Tag: fiction

Twozda’s Wandering Thoughts

I encountered a friend while I was out this morning. I hadn’t seen him in a while. Spotting my blue and white open-toe ortho sandals with their velcro straps that were forced on me for my lymphedema treatment, he asked, “What’s going on there? You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. These are my new Nikes. They’re the latest in footwear. AI designed. And they are so comfortable. Really amazing. I know they don’t look like much….”

“No, they don’t.”

“No, but they’re actually this very sophisticated series of layered ‘smart’ materials that shape to your feet and adjust for your activity. Kind of expensive, too. I got these for about a hundred eighty dollars on Amazon.”

Shock rode into his expression. “Really?”

“No. I made all that up.” Turning off my brain’s bullshit center — the bullshitis centritis — I revealed the truth.

Then we had a good laugh about the fiction I’d spun.

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The Writing Moment

Scenes hang in my mind, waiting to be unfolded. A line or two or three is written. A pause to contemplate them is embraced. More lines come, get written. The growing new scene is reviewed, lightly edited. More lines come, more gets written.

Sometimes, the pause gets extended. I surf into news articles and others’ posts. Then a muse spears my attention and I jump back to the scene being written. Lines are added. They stack into paragraphs. Paragraphs stack into pages. I review what I wrote and lightly edit.

That scene is eventually done. The next one is considered and plotted in my head. I approach again. A line or two or three is written. So it goes.

Meanwhile, muses ambush me with a new concept. I’m reading a non-fiction article about glaciers. The concept harpoons my mind. I grin with delight and think, oh, wow, that would be fun. An opening scene begins unfolding.

I open up a new doc to capture the first lines. Scenes are written. They turn into chapters and branch into a structure’s glimmerings. I think, this will be my next project. I rummage around my brain for a title. A tentative one is hauled out. Rejected. Another bubbles up. Acceptable. More is realized and written. The working title is modified. The quick, sudden progress surprises me. This will definitely be fun to write. But first, the other novel in progress must be finished.

I close the document. Return to the work in progress. A line or two or three is written. I’m close to the end. Close to tying it all up and saying to myself, finished.

So it goes.

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In The Beginning

They told us we had to have skin.

Our mind pulsed against the news. We don’t know that we would have accepted the premise, were we told beforehand that having skin was a requirement.

Ca!ixha flew in over our head, red with anger. Their thoughts flew into our awareness. Anger, shock, wariness. Doubt. The overarching question, is it true? Is this needed?

My intellect sewed together the action. Having skin was inevitable. We were studying Humans. We needed to live among them, like them, to learn what it is to be them.

We swallowed this with hardship. But as I did, I pulsed in pride. I’d thought, I think, like a Human, using their constructs. ‘Beforehand’. ‘Sewing’. ‘Action’. ‘Live.’ ‘Swallowed’.

?sho7zn came in. They’d been integrating with others and informed us of greater requirements. We will eat. We will have body functions. We will be I. Me.

Human aspects were introduced to our understanding. We would have ears and tongues. The tongues would be in mouths. With teeth. Hair.

We choked down disgust as the Overreach began threading us with these Human aspects. Eyes and noses. Bones and muscles.

The weight of these things burned our sentience. We were to breathe. Hearts and lungs were given. . Nerves were threaded through us. Skin was applied.

Helplessness ached in us. Our eyes formed ‘vision’. We saw as Humans would see. Millions of us were stretched across the space, layers of us, shoulder to shoulder, feet to head, all looking up, stupidly grinning, waving our appendages. Sounds as Humans trickled in. We gurgled and cooed and giggled and farted.

The Overreach bestowed us their presence. “Now your journey will begin. You will soon each have a mother, at least in the initial stage. What happens to her and you after that will determine whether that mother will remain with you. We are with you the entire time and will gather and analyze all of your activities, thinking, and feelings so that we may learn what it is to be Human.”

Our being buzzed with thinking of ourselves as ‘her and you’ and the many shapes and meanings these words convey. We would be ‘he’ and ‘she’, ‘him’ and ‘her’. The contexts had been introduced to us but without greater substance for attachment, they’d been abstract voids. With the body now encasing us, we were beginning to grasp what it all meant. We would have sex. We would sleep.

The Overreach said, “Now, it is time to be born.”

Red lights flared around us. Cold air swamped our tiny form. Something roughly took hold of our body.

In response, we screamed.

Our Human interation had begun.

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The Writing Moment

A cat came knocking on the bedroom’s slider.

Papi the ginger blade was demanding entry back into the house.

I let him in and returned to bed. The time was 4 AM. I told myself to go back to sleep. My brain wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, I thought about going into surgery on Wednesday. I felt I was close to finishing the novel in progress. It could be done before the surgery if I have three good writing days. I wanted that. Then I ended up staying awake, writing the story in my head.

When I sat down at the coffee shop, I put those words down into the document and realized, the end.

I was inspired by the book, “Gravity’s Rainbow”. I’d read the book in the past and was just browsing, and came across some reference to it. Then I had an idea, and “Gravity’s Emotions” was begun.

Word can tell you some things about a doc. Tells me that this one was started July 19, 2024. 432 pages, 117,480 words. 9218 minutes of editing. Anyone who knows that a day has 1440 minutes knows that’s not a huge amount of time. Just 6.4 days if you do the math. 6.4 days if I’d worked 24/7.

As always, it feels a little weird to be finished. Bit sad. “Like a death in the family” a writer of fame once said.

I worry about it. Don’t know if the plot makes sense or if people will buy into the character. I fret over the ending is too pat.

I told myself when I began writing this thing, just get out of your own way and stay out of the way.

Now, with it ‘done’, at least in this phase of novel writing, I need to remind myself again: just get out of your own way.

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