Kurt Vonnegut's 8 basics of creative writing

I have many many many blogs about how to be a beeter writer, how should a writer do that.  The best advice I have ever read on writing fiction are:


Kurt Vonnegut's 8 basics of creative writing

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

The greatest American short story writer of my generation was Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964). She broke practically every one of my rules but the first. Great writers tend to do that

My Facebook Status Update for Jan 1, 2011

Well 2011 is here.  I didn't post anything yesterday because I didn't want to insult 2010 too badly.  Though it was a decent year on the bike, changing jobs was months of misery.  I went from one job that stressed me to exhaustion to another where I didn't want to get out of bed in the morning.  I was, however, able to work through my current situation to get to a point where I am content in my work.


I can't be too cynicle though because I have had truly ugly years.  The kind where I was amazed that my family and  I all still had heartbeats on Jan 1.


  I had a few highlights however and they overshadow anything bad that might have been.   The first was reuniting with old friends.  Two, specificly, one whom I haven't seen for nearly 15 years and reuniting with him drove me to tears.  Though he is a very motivating person and has had the biggest influence on me last year.  The other has an aura of spirituality that is inspiring.  I can always look to her facebook updates if I need a spiritual lift in my day.


I also began writing again, in more ways than one.  I have been working on a novel and have finished a few short stories.  There are a ton more locked in my head and  I just need to get them out and share them with the world.  More importantly I started writing icons again, and was the first person in history to stream the writing live.


My most important highlight, that which is my life force, is of course my family.  Nuff said.


Let us stay on the offensive in 2011.  Let's keep pushing ahead to the future and remember those men and women overseas who are keeping us safe.

The Breakaway

Quiet, out of site, in the back

Shifting, moving,  pulling hard

Thighs are burning, heavy

Heart pounding harder, faster

Teeth gritting, wasting energy

Relax

       Breath

                   Pedal

A look ahead

Standing

                  Pushing

                                  Pulling

                                                Pedaling

Hands in the drops, off the breaks

                                  Quick under the arm

Distance made, no one out

Cadence high shifting, standing, pushing

                                              Pulling more

Sitting and settling

                                        Speed and heart

Over the shoulder

                         No reaction, need distance

Where’s the wind 

                                                        Alone

 Front tire 

                     Check gears

                                                  No noises

Heart Rate

                         Breath

                                                    Cadence

Cadence

                         Cadence

                                                     Cadence

Head Down, out of the wind

Head Up, Check the road

Head Down, watch the crank

Out of the red                    what's for dinner

Cruising now alone,                          in front

Nothing more in the tank

20 miles check the rear

Large mass,                                    Helmets 

10 miles, 5 Kilometers, never make it

3k,

                                2  

                                                                  1

Caught!

My LIvestrong Challenge

This was printed on a message to all my facebook friends.  Please check back for updates and the donation links.

In this event I have added everyone on my friends list.  That means for one reason or another I know you, are friends with you or am married to you.

What some of you may know is that my mom was diagnosed and treated for breast cancer last year.  What most of you don't know is that over the past 20 years I have lost way too many friends to this horrible disease.  From friends I have watched in their final days to those whom I have regrettably lost touch with.   I think about all of them all the time.  I think about what I could have done to help them or their families.  What I discovered is that I needed to do something now.

I started riding a "racing" bike at the age of 13.  I rode all over Albuquerque, everyday of every summer.  Though by my senior year I had put the bike aside until I started riding again in the mid 90s.  About 5 years ago I stopped again and gained an inordinate amount of weight.  Given a bike by one of my best friends, I started to ride again only to be held up a year until I had a knee fixed.  That was literally a year ago.  I have lost over 40 lbs and have put thousands of miles beneath my wheels. 

At the same time, Lance Armstrong returned to the pro pelaton and he had a great impact on me.  He rode a Time Trial bike that had the words "Never Forget Your Beginnings" on the top tube (the danger tube).  I remember my beginnings very well.  It started with my mom and all she has given me.  But I had given so little back  and when I saw that top tube I remembered that I had forgotten.  I needed to do something, so I got my knee fixed and I got on the bike

So, here I am a year later with the Tour de France starting tomorrow and I decided I needed to do something for those who need it the most.  Those suffering with cancer and their families.

And here I get to the point of this event.  I want your help.  I want your friend's help.  I want your friend's friends' help.  In the next day or 2 I will post the link to a page where you can donate your hard earned money to the Livestrong foundation.  Just click and donate.

Now I know it is hard for people to give up money when money is tight so I have decided to give you all a chance at getting something back.  Each month I will raffle off a prize to be won to those who chose to donate.  Each $10 a person donates will be 1 entry in that month's raffle.  One winner will be drawn from the entries.

The prize for July will be an original  16"x20" framed photographic print by myself.  My very popular "Wild Daisy at Sunset"  Seen here: http://www.pbase.com/praetoriv/image/83621479

Now, if I don't have contact info on the people who donate I can't call them so they need to come to this event or email me at m.patrick.mitchell@gmail.com.

So what is my part in all this? Obviously the ride, and more riding.  I hope that by the end of October to have 2000 miles ticked off the odometer.  Every mile is for my mom, every pedal stroke for those whom have lost their lives to cancer and every heart beat to those who will fight the good fight.

Second Timothy 4:7
I have fought the good fight.
I have finished the race.
I have kept the faith.

Albuquerque-Roubaix

I was sore. The previous day was a killer day in the saddle.  But this day was different.  I just wanted to get back in that saddle.  There was no clock, no heart rate monitor, no power meter, no competitors and no workout scheduled.  But this spring day was perfect.  Full sun and a slight breeze for an easy Sunday ride.  When I got into my riding kit I did not imagine the journey I was about to take.


I have ridden in Albuquerque for most of my life.  The discovery of two bike trails in 1984 was a leap pad to my favorite activity for years to come. Soon after the end of the school year I found one trail I would start in the north east heights and finish west, near the University. Twenty five years later I still do not know the distance of that trail and have not ridden it for at least 15.  The Second trail I found stared just three miles south of the first and ran East to the base of the Sandia Mountains.

Because of my starting point this day I would take the second.  A fairly gentle 2% constant incline with intermediate steep hills would get the muscles warmed up and allow me to clear my mind.  Since the original trail was built a bridge spanning Interstate 40 near the uptown malls was put in.  This lead to my original start point.  I took off easy and made my way over this bridge.  The moment I hit the trail head, though, I felt it.

It was a jolt in the recesses of my mind.  Hit by an odor of charcoal lighter fluid and grilling meat I looked down and saw the flash of a red bike.  But mine was white.  I sat back, blinked, relaxed and peddled.  I rode a bit and started to think about how my work week was going to play out.  Soon I arrived at the first of 3 small wooden planked bridges that spanned arroyos, ditches that drained rain water into the Rio Grande.

My front tire hit the wooden bridge and once again my olfactory sense was bombarded by an age old smell.  The smell of hot wood.  As I bumped over the small arch the smell of the sun baked oils used to treat the wood met me with another jerk.  This time my jersey cracked into a white T-shirt.  I looked down again and the red bike was back.  This time a shaking of the head did me no good.  I felt my helmet-less head and the white T-shirt with crude pockets sewn into the back.

I immediately knew that I had shrunk.  The bike was big and made of steel and the riding position awkward.  I reached to the down tube where I knew the shifters would be and moved the right one enough to hear the rear derailleur move.  My cadence increased and I continued along my path.

I hit the second bridge and the scent of plum blossoms whisked me to a cobbled street.  I was in the Peleton and I was ready for the break.    I stood in the peddles and  bridged the small gap made by Sean Kelly, Ireeland's greatest cyclist, who was trying to catch Gregor Braun and Alain Bondue who had made their own break early on in this spring Classic.

But the rarest of occurrences of the Paris-Roubaix thwarted my efforts to win this prestigious race.  Traffic. Six lanes of cars and trucks were negotiated carefully but to no avail, Sean Kelly would win this day.

However, something was looming in the distance, the Koppenberg.  A cobblestone incline of 22% that beat down the best riders in the world.  I rode with Sean Kelly and we were a mere 30 seconds behind Johan Lammerts.  I stood at the base of the climb, felt and heard the clacking of the cobbles beneath my wheels. The Tour of Flanders was mine for the taking.

That wasn't right, though, cobbles did not clack.  As I crested the mighty hill I looked down to see the white top tube of my modern carbonfibre frame.  The large stones faded into large wooden planks.  I slowed to a stop, atop the last and largest wooden bridge.  This one stretching more than a hundred feet over a major Avenue.

I unclipped my shoes and dismounted.  Walked around and looked  through the arch of the Bridge to the West.  The expanse of Albuquerque stretched before me.  The roads, defined in a grid, that I rode everyday in the great races of Europe.

I remounted and headed back down the way I came.  Listening to the  clackety-clackety of the wood I rode slowly down the winding ramp and  back over the trail and through my memories reliving every race I dreamed of winning as a kid.

At the Intersection of Crow and Buckthorn

I pushed my foot to the floor locking the wheels of the truck.  Coming to a complete halt the dust that followed me drifted past on the slight breeze of the hot desert air.  There was no traffic so I stepped out and the heat hit me like opening a furnace door.  It was oddly calm.  Nothing stirred, only the wind spoke.   My GPS and the street sign confirmed I was at the intersection of Crow and Buckthorn.  Something was wrong though.
  
I was late and expecting a tongue lashing, but no one was here. I took out my phone and dialed a number from memory.  No answer.  I tried again but was greeted with a no network beep.  I looked at the phone and saw that I had no bars.  I walked in a circle with the phone raised like some demented Olympic torch bearer.  Nothing.

I stood atop the hood of my truck and held my arm up as far as I could reach.  There it was, a bar.  With my free hand I grabbed the blue-tooth from my breast pocket and  stuck it in my ear.   The bar disappeared again.  Dammit.  I moved onto the roof of the cab and held the phone up, adjusted it slightly here and there and then, there it was, the bar again.

I quickly dialed and the phone on the other end rang.

“Hello,” came the voice.

“Hey, Where the hell are you?”  I asked with a little impatience.

“I'm still in the theater, where the hell are you?”

“I'm at the corner of Crow and Buckthorn, where you told me to go.”

“I told you to go get popcorn.”

“Shit!”

The Alpha Chronicles / Part 2 A Clean Sheet

USFR Alpha
N   9°49'24.40" W42°22'27.77" Altitude 820km
2300 UTC
Feb 24, 2141 (+176 days)


Lieutenant-Colonel Marco Lidmann floated in the center of  white foam streams of spent shaving cream as the unintended, yet not surprising, results of his elementary school experiment began to coat everything within his quarters.  No, spraying a can of shaving cream will not propel a person across the room in zero gravity.  It will, however, cling to every surface that is nearly impossible to clean.  It will also escape any attempts of capture and containment.  The designers of the Alpha 1 living quarters did not take into account a bored man with the curiosity of a 3 year old.  They used every square inch of wall space for something useful.  Though he shared bunks with 2 other Marines, both were currently on duty and scheduling made for comfortable living arraignments.  This new development, however, was not good.

He tried to gather the remaining airborne cream, grabbing at it with his hands and scraping it into a plastic bag.  What did not squeeze through his fingers, though, was divided a hundred fold and while some was drawn to the walls of the living space the remaining foam continued the slow motion circuit of the pod.  This feeble attempt lead to idea number two, where he set to work getting all the froth onto the walls.  The idea was to squeegee the cream toward and into the vacuum assisted trash chute.  Simple enough except that shaving cream does not take orders from anyone less than a full bird colonel.  More than half of the cream still floated, as if tired from a slow game of tag.

Following numerous failed attempts to wrangle the unruly suds using his hands, gloves, shoes, a couple different hats and a helmet he was at his wits end when he realized he needed a larger surface area.  Retrieving a sheet and four Velcro ties from one of the numerous lathered storage compartments he tied each of the four corners to his hands and feet.  Starting at one end of the capsule he propelled himself toward the other end.  Spreading his arms and legs like a giant flying squirrel he caught the shaving cream in the large sail and pressed it against the far wall.  He removed the sheet, gathered it into a small bunch and shoved it down the laundry chute.  He turned to look at how well it worked and startled.  His reaction, in a gravitational world, would have been a jump.  In this weightless environment, though, it could only be categorized as a involuntary spasm.  Not unlike a baby lying on a bed and kicking his feet out.

Two people floated upside down in the hatchway at the far end of his living quarters.  Their eyebrows were raised and their mouths twitched with contained laughter.  Marco's room mates, 1st lieutenant Michael  S. O'Loughin USMC and Captain Carlos M. Rodriguez USMC,  were temporarily struck mute at the sight of a man, a sheet, and shaving cream.

“You, uh, OK there colonel?” Michael asked with more humor than concern.

“I had a bit of a problem with the shaving cream.” Marco answered, his face turning red.

“Can we offer some assistance?”  Carlos choked over the laughter.

“No, no, I can take care of it.  Thanks.”

“By your leave then, sir”


“Certainly.” Marco said and turned to grab another sheet hoping the audience would leave.

“You know,” came Michael's voice, “if we were to set up in an echelon, we could probably get it all in one sweep.”

Marco turned and, with a chuckle, threw each man a sheet.