To Maya Angelou

In 7th grade, in Mrs. Blackwell's English class, Maya Angelou became the first poet to ever truly reach me. Without her, without that first tiny push on the door, I would likely never have thought to allow in all the others who have done so since. Without her, I may never have put pen to paper, never written a poem, essay or story, never have found my voice.

If it's true that we are carried past death by the legacy we leave in others, then I, humbly and with deepest gratitude, carry her, as she has carried me, with each word I write. Read more!

The Polite Dishonesty of Everyday Conversation

"There was nothing horrible, nothing grand or shocking, just the tiny untruths slipped thoughtlessly into the world each time someone asks how one's day is going or how one feels, the polite dishonesty of everyday conversation." Read more!

Flash Fiction: Year 2!

Last year, I asked you guys to give me some titles so that I could write some flash fiction. It was a whole lot of fun and I'd like to do it again. So, if you could, come up with some more?

The ones I used last year were, "The Darkness That Made the Light," "The Eye," "Sheer Whimsy," "The Weekender," and "The Ritual." So run wild with it. Make them as simple or complex as you like. I'm very excited to do this again. Thanks! Read more!

Old Writing: Wood Smoke

I came out of the building today

And into the overcast afternoon

In the air was the faint scent of wood smoke

Though it wasn’t cold

And still early yet

But it carried me back

To lost afternoons

And the smells of thing remembered

But long since passed-

The loam of rich soil

As I lay in bed of leaves and needles

Fallen from boughs that watched over me in the night

When no one else would

Cigarette smoke

And a certain, sharp smell

That I’ll always associate with yellow t-shirts.

As I walked to my car,

I remembered afternoons gone

And a little part of me lost

To the wood smoke

As it faded into the deep grey dusk

Read more!

A Thought: On the Burdens of Being Literate

It secretly makes me smugly happy that I sometimes have to Google a word to make certain I'm not making it up because it's not in the built-in dictionary for whatever spellchecker the program in which I'm typing happens to be running.

On the other hand, not only have I had genuine, out-loud arguments with the squiggly red lines, but I've felt inappropriately superior to them when I've been right.

I may spend too much time alone. Read more!

A Thought: On Art's Great Secret

The secret of all artists is that for every wonderful piece we proudly, or humbly, show the world, there's at least a hundred half-finished pieces of crap shoved in the back of the closet or crumpled around the trash can. Read more!

Silly horror directors...

No matter how much gore or disquieting imagery you show, if your characters are idiots or lacking in, well, actual character, I'm not going to give a crap when they're in peril and your movie will suck.

If you really want to make a good horror movie, make me care about the people in it.  Don't skimp on the exposition, the development of solid, three-dimensional human beings in whom I can invest some real emotion.  Then, you know...torture them psychologically for a bit before killing them.

Horror's actually pretty messed up. Read more!

10,000 Hits

I started this blog just after my 31st birthday, a little more than a year ago.  Since then, I've posted 359 entries on...pretty much everything.  This will be both my 360th entry and will garner my 10,000th page view. 

This blog isn't what it was started to be, which was just a record of my progress on my first yearly list.  But, at the same time, it's become something more, something which facilitates it, which people actually seem to read and enjoy (I average more than 1,000 views a month, which is cool for a blog that doesn't actually talk about much or fit any niche or anything).  Anyway, I'm going to keep writing, try to write more.

Thanks for reading.  If you're someone who comes here and reads it, leave me a comment.  Introduce yourself, or say hello, if I already know you.  I'm curious.  Thanks.

-Zach Read more!

A Poem: Falling Snow

Falling snow reminds me of you…

Which is weird,

Because I don’t think we ever saw it together.

There was that time,

In North Carolina,

Driving through the mountains,

Early in the morning,

When we saw all that snow,

Tucked into the valley,

Turning the autumn leaves to white,

And, being the Southern boys we were,

Made mom pull over

So we could play

In what amounted to a light frosting

Like it was a blizzard.

You remember.

Or when we spent that long, frigid night

Outside the Dome,

Camping for tickets

To a show I never made it to,

Watching the temperature drop,

Lower, lower, down past zero,

On the big billboard down the street,

As we huddled with the other fools,

Beneath the blanket of that girl,

The one who thought she was a vampire.

You remember.

We saw it fallen,

Felt the cold,

But never saw it fall.

Until that night…

A year after,

When I sat at home,

Alone, save for a voice on the phone,

Standing at my open door,

Looking into the sky,

Still wandering, lost,

In the twisting agony

Of your passing.

Then the snow…

A few tiny flakes,

Catching the light

In the too dark sky,

Hardly anything,

But enough.

I remember.

Read more!

I Want to Live in Newford

I want to live in Newford.  I want to surround myself with artists and writers and musicians.  I want to believe, to feel, to know the rush of being touched by something greater.  I want the community, the faith, the kindness of everyday people.  I want to live in Newford. Read more!

DeNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo has taught me a number of very valuable lessons.  First, it's helped me work quickly and efficiently on plotting and organization.  Second, it's shown me that I can, when I've done those things, write a prodigious amount in a short period.  Finally, and most importantly, I've learned that I can't write a novel in the same month that I have a persistent illness, final papers and exams. 

That being said, I've come woefully short of my word count, with only a day and a half left.  I've decided, then, not to give up but to shift my goal to December, when I've not got classes or, God willing, some kind of plague.  I'm calling my own little novel writing month DeNoWriMo and it works the same way.  I'll write, by New Year's Day, 50k words and finish the first draft of my novel.  Here we go...again... Read more!

NaNoWriMo: Week 2

Heading into week two of NaNoWriMo, I've got about 15,000 words done.  Mind you, I have to go back already and write myself out of a corner...BUT I've made an outline now for the whole of it, so that shouldn't happen again and, hey, adding things to make stuff make sense helps the word count.  Not that I'm worried on that front as I've only barely begun to tell my story and have already gotten more than a quarter of the way to the 50k mark. 

Now, back to add some flesh to the skeleton of my outline, then into the story once again... Read more!

NaNoWriMo: Prologue

So I may have signed up for NaNoWriMo this year. And I may need ideas for a novel. Right now, I'm thinking a supernatural teen romance about a love triangle between a mermaid, an angel and a table.

The table would be beautiful and smart and funny, but have one leg shorter than the others. The mermaid and the angel would love it more because of that flaw, though. Read more!

Poetry: Between the Lines

I fell in love with a girl once,
Whose name I never knew.
I never saw her face,
Though I'm sure it was lovely,
The sort of soft, quiet beauty
That lingers in the mind
With a smile that hints
Of unspoken secret
And whispered promise.
Nor did I ever look into her eyes,
Though I can see them when I close mine,
Bright and deep,
With the faint touch
Of a sadness long past.

I found her in the pages of a book
I bought at a secondhand store.
She was there, in the margins,
In a handwriting that managed to somehow
Be both tight and flowing,
Adding things, here and there,
As though conversing with the novel.

The book, which was mediocre, at best,
Became a vehicle,
Nothing more,
For my getting to know her,
Her wit, her humor,
Twice, her pain,
Never overt, but neither hidden,
Worn with the humble truth
Of the survivor.

When it was over,
When there was no more,
I put the book aside,
It's narrative fading,
But not ours,
Fanciful as it was.
She was a dream,
Ephemeral and sweet
Forever out of reach,
The girl between the lines. Read more!

Poetry: Her Eyes

The way she smiles,

  Her eyes in the shadows

  Beneath dark hair,

  Unable to meet mine,

  Though not for fear of rebuke,

  But, rather, of acceptance,

  Of perfect, imperfect faith,

  Reflected within.

Read more!

Poetry: Clarity

The clarity of winter,

  The freedom of winds

  Carried from far off places,

  Whispering secrets, calling

  For those willing to listen,

  To follow,

  To dreams long forgotten

  Left behind in childhood's brighter days.

Read more!

Get out of my head!

I loathe having a story in my head that refuses to allow me to put it on paper.  I can tell it clearly, but writing it?  Nope.  Won't have any of that. Read more!

In Memory of Ray Bradbury

I wrote no more than a week ago about having read and re-read Ray Bradbury’s, “Zen and the Art of Writing.”  While the collection has definitely had an impact on my writing since I first got it more than a decade ago, Bradbury’s influence goes much, much further back than that.  I don’t know that there’s a single real writer of sci-fi, fantasy or even horror, amateur or professional, who’s put pen to paper (literally or otherwise) in the last fifty years who can’t say the same, even if it’s once or twice removed.

As a kid, Bradbury brought horror home.  If Vonnegut was the voice of small town America, loud and real and deep, Bradbury was the whisper that carried through the trees on windy autumn evenings of something just outside the purview of the world we know.  And I loved it.

When I got older, he took me off to faraway worlds filled with adventure and, something vastly important and which it seems is so often overlooked in the genre today, he made me genuinely think, truly question the world in which I lived and the direction in which it was headed.  That’s the mark of a master in any genre, and more so in sci-fi and fantasy. 

What’s more, he did what all true artists in any medium who’ve achieved a modicum of success are obligated to do, which was foster the next generations, seeing them not as competition, but rather as new voices which needed to be heard.

Ray Bradbury died last night, at the age of 91.  Whether you realize it or not, if you read, if you watch movies, if you’ve attended school, he’s touched your life in some way.  If you’ve experienced his worlds, go back and do so again.  If you haven’t, head there now and I promise you won’t be disappointed, though you may lose a bit of sleep.

Amazon's Ray Bradbury Page Read more!

Mystery Story - Part One (Rough Draft)

In the books I read as a kid, a case always started with a smoking hot girl walking into the office.  She was all long legs, big eyes and new-to-the-city innocence, with a dash of that ephemeral wanton charm bubbling just beneath the surface, practically bursting to be let out for the dashing hero.  Me, I get world-weary, middle-aged nuns.  I’m not sure if that says something about the world or my status as a hero. 

Not that I’d ever claim to be a hero.  Heroism is a tiresome, thankless job, and I very much like to be thanked.  With money.  And the occasional show of feminine affection.  Looking at the sister, I didn’t figure I’d get much of either.  I sighed inwardly and smiled my best welcoming smile, motioning for her to take a seat in the big, cushy chair across from mine.  While I had a desk, it was buried somewhere in the corner beneath books, papers and sundry other things esoteric and geeky.

She sat down, perfect posture, and I heard the jangle of keys.  She wasn’t carrying a purse. 

“What can I do for you, sister?” I asked, putting my feet up on the ottoman. 

“I’m not sure,” she replied, actually managing to almost completely suppress her disapproval over my somewhat lax attitude toward professionalism. 

In my defense, I wasn’t technically a professional anything.  I was mostly just a guy who got things done for people who needed it.

“I’ve found that often makes my job a little tougher, though not always impossible,” I told her, grinning. 

She didn’t return it.  Instead, she gave my boots a quick glance, then looked back at me, her eyebrows lifting microscopically.  Unable to break her gaze, I felt my legs, seemingly of their own accord, slowly withdrawing and finding a place on the floor as my back straightened.  She gave me a barely perceptible nod, as if the world was again as it should be.  I’d have suspected her of witchcraft, but there was no magic involved, just sheer force of will.  I think I even sat up a little straighter.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.  “Mind if I ask why you’re here?  I don’t tend to get a lot of, ah, non-secular visitors.”

“I understand,” she said.  “I’ll admit that I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important, or if I hadn’t exhausted my other options.  You are truly my last resort.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” I replied dryly.  It didn’t faze her. 

“I was sent here by a friend,” she continued.  “Not a member of the congregation, of course, but someone who I knew from before I received the calling.”

“Mind if I ask who?” I was curious, as my line of work made it so that I was strictly word-of-mouth.  There wasn’t a listing in the yellow pages for guys who were willing to use not-strictly-legal means to solve problems. 

“I do,” she said curtly.

“Fair enough,” I shrugged.  “Go on.”  Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.  “Please,” I added quickly.

“A few months ago, one of our postulants…” she began.

“Sorry, postulant?”

“A young woman who sought to enter the order, but had yet to take her vows,” she clarified.  I nodded.  “Her name was Abby.”

She hesitated and I studied her face.  The hard lines I’d mistaken for the standard prim and proper stiffness of religious types, I realized were the scars of a life lived by someone who rarely took the easy way out.  There were wrinkles, sure, like the worry-lines dug deep in her forehead, but there were also the little lines at the edge of a mouth that was used to smiling.  It was the kind of armor you developed whether you liked it or not when you saw the worst of the world day in and day out, fought the darkness, losing more than you won, but still kept pushing to make it better anyway.  I leaned in closer.

“Take your time,” I told her.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

She took a deep, steadying breath before she went on, her hand reaching into the pocket of her coat.  She closed her eyes for a moment and when she looked up at me, I saw a deep sadness in her eyes.

“Abby was special,” she told me earnestly.  “She came from a…difficult background.  Her family didn’t have much, and what they did have, she saw little of.  Her mother didn’t have time for her and her father…” Her voice trailed off.  I nodded, my jaw tightening.  She didn’t need to say it.

“I remember the day she arrived at the convent,” she went on, a proud, fierce smile creeping across her face.  “She couldn’t have been a day over seventeen and obviously hadn’t eaten in days and hadn’t slept.  There were bruises and track marks on her arms and I could see she’d been crying, but she held herself up straight.  She said she’d heard the call and it was time for her to make a new life.”

“So she was an addict?” I asked, gently as I could.

“She was,” the sister replied, placing a heavy emphasis on was.  She held up her hand as if to stop me from going any further.  “But that isn’t all she was.”

I nodded.  “People aren’t usually just the one thing, when it comes down to it,” I told her.  She seemed to approve.

“I’ll be the first to admit that there was a period of acclimation with Abby.  I sat with her many of those first nights, while the vestiges of it left her system.  It wasn’t easy,” she said matter-of-factly.  “It never is.  But it wasn’t my first time, nor is it likely to be my last.”

“Once it was all over, though, Abby became one of the most devoted postulants I’ve ever known.  She had one of the brightest, most insatiable minds I’d ever come across, and that kind of energy you only find in the young and those touched by God.  I think she was both.”

“She sounds like a good kid,” I offered.

“She is.  She has a talent for doing the real work of Christ, the charity and the outreach.  She told me once that the reason God had made her life the way it had been was so she could better understand and help those around her.”  The sister’s eyes shone as she spoke, her voice thick. 

At her age, that kind of wisdom was both beautiful and heartbreaking.  I’d known kids like Abby.  I wish I could say they’d all made it out like she had, but I try not to only lie to myself about the things that don’t matter.

“There was nothing in the world that meant more to her than helping others.  She was driven and kind and wonderfully compassionate.  She…,” her voice trailed off.

“What happened to Abby?”

The sister’s eyes fluttered and she swallowed hard.  “That’s the problem, Mr. Andrus,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.  “We don't know.”

Read more!

A Request (or Two)...

In order to become a better writer, I'm constantly reading books about writing by authors whose work I enjoy.  One that I've come back to over and over again is Bradbury's Zen and the Art of Writing.  I got it for my first Dead Day Party, from a friend of mine, and I've loved it since.  Every writer should read it.  Seriously.

That being said, one of the things Bradbury said he did to become a better writer was, of course, to write every day.  The problem, though, is that even the best imaginations (and I think a case could be made that he fits that category well) need a little bit of a kickstart now and then.

I've also been wanting to work on flash fiction, which is writing a story in a thousand words or less.  It teaches a writer to hone technique and get better at saying more with less.  So I propose this strategy, and as for your help.  Give me titles (let's keep it work safe, please) and I'll pick one a day to write a story of 1,000 words or less, then post it here.  I'll attempt to do one a day for every day of June.  Give me as many as you like, and I'll always be sure to give you credit.  If you got here via stumble, digg, facebook or anything else, feel free to post in the comments and please like me so I can get more folks helping out.  Thanks!


Read more!