Relishing the past. Or maybe passing the relish.

Ha, terrible punnage ensues!

There are parts of my past I don't miss. Like sixth grade. Boy, I hated that year. My mom had gone out of town to "fight" in the gulf war (she actually was stationed in Germany, as she was a medical doctor and was waiting to receive wounded that never showed up), I had just switched to a new school, and had not yet really made any long lasting friends, and things started getting really strange chemically as I entered puberty. In short, it sucked. It sucked very hard.

But there are parts I think back to and smile.

Tonight, I was in a coffeeshop with an old old friend, and I ordered a Café au lait -- basically a latté made with coffee instead of espresso. It's a drink that, when done right, is delicious. Much smoother than a latté, but better than simply adding milk to your coffee. I commented to my lovely and beautiful wife that I hadn't had one of these since I was first working in a coffeeshop.

And that reminded me how much I enjoyed those early years of that job, before Mr.mike and Ali moved, and before lissa quit, and definitely before the managers got a bee up their bonnet and started firing everyone in sight.

Back then, I was surrounded by writers and creators, and spent my time at work thinking about writing, and often scribbling stories and poems on paper while I was there, and there were so many awesome people to interact with on a regular basis. So many awesome coworkers and great customers (well, ok customers).

Those days, I miss.

I like to think I'm in a pretty good place right now. I've got a job I enjoy, I'm doing something I enjoy (comics and writing), and I'm not struggling at all. I've got short term plans and long term plans and everything's just moving pretty solidly along... but I do miss the constant company of all those creative, intelligent people.

Ah well.

Did I tell you guys I saw a UFO?

The answer to the title is, "Of course not" unless you're like one of three people. But yeah, I saw an honest-to-god genuine UFO a few weeks ago, as I was exiting a bar with my wife and friend.

The funny part is that neither of them saw it.

It was triangular shaped, a series of glowing lights that spun around as they flew slowly behind a building. It was too low to the ground for an airplane (seemingly), and made absolutely no noise (it was 1am, so I would've heard it).

If you're into the whole UFO scene, you'll know this is not an unheard of circumstance. The "Flying Triangle" UFO is one discribed time and time again. So there ya go, it's real.

Well, not really.

I saw another one again about a week later, except this time, rather than disappearing behind a building, it turned and flew back across the city. It was a little one-person airplane. It had flashing lights on its tail and wings, and enough of them to actually suggest a full triangular shape. But the truth was that it was just a simple little plane.

So for me, the UFO became a IFO (identified flying object). And that was that.

It's rather depressing to have something happen that's all strange and mysterious, and think "wow, this is the kind of proof I've been waiting for all this time! I can almost bring myself to believe that aliens are here!"

And then realize that, actually... well... no. Just a plane.

Ah well.
--Joe

6,323 words. (AKA I rocked)

I did exactly as I said I would. I went and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote until I wanted to stop three times, and then I kept writing. I just forced it out. It might not be great, but it's there, and it's building into something awesome. I am totally going to do this again, soon. :D

The story revolves around a private detective who is closely tied into the supernatural circles, but lacks any real ability himself. This is just a bit from when he and his partner first get their case.

Please bear in mind that I didn't do any editing, so there's lots of typos, poor sentence structure, and probably a few reused words thrown in.

Comments on content would be welcome.

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“Well...” She got nice and quiet, the way most people do right before they start to talk about something dreadfully serious. It was always a little amusing to me how people could bring themselves into a strangers office to ask for help, but lose their nerve before actually getting to bring up whatever brought them there.

I stared out the window at the city while she thought. It was a pity that the city from my dreams wasn't the one out my window. Not that I wished harm on anyone, but that it would be easier to investigate if that were the case. As it was, I'd have to hit the library a little later, looking for photos and landmarks, and hoping I still remembered it all those hours later.

“My husband...” she finally began. I gave her my full attention as she blurted out, “I think he's sold his soul.”

“You don't say.” I said, raising an eyebrow. “To whom? Do you know?”

She stared at me for a moment, wide eyed, then said, “I... I just assumed to the Devil.”

I sighed. It was great that she was aware enough of the world around her to come to us, but it's always a little touchy dealing with someone who pulled their supernatural knowledge from Faust. “Actually, last I saw, there are no fewer than 16 demons who commonly barter for souls. The big bad, surprisingly, isn't one of them.”

“Why not?” She asked, looking a little confused. Rather than launch into a long lengthy conversation about Demonology, Hell Dimensions, Astral Treaties, and Shadow-History, I just shrugged.

“The Big Bad doesn't come to earth. Some claim to barter on his behalf, but their gifts come from the demons themselves.” At this, the girl looked toughtful. It was a cute expression. “Now,” I said after catching myself staring. “Why do you believe your husband has sold his soul?”

“Well...” The girl looked down at the purse in her lap. “I have some proof.”

“Like a signed contract?” I asked without really meaning it.

The girl stared at me, then said, in awe, “You really are a prophet!” And produced a tannish-brown piece of paper, rolled up into a tight scroll, and sealed with wax. The seal had already been broken, so I didn't bother checking it for traps first. Besides, being able to stop a trap wouldn't necessarily mean I could disable it.

The scroll said simply, “In the matter of Henry J. Perry, as well as that of his eternal soul. There has been an agreement, witnissed by Vghh'll Hyuff, witnessed by George Mason Pantana, witnessed by The Esteemed Valis Drake, of an exchange at the time of death. In return for assistance, detailed verbally and witnessed by the aforementioned, from the receiving party, Hentry J. Perry willingly, and without any compulsion, releases his eternal bond with his own soul. This release is irrevokable, and eternal. With the signing, this contract becomes fact.”

I read it twice, then shrugged and laid it down. “Where did you get this?”

She again looked embarrassed. “I found it.”

“where?”

“Hidden in his sock drawer.”

I nodded, trying very hard to look lost in thought. In reality, I was too confused to actually speak. While contracts do exist, and look much like the document she just gave to me, they usually aren't on Earth. The demon, who arranges for the transfer, usually keeps the contract on him, or at his place of residence. As opposed to an earth contract, which is signed in triplicate, copied again and again, and notorized just for the sake of eternity, contracts with the demon realm are usually worth exactly the paper they're printed on. Meaning, of course, that when the paper is destroyed, so too is the contract broken.

So why would Henry have his own damnation? Why would he keep in his sock drawer, and not in some place where the forces of darkness couldn't just snatch it away. And how did he get it? There's only one person I've ever heard of stealing from a demon and getting away with it, and he did it only by nearly dying. I'm pretty sure it's not something that's just...ya know... done.

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I'll post more later
Thanks for reading.

Gonna go write tomorrow.

Today is a lovely day to run
Start up the car with the sun
Packing blankets and dirty sheets
A roomful of dust and a broom to sweep up
All the troubles you and i have seen

Cross when the drawbridge light is green
Don't look back to that messed-up scene

Packing blankets and dirty sheets
A roomful of dust and a broom to sweep up
All the troubles you and i have seen

And all our troubles will be gone
Blowing out over that bridge
Floating up into the sky
Making the storm clouds cry

Put out that smoke and breathe some air
Get a new name and cut your hair

Packing blankets and dirty sheets
A roomful of dust and a broom to sweep up
All the troubles you and i have seen
--Packing Blankets by Eels

Just felt like sharing that.

Anyways, tomorrow is going to be a semi-big day for me, as it'll be the first day in September that I've gotten to just go write. Back when I had no job, I tried to make it out to at least once a week, but it's more difficult nowadays. I plan to give about half my day over to whatever comes to mind (including taking along some projects and some writing exercises). But mostly I just want to get it out. It's been killing me that I can't slip away as much as before.

The last school year was difficult, but eventually I got a routine established, where wednesday afternoons became my time to write. I often only got an hour or so, but I tried to make good use of it. This year has, so far, not given me any obvious days to slip away... my wife and I work virtually the same hours, and leave around the same time, which means that time I could spend alone writing I'd much rather spend with her.

But tomorrow she has meetings and work all day, and I don't have anything that requires my attention, so that's that. :D

I'm also going to try to participate in Nanowrimo again, though I haven't any solid set idea. I might just write and let whatever happens happen.

My life at present seems to be almost sorting itself out. Fingers are crossed. :D

--Joe

IMing

I have a terrible confession. I'm absolutely horrible at IM conversations.

It's not that I can't type. I can. Obviously. You can't run a blog without being at least semi-decent at typing. Or, more to the point, you can't run a semi-decent blog without being at least semi-decent at typing. My typing is fine. It's great even. I'm a great typist.

But, often, in the middle of a conversation, I'll get up and walk away from my computer. I don't say "AFK", "BRB", or any of that. I just get up, and let silence fill in the details.

This isn't because I hate chatting. I love it. I think it's awesome. It's more that I have a very fickle attention span, which is only made worse by my never ending desire to multi-task. Sometimes, this means I end up trying to work on projects that are several rooms apart (like, now, for example, when I'm in here talking about how awful I am at chatting, checking the kitchen for matches for my wife, and in the living room watching Buffy on DVD). This off-again, on-again attention means it's sometimes hours between when I start a conversation, and when I continue it.

This is only made worse by Google Chat, which doesn't bother telling you on the IM screen if the person you're IMing has logged off.

This means I have lots of conversations that look like this:

5:01 PM John: have you already made plans for tonight?7:46 PM me: not realy

So... yeah. I just want to let everyone know that chatting with me is troublesome, and I often goof it up.

That's all.
--Joe

p.s. Two posts in one night. I'm awesome.
p.p.s. (not p.s.s. which means post-script-script which makes no sense) I'm still going to try to post again before the week is over.

I have a blog?

It's been a long ass time since I wrote in my blog.

A long ass time.

I don't even really know what I should be saying. Should I fill you guys in on the last 18 months, or should I simply just launch into the laundry list of everything I'm doing.

Or should I simply admit that it's been a long ass time and that I should be better.

I dunno.

To quickly touch on the last 18 months:
I got a job at a school for kids with autism. I work with kids ages 5-8 who are absolutely amazing, great, fantastic people. And I get to play, a lot. It rocks.

My wife and I are still doing great. She started her own business on Etsy.com, and is doing great at that. I've got a few things up for sale too, and plan on making and selling my own 200-page comic collection (for Quickshots).

I've been writing less and doing comics more, though lately I'm doing comics less and hopefully will be doing writing more. Hopefully.

I'm desperately looking for motivation in terms of writing help. It's a lot easier to write for others than it is to write for myself. I'm an entertainer at heart.

I also learned to juggle.

I'll try to update this again before the week has passed.

Thanks for reading.

:D
--Joe