The doorbell’s last chords hung in the air as though they’d been played on fine crystal. Hell, as far as I knew, they had been. The family that owned the patent on responsometers probably eats from platinum plates and drops trou over golden commodes. The door swung open just as the last echo of the clarion tones faded away and revealed the butler. It was a pretty theatrical entrance for the man who manages somebody else’s kitchen and answers somebody else’s door, but I have the color and shine of a newly minted penny so who am I to judge? He was an older gent and had probably served the previous master of the household unless Junior had a thing for antiques. His clothing was immaculately tailored, pressed smartly, and made me decide I needed to change my racket. Either the employer bought the suit or the butler made more money in a month than I’d see in a year. I’d never owned a suit that looked that good on me; hell, I’d never owned a suit that looked that good on the hanger. The old guy’s back was razor-straight, his chin stuck out, and his green eyes were cold and hard like emeralds even behind the rheumy film of age. He looked at me with such obvious distaste that, even though I had four inches on the guy easy, I felt like a little present the dog had left on an expensive rug. He looked down on me, knew it was his responsibility to deal with me, but wasn’t sure he should soil his gloves on me. After a few seconds of this, I got bored and decided to have some fun with him.
“Is the lady of the house in? I represent Extreme-inators, Exterminators to the Extreme, and I want to tell her about our new line of pest removal equipment.” I fed him the straight line so hard I hoped he'd choke on it.
“Sir?” and a raised eyebrow was all I got for my trouble. To be fair, for this Joe that single syllable was probably a real zinger.
“Jeez, seriously?” I asked, a slight edge to my voice. “Fine. Copper Lincoln, private investigator, to see Mr. Kanigher. His secretary called me, a Ms. Kwest, and respectfully requested my presence,” I paused and checked my chronometer for effect even though I’ve got a built in atomic clock, “five minutes ago. If I’d known I was going to have to navigate Checkpoint Charlie at the door, I would have shown up earlier and packed a lunch.”
Somehow, that was the open sesame.
“This way sir,” the butler said with zero trace of irony, turned on his heel and gestured me in. I entered and took off my hat, reaching it back to him without looking and letting it go. I heard the door slam as he tried, and failed, to close it smoothly and catch my hat at the same time. Childish, sure, but damned satisfying.
I took a moment to survey the foyer, and I choose my verb carefully there. It would take a couple total stations and a commando squad of surveyors if somebody wanted to turn the hall into a nice neighborhood addition. The place had obviously been redecorated since the house was built because the exterior still looked the same as when Walt laid the first marble slabs for the place. In here, thought, it was all chrome and neon with the floor done up in shimmering designs that would reflect the electric-blue light in ways some swishy fella must have thought were particularly interesting. In the last few years somebody had rediscovered science fiction movies from the 1980s and somehow, God only knows how, that look had become the hotness for interior decorating. Since I had been designed with a decidedly retro look even for a few hundred years ago, this kind of thing made my oculars hurt. Luckily for my optics, I didn’t spend much time in the homes of anybody who could afford to make their house this ugly.
Even though I hated every square inch of the foyer, I turned my head over my shoulder toward Jeeves (who had annoyingly resettled himself as though my hat shenanigans had never happened) and whistled appreciatively at the hallway just because I knew it would annoy him.
“Nice pile of bricks,” I said, doing my best to route the statement around my irony clusters.
“Personally, I can’t stand it,” a feminine voice said from above me. “Thank goodness Mr. Kanigher isn’t hiring you for your aesthetic sense, Mr. Lincoln.”
I looked up and caught my first glimpse of Ms. Kwest, the secretary, as she came down the staircase. I wasn’t always a modicum of self control when it came to members of the opposite sex, robotic or human, but I like to think I’ve grown up a little bit since my younger days. Even so, looking at her caused another low whistle of appreciation, no rerouting past irony clusters necessary. I thought I had kept it quiet, but she dashed that hope immediately.
“Did you say something, Mr. Lincoln?” she asked, a lilting tease to her voice.
“Still just admiring the, um, architecture, Ms. Kwest.”
She tilted her head to the side winsomely and there was an amused twinkle in her oculars. That whistle might not have been a mistake after all.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Memoirs of The Brown Recluse: My Tangled Skein
Volume 1: Who I was, how I came to be.
Chapter 1: A bit of a recluse, but not yet a Recluse.
It recently occurred to me that I have led a very strange life. A life full of adventure and danger, but rarely knowing the difference between the two at any given moment. A life of crime and crime fighting, although it depended on whom you asked and when they answered to discern which was which. A life that has, from a certain point, never seemed like it was quite my own even though my own choices ultimately brought me to it. It similarly occurs to me that anyone willing to put on a mask and punch gangsters, fifth columnists, and costumed mad men is living on borrowed time. If that is the case, then I have lived on borrowed time since I was a young man (or perhaps an old boy?) and it may soon be too late for me to tell my story, the true story, as I see it. My name is Matthew Matheson, my friends call me Matt and two dear people who loved me like a son called me Matty. You have most likely heard of my other name, however. Few know Matthew Matheson, but many have heard of the Brown Recluse.
Vigilante, criminal, murderer, harbinger of justice, weird stalker of the night, I have been called all these things and more in the guise of the Brown Recluse. Once, though, I was just a boy; a poor child but rich in love and family. Not exactly normal, but neither was I the oddity I would become. I was brilliant and filled with potential, but unlikely to realize any of it due to the poverty to which my life had led. I was introspective, but friendly and interested in the friendship and respect of his peers. Many, even most of my closest friends, would be unable to look at me and see that boy. They simply could not believe such a transformation was possible. Ah, but my metamorphosis will come at the proper place in the story, for now let us focus on the boy I once was. Just a boy…
I have always felt that my story, the story of how I came to cling to walls, wear masks, and fight villainy with fists, rope, and guns, began at a very specific moment in time. In some ways, it was very typical of my childhood. I was reading a book and I was about to be bullied. What would be different from any of the days before it, but would become much more commonplace as my life went on, was the broken nose.
The year was 1932, I was sitting outside my school, I was fifteen years old, and I was in tenth grade. The title or subject of the book I read is lost to the mists of time, but I recall the feeling of being lost in it perfectly, the feeling of utter immersion in the knowledge the book was imparting to me, being both covered in and absorbing information. While my body was trapped in a dingy schoolyard in Queens, hobbled by the educational system of a nation wracked by a Great Depression, my mind was awash in an ocean of facts. This is how it was for me. I’d always been a bright child, well ahead of the curve in science and mathematics, and had just began to discover how much I could learn without the distractions of teachers and classrooms to get in the way. I was still too well behaved, too concerned about hurting my aunt and uncle, to leave school entirely. At least, that is, leave it physically. My mind was almost always far, far away.
“Hey, Matheson! Hey! Hey, Measly!” a voice yelled from beyond the edges of my informational world.
It roused me, blinking, back to reality and, looking into the voice’s general direction, I had just enough time to wonder why that baseball was growing so big so fast. Then the pain exploded in my face. It was like the dripping of water into a pail with waves of pain beginning at my nose but then rippling out across my entire face, around the back of my head, rebounding off one another, and coming back to center on my nose again where a fresh round of pain was just getting started. I fell over backwards grabbing at my nose. I could barely see through the tears but I felt my hands, which were grasping at the large, spongy thing that used to be my nose, get wet instantly as though I’d run them under a faucet.
The other kids in the schoolyard instantly surrounded me, crowding in, asking if I was all right, somebody yelled to get a teacher, but I was barely aware of them through the pain. The voice had belonged to Buzz Briganti, boss of the Jackson Heights Gang and son of reputed gangster lieutenant and ex-prizefighter Bruno “the Bruiser” Briganti. The Jackson Heights Gang boosted liquor and cigarettes, ran complicated shoplifting rackets, and collected protection from just about every student in my school. Except me. This wasn’t because I was tough, quite the opposite with my asthma and reedy frame. I was just too poor to pay them. The Gang was the most effective and successful example of juvenile delinquent organized crime around and nobody doubted for a second that was because Buzz was getting tips, tricks, and hints from his father.
I wanted to be in that gang so badly I might have killed for it. Even with constant bullying, I wanted in. I was known to Buzz and his crew as “Measly” Matheson and received plenty of wedgies, melvins, swirlies, and had even been on the wrong end of some beatings. The beatings were rare due to my teacher’s pet status and the fear that my Uncle Dan put into the Jackson Heights thugs early on in the bullying, but they still happened. Still I wanted in. I saw that they were up-and-coming criminals, I saw that they had money to spend, nice bikes, new watches, and good clothes while I made due with second hand stuff my Aunt April kept just wearable with patches and her phenomenal skill with a needle. It didn’t bother me they were criminals or that they preyed on weaker kids. After all, it never seemed to bother my classmates that got away when a juicier target, like me, wandered by. I’d also seen Buzz picked up by his father who wore flashy suits and drove a new car. I didn’t care about anything but the money, respect, and prestige to be had in that gang. Other weaklings just accepted their place in the pecking order, but I actually thought my brain could assist their brawn. In fact, earlier that week I’d offered to help Buzz make book on the other students if I could join the gang. He laughed at me and told me I’d be doing it for him now without the membership. I refused but managed to run away before any sense could be pounded into me. For that insolence, I apparently had to be punished and spectacularly.
Which brings us to the baseball and my broken nose. After what seemed like an eternity of endless agony, I heard a deep voice that had to be our vice principal, Mr. Bridges, telling everyone to back up and make way. I sensed the crowd parting more than saw it as I still could not see through eyes that just would not stop tearing. The sun was eclipsed by the shadowy shape of Mr. Bridges who knelt down beside me. With a quiet “Let me see, son,” he pulled my hands away and hissed in surprise at the sight. Without another word, he scooped me into his large arms and carried me in to the nurse. I couldn’t remember making any noise even when the ball struck me, I had simply been too surprised. Enveloped by this strong man’s protective grasp but jostled by his gait, I let out a quiet whimper.
So began the career of the Brown Recluse, not with a bang…
Chapter 1: A bit of a recluse, but not yet a Recluse.
It recently occurred to me that I have led a very strange life. A life full of adventure and danger, but rarely knowing the difference between the two at any given moment. A life of crime and crime fighting, although it depended on whom you asked and when they answered to discern which was which. A life that has, from a certain point, never seemed like it was quite my own even though my own choices ultimately brought me to it. It similarly occurs to me that anyone willing to put on a mask and punch gangsters, fifth columnists, and costumed mad men is living on borrowed time. If that is the case, then I have lived on borrowed time since I was a young man (or perhaps an old boy?) and it may soon be too late for me to tell my story, the true story, as I see it. My name is Matthew Matheson, my friends call me Matt and two dear people who loved me like a son called me Matty. You have most likely heard of my other name, however. Few know Matthew Matheson, but many have heard of the Brown Recluse.
Vigilante, criminal, murderer, harbinger of justice, weird stalker of the night, I have been called all these things and more in the guise of the Brown Recluse. Once, though, I was just a boy; a poor child but rich in love and family. Not exactly normal, but neither was I the oddity I would become. I was brilliant and filled with potential, but unlikely to realize any of it due to the poverty to which my life had led. I was introspective, but friendly and interested in the friendship and respect of his peers. Many, even most of my closest friends, would be unable to look at me and see that boy. They simply could not believe such a transformation was possible. Ah, but my metamorphosis will come at the proper place in the story, for now let us focus on the boy I once was. Just a boy…
I have always felt that my story, the story of how I came to cling to walls, wear masks, and fight villainy with fists, rope, and guns, began at a very specific moment in time. In some ways, it was very typical of my childhood. I was reading a book and I was about to be bullied. What would be different from any of the days before it, but would become much more commonplace as my life went on, was the broken nose.
The year was 1932, I was sitting outside my school, I was fifteen years old, and I was in tenth grade. The title or subject of the book I read is lost to the mists of time, but I recall the feeling of being lost in it perfectly, the feeling of utter immersion in the knowledge the book was imparting to me, being both covered in and absorbing information. While my body was trapped in a dingy schoolyard in Queens, hobbled by the educational system of a nation wracked by a Great Depression, my mind was awash in an ocean of facts. This is how it was for me. I’d always been a bright child, well ahead of the curve in science and mathematics, and had just began to discover how much I could learn without the distractions of teachers and classrooms to get in the way. I was still too well behaved, too concerned about hurting my aunt and uncle, to leave school entirely. At least, that is, leave it physically. My mind was almost always far, far away.
“Hey, Matheson! Hey! Hey, Measly!” a voice yelled from beyond the edges of my informational world.
It roused me, blinking, back to reality and, looking into the voice’s general direction, I had just enough time to wonder why that baseball was growing so big so fast. Then the pain exploded in my face. It was like the dripping of water into a pail with waves of pain beginning at my nose but then rippling out across my entire face, around the back of my head, rebounding off one another, and coming back to center on my nose again where a fresh round of pain was just getting started. I fell over backwards grabbing at my nose. I could barely see through the tears but I felt my hands, which were grasping at the large, spongy thing that used to be my nose, get wet instantly as though I’d run them under a faucet.
The other kids in the schoolyard instantly surrounded me, crowding in, asking if I was all right, somebody yelled to get a teacher, but I was barely aware of them through the pain. The voice had belonged to Buzz Briganti, boss of the Jackson Heights Gang and son of reputed gangster lieutenant and ex-prizefighter Bruno “the Bruiser” Briganti. The Jackson Heights Gang boosted liquor and cigarettes, ran complicated shoplifting rackets, and collected protection from just about every student in my school. Except me. This wasn’t because I was tough, quite the opposite with my asthma and reedy frame. I was just too poor to pay them. The Gang was the most effective and successful example of juvenile delinquent organized crime around and nobody doubted for a second that was because Buzz was getting tips, tricks, and hints from his father.
I wanted to be in that gang so badly I might have killed for it. Even with constant bullying, I wanted in. I was known to Buzz and his crew as “Measly” Matheson and received plenty of wedgies, melvins, swirlies, and had even been on the wrong end of some beatings. The beatings were rare due to my teacher’s pet status and the fear that my Uncle Dan put into the Jackson Heights thugs early on in the bullying, but they still happened. Still I wanted in. I saw that they were up-and-coming criminals, I saw that they had money to spend, nice bikes, new watches, and good clothes while I made due with second hand stuff my Aunt April kept just wearable with patches and her phenomenal skill with a needle. It didn’t bother me they were criminals or that they preyed on weaker kids. After all, it never seemed to bother my classmates that got away when a juicier target, like me, wandered by. I’d also seen Buzz picked up by his father who wore flashy suits and drove a new car. I didn’t care about anything but the money, respect, and prestige to be had in that gang. Other weaklings just accepted their place in the pecking order, but I actually thought my brain could assist their brawn. In fact, earlier that week I’d offered to help Buzz make book on the other students if I could join the gang. He laughed at me and told me I’d be doing it for him now without the membership. I refused but managed to run away before any sense could be pounded into me. For that insolence, I apparently had to be punished and spectacularly.
Which brings us to the baseball and my broken nose. After what seemed like an eternity of endless agony, I heard a deep voice that had to be our vice principal, Mr. Bridges, telling everyone to back up and make way. I sensed the crowd parting more than saw it as I still could not see through eyes that just would not stop tearing. The sun was eclipsed by the shadowy shape of Mr. Bridges who knelt down beside me. With a quiet “Let me see, son,” he pulled my hands away and hissed in surprise at the sight. Without another word, he scooped me into his large arms and carried me in to the nurse. I couldn’t remember making any noise even when the ball struck me, I had simply been too surprised. Enveloped by this strong man’s protective grasp but jostled by his gait, I let out a quiet whimper.
So began the career of the Brown Recluse, not with a bang…
Monday, July 19, 2010
Copper Lincoln, Robot Detective
Chapter 1
I moved my convertible smoothly up the last onramp and found myself finally in Los Angeles. Technically, I’d been in Los Angeles since I booted up this morning but in the sprawling underground mainly inhabited by robotic Angelenos until just now. It was bright up here, bright enough I should readjust my ocular sensors. I was feeling saucy, though, so I dug a pair of sunglasses out from the back of the glove box. I let the tiny magnets in the horn rims clang lightly to my face and luxuriated in the topside air caressing my chassis and actual sunlight blinding me as I went to visit a paying client. As much as I was enjoying the drive, the paying client was the real good news. I hadn’t had much work lately and unpaid bills were turning me into an unwilling collector of antiques.
As for it being so long since I’d visited topside, I don’t believe any of that sophomore sociology class crap about humans living above ground while robots live below as any kind of metaphor of “how life actually works” for robots. I’ve been around long enough to see that junk come and go a few times, but I also never see anybody getting too excited about it except bored college kids. I’m not saying there’s never been anything to it, but I will say every demonstration looks to be about three skinsacks to every one clanker and those kind of odds in 18-25 year old humans scream “why won’t mommy and daddy pay attention to me?” I bet some of them even bring a robot home for Thanksgiving and talk about going ring shopping over the holidays just to get a rise out of mom and dad. By the next holiday break the robot girlfriend is missing and junior is wearing even more black, sporting patchier facial hair, and espousing the opposite of some other deeply held, politically charged prejudice of his parents. Don’t even get me started on the kind of personality problems the robot kids who get involved in those shenanigans bring to the table. If you ask me, nothing aggravates personality quirks into full-blown neuroses, regardless of whether that personality resides in a brain or a responsometer, like higher education. I should know; I was the first robotic college graduate in history.
The prospect of a paying job had put a flutter in my own responsometer that I could only describe as “giddy.” It was a rare feeling and probably not the best one to have when meeting the richest man in California and maybe the whole country. The beautiful weather and the cavalcade of colorful sights on a bustling topside Los Angeles afternoon had me so pleased I didn’t even see most of the glares and catcalls my gas guzzling 55 Cadillac El Dorado drew from the topsiders. Honestly, I’d forgotten they worried about air pollution up here. Not that it would have stopped me from driving the Caddy, I just prefer to make the conscious decision to annoy people.
I wanted to be well-dressed, cool, calm, collected, everything the professional private investigator should be when one calls upon four trillion dollars. Instead I was, for lack of a more appropriate robotic term, a bundle of nerves. I waved happy hellos to everybody who made a rude gesture or yelled something unpleasant about the Caddy and practiced being cool, hoping to nail the performance before arriving at the client’s place.
Not having a mouth to hang open in shock saved me some embarrassment as I pulled up to the house at 5673 Lalta Abrea Bend in West Hollywood. Did I say house? I meant Taj Mahal. Scratch that, the Taj Mahal is a pile of bricks compared to this place. I managed to park the car without scuffing my fender or anybody else's, although it took two and a half of the spaces meant for the little electric jobs most people drove in topside LA. It was 10:15 in the morning and thunder distracted me on the way up the walk. Glancing at the hills, I saw an indigo sky hanging over them, pregnant with rain. Nothing good ever came from that deep a blue; a storm was brewing. Despite the bath of warm sunshine I was in, I flipped the collar of my coat up in anticipation and wished I’d got the hang of shivering.
I climbed the steps towards the front door, lost count of them around eleven hundred, and rang the bell. It played a Mozart piece that I didn’t recognize but manage to tickle at the back end of my memory banks the entire four minutes it played before dying out. If I’d had breath, I would have held it. I was about to meet the last scion of the Kanigher fortune, the great-great-grandson of Walt Kanigher himself. I was about to meet the last living relative of the man who made me with his own two hands and breathed life into my circuits. This was as close as I was ever going to come to meeting my maker. Again, anyway.
I moved my convertible smoothly up the last onramp and found myself finally in Los Angeles. Technically, I’d been in Los Angeles since I booted up this morning but in the sprawling underground mainly inhabited by robotic Angelenos until just now. It was bright up here, bright enough I should readjust my ocular sensors. I was feeling saucy, though, so I dug a pair of sunglasses out from the back of the glove box. I let the tiny magnets in the horn rims clang lightly to my face and luxuriated in the topside air caressing my chassis and actual sunlight blinding me as I went to visit a paying client. As much as I was enjoying the drive, the paying client was the real good news. I hadn’t had much work lately and unpaid bills were turning me into an unwilling collector of antiques.
As for it being so long since I’d visited topside, I don’t believe any of that sophomore sociology class crap about humans living above ground while robots live below as any kind of metaphor of “how life actually works” for robots. I’ve been around long enough to see that junk come and go a few times, but I also never see anybody getting too excited about it except bored college kids. I’m not saying there’s never been anything to it, but I will say every demonstration looks to be about three skinsacks to every one clanker and those kind of odds in 18-25 year old humans scream “why won’t mommy and daddy pay attention to me?” I bet some of them even bring a robot home for Thanksgiving and talk about going ring shopping over the holidays just to get a rise out of mom and dad. By the next holiday break the robot girlfriend is missing and junior is wearing even more black, sporting patchier facial hair, and espousing the opposite of some other deeply held, politically charged prejudice of his parents. Don’t even get me started on the kind of personality problems the robot kids who get involved in those shenanigans bring to the table. If you ask me, nothing aggravates personality quirks into full-blown neuroses, regardless of whether that personality resides in a brain or a responsometer, like higher education. I should know; I was the first robotic college graduate in history.
The prospect of a paying job had put a flutter in my own responsometer that I could only describe as “giddy.” It was a rare feeling and probably not the best one to have when meeting the richest man in California and maybe the whole country. The beautiful weather and the cavalcade of colorful sights on a bustling topside Los Angeles afternoon had me so pleased I didn’t even see most of the glares and catcalls my gas guzzling 55 Cadillac El Dorado drew from the topsiders. Honestly, I’d forgotten they worried about air pollution up here. Not that it would have stopped me from driving the Caddy, I just prefer to make the conscious decision to annoy people.
I wanted to be well-dressed, cool, calm, collected, everything the professional private investigator should be when one calls upon four trillion dollars. Instead I was, for lack of a more appropriate robotic term, a bundle of nerves. I waved happy hellos to everybody who made a rude gesture or yelled something unpleasant about the Caddy and practiced being cool, hoping to nail the performance before arriving at the client’s place.
Not having a mouth to hang open in shock saved me some embarrassment as I pulled up to the house at 5673 Lalta Abrea Bend in West Hollywood. Did I say house? I meant Taj Mahal. Scratch that, the Taj Mahal is a pile of bricks compared to this place. I managed to park the car without scuffing my fender or anybody else's, although it took two and a half of the spaces meant for the little electric jobs most people drove in topside LA. It was 10:15 in the morning and thunder distracted me on the way up the walk. Glancing at the hills, I saw an indigo sky hanging over them, pregnant with rain. Nothing good ever came from that deep a blue; a storm was brewing. Despite the bath of warm sunshine I was in, I flipped the collar of my coat up in anticipation and wished I’d got the hang of shivering.
I climbed the steps towards the front door, lost count of them around eleven hundred, and rang the bell. It played a Mozart piece that I didn’t recognize but manage to tickle at the back end of my memory banks the entire four minutes it played before dying out. If I’d had breath, I would have held it. I was about to meet the last scion of the Kanigher fortune, the great-great-grandson of Walt Kanigher himself. I was about to meet the last living relative of the man who made me with his own two hands and breathed life into my circuits. This was as close as I was ever going to come to meeting my maker. Again, anyway.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Once more...with feeling
So once upon a time I started this blog with the idea of updating every month with two or three bits of interconnected adventure fiction. I kept that up for a bit, it was a great experiment, but it was ultimately a spectacular failure. A failure because I couldn't keep it up at the time, I wasn't committed to writing in general or bettering my craft. But I say spectacular because it was really the beginning of what would eventually get me serious about writing.
So now, more years later than I care to admit (five...ish), I have a first draft of a novel in the can and I'm about to start rewrites with an eye towards sending it past an editor and then shopping it around. I have ideas for short stories I hope to turn into marketable product. I have plans for audio theater productions. I have published work, and more of it to come, in the roleplaying game industry. All that continually amazes me.
But I still sometimes struggle with writing SOMETHING every day. I also want more immediate feedback. Plus, loving and well intentioned people who seem genuinely interested in reading some stuff I'm working on keep asking to read the novel but I won't let them because it isn't ready. That's where Pulp Diction comes in. I'm pledging to write 500-1,000 words a day and a lot of that writing will wind up posted here. I plan on writing one day, editing it the next, posting the edited stuff, and writing the stuff to be edited the next day. And I want you to read it! And comment on it! And tell your friends about it if you think they'd like to read it so they can comment on it! For those of you that I specifically invited to this site, I'll be actively LOOKING for you to do this stuff for me (mostly because you guys have been bugging me to read the novel and I won't let you yet).
This is pretty ambitious of me, honestly. I only get a couple hours to write every day (mostly during my son's nap time). Sadly, even if I had all day to write, this schedule wouldn't result in new posts daily. Some of my projects are work for hire and I don't exactly own the finished product. Some of them just won't work in a blog format. Some won't have wide enough appeal. I'll also be editing my novel, Hell Bent for Leather, as well as preparing for a new roleplaying campaign with which I want to rock my game group's socks. All that stuff is important to me but conspires against daily updates to the blog. But I do pledge to update at least 2-4 times a week so that if you visit every three days or so, there ought to be a couple new things for you to read.
So, whaddya say? We got a deal? I'll write it, you read it and tell me what you think of it? Great! See you in the comments section!
PS: If anybody who reads this wants an RSS feed, I totally understand that desire. Unfortunately I don't understand the process of creating an RSS feed. Advice (or just doing it for me) would be appreciated.
PSS: Never mind, blogger does RSS feeds for me automatically and I didn't realize that because I'm a noob.
So now, more years later than I care to admit (five...ish), I have a first draft of a novel in the can and I'm about to start rewrites with an eye towards sending it past an editor and then shopping it around. I have ideas for short stories I hope to turn into marketable product. I have plans for audio theater productions. I have published work, and more of it to come, in the roleplaying game industry. All that continually amazes me.
But I still sometimes struggle with writing SOMETHING every day. I also want more immediate feedback. Plus, loving and well intentioned people who seem genuinely interested in reading some stuff I'm working on keep asking to read the novel but I won't let them because it isn't ready. That's where Pulp Diction comes in. I'm pledging to write 500-1,000 words a day and a lot of that writing will wind up posted here. I plan on writing one day, editing it the next, posting the edited stuff, and writing the stuff to be edited the next day. And I want you to read it! And comment on it! And tell your friends about it if you think they'd like to read it so they can comment on it! For those of you that I specifically invited to this site, I'll be actively LOOKING for you to do this stuff for me (mostly because you guys have been bugging me to read the novel and I won't let you yet).
This is pretty ambitious of me, honestly. I only get a couple hours to write every day (mostly during my son's nap time). Sadly, even if I had all day to write, this schedule wouldn't result in new posts daily. Some of my projects are work for hire and I don't exactly own the finished product. Some of them just won't work in a blog format. Some won't have wide enough appeal. I'll also be editing my novel, Hell Bent for Leather, as well as preparing for a new roleplaying campaign with which I want to rock my game group's socks. All that stuff is important to me but conspires against daily updates to the blog. But I do pledge to update at least 2-4 times a week so that if you visit every three days or so, there ought to be a couple new things for you to read.
So, whaddya say? We got a deal? I'll write it, you read it and tell me what you think of it? Great! See you in the comments section!
PS: If anybody who reads this wants an RSS feed, I totally understand that desire. Unfortunately I don't understand the process of creating an RSS feed. Advice (or just doing it for me) would be appreciated.
PSS: Never mind, blogger does RSS feeds for me automatically and I didn't realize that because I'm a noob.
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