashbacks
This is meant to be a flashback in the middle of the story ...
There were five small huts clustered around a larger, squarer building in the center of a clearing. A few villagers were wading waste-deep in a creek that ran alongside the northern section of the pentagon-shaped town. Two small children were playing near the opening of the large center building but stopped and stared at Martin as he emerged from the foliage on the edge of the creek. A young woman walked topless from behind one of the huts and looked curiously in his direction. She then turned unceremoniously and walked through the entrance, with the two children scampering from the larger building to follow.
At almost the same moment, the villagers in the creek put aside their fishing nets and approached him. One of the older-looking men stood directly in front of Martin with the other three men standing to either side. Martin and the man looked at each other, but said nothing. The men’s faces were barren of expression, as if they had come to Martin to investigate his strange appearance in their community but that they did not know what else to do.
Two boys came out of the eastern-most hut carrying an assortment of spears and other flesh-rending tools. They couldn’t be any older than 15, but they had a murderous look in their eyes. Without even turning to look at the boys approaching with their various armaments, the men in front of Martin changed their expressions. They had the same look in their eyes as the boys and began to shout in unison; their voices resembling the Borg groupspeak Martin was familiar with from Star Trek reruns.
That was when Martin realized that no one had called the boys. No one had called the men from their fishing. The woman who had taken the children away had not even spoken to them. There had been no noises in the village since Martin had arrived besides those coming from the distant animals in the jungle.
Martin took a cautious step backwards and bumped into someone standing behind him. He turned quickly, pulling his sidearm in the same motion, and came face to face with the woman he had seen on the other side of the village. She was standing with four other villagers who had all somehow crept around the huts and behind him, cutting off his way back into the jungle.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Recommended Background Reading
A friend of mine recently recommended some background reading for me so I can make my story more realistic. To get the same input from you, I think it would be best for me to give you a rough rundown of my storyline.
My friend recommended I read Inside the Aquarium for more support about the sensory deprivation aspect. The book is supposedly about a defector of the ultra-secret Soviet GRU who went through a sensory deprivation test. He gives a lot of detail about what it was like. Unlike Kaavya Viswanathan, though, I will not be copy-pasting or even paraphrasing sections of reading material you suggest. I will include a references/recommended reading section at the end of the story and will only be using these materials to better polish my mental image of the story. People say you can only write what you know; while I might be a highly imaginative person, I have no idea what sensory deprivation or sniping, or the jungle, or insanity might really be like. I'd like to have third party input to make everything more believable.
