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2017

ConStellation 8
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April 28-30

MileHiCon 49
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October 27-29

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Archive for May, 2012

Progress Report, in which a guy can dream

Eked out another 1400 words on the “Just a Game” rewrite.  Or, to make it all Magic Meter-y:

Yeah, I know it’s another subpar showing, but it’s better than last week.  And though it might be a tad optimistic of me, I’m getting the sense that I’m overcoming some inertia, that I’m gonna start seeing some real movement here anytime soon.

Seriously.  Anytime soon.

Hey, a guy can dream, can’t he?

Your snippet:

“Oh, I don’t know.”  She set down her mug.  “I remember the days before the curse.  I remember the day your father led the Stampede to a national championship.”

“I envy you.”

She waved it off.  “I was only a grad assistant in those days, and new to the state.  I had never seen such devotion to a football team before.  The weeks before the game were . . . well, staggering is the only way I can describe it.  Everyone was talking about it.  Everyone wore Stampede colors.  And I don’t just mean here in Whaley.  I mean the entire state of Illinois.  And the night of the game, after your father threw the winning touchdown”—a dreamy tone crept into her voice—“it seemed like the entire town was celebrating in the streets.  Total strangers were cheering and crying and hugging each other.  You would have thought we had just won World War II all over again.”  She inhaled deeply, eyes half-lidded, then sobered.  “But I’m rambling.  I know your father isn’t well, Lucas.  I’m sorry to hear it.”

Write Club update:  A tier one rejection from Daily Science Fiction.  Response time, 19 days.

Onward.

Current Music: "A Looking in View"--Alice in Chains

It was twenty years ago today . . .

. . . that I married this woman.

Easily the smartest decision I ever made in my life.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Current Music: "My Girl"--Temptations

Progress Report, in which it’s always something

Managed a meager thousand words on the rewrite of “Just a Game” last week—fighting through a fair amount of inertia—but even that little bit felt pretty good.  It’s always that way when I return to writing after a break.

Of course, getting back in harness means I once again have to wrestle with the whole “making it not suck” thing, which, you know, ain’t easy.

Yeah, it’s always something.

Anyway, it occurs to me that even though I’m classifying this as a rewrite, almost all of it is new material.  So I suppose I can fire up Magic Meter again:

And what the hell, here’s a snippet:

Lucas dug the trowel into the south end zone.

He had to push hard; the ground wasn’t frozen yet, but it was close.  He leaned on the trowel, working it in slowly, trying not to be too destructive of the painted grass, lest a groundskeeper notice the damage and get curious.  He needed only a small, surgical hole for this; no need for hackwork.

Besides, it felt worse than mere vandalism.  It felt sacrilegious, as if he were profaning holy ground.  Which, in a sense, he was.  This place, this stadium, was a temple erected by and glorifying powerhouse college football.  The mighty Stampede—a stalwart and storied program, long on tradition, always a player on the national scene, the pride of Illinois.  Eighty thousand congregants worshiped here on autumn Saturdays, Lucas not the least among them.  His father had instilled that much in him, if nothing else.

Not that he thought this would actually work, of course.  A man who had dedicated his life to the cause of science, Lucas Frazier didn’t believe in curses.  He was doing this strictly for his father—even though his father would be none the wiser whether he did it or not.  No, he had made a promise, and he would keep it, however ridiculous it might be.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt.

No updates for Write Club.

Back to making it not suck.

Current Music: "Breaking Away"--Y & T