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(Fark)   "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." ― E.L. Doctorow. Hah, that's not what the voices in my head say. This is your Fark Writer's Thread, socially acceptable edition   ( fark.com) divider line
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250 clicks; posted to Discussion » on 07 Feb 2018 at 2:47 PM (23 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»

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2018-02-07 02:30:26 PM  
Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?
2018-02-07 02:59:53 PM  
Calm down, everybody. You will each get a turn in the next Devil's Quill segment...
2018-02-07 03:05:49 PM  
the beginning of a much bigger thing

One of my hands grips the wheel, gently steering Starflower around asteroids. The other hand fights to keep the cat off of the control panel.

"Shoo," I say,as I brush the cat aside, all the while looking out through the windscreen at the sharp chunks of space rock that we're floating past. "Mommy's busy."

The cat's name is Lucky. I found him, just a kitten, on a derelict freighter about six or seven months ago. Lucky is well behaved when he's tired. That's when he purrs himself to sleep. The rest of the time I'm tempted to-- No, no. Best not to think such thoughts. Sometimes I toss him in the closet just to find some peace--That's better for everyone involved.

Right now, Lucky is trying to wrap himself around the throttle and lay down on the warm indicator lights of the panel in front of me. And because of the asteroids, I don't have time to scoop him up and shut him into the closet. Between the cat and the asteroids, I choose to fight the 'roids. They are far more actually dangerous. I jam the wheel hard to port and pull up to avoid a big one. Lucky loses his balance briefly and pauses his settling down actions to stare up at me. "Take it easy, girl," is what that look says.
Lucky has no appreciation of just how fortunate he is that I rescued him. The name doesn't even help. He's a cat; he may not even know that is his name.

He stops staring and curls up into a little ball, his head tucked into his tail. He's not in the immediate way, I guess. As long as none of those idiot lights light up while he's on top of them and I can't see them, we'll be okay.

I dodge another 'roid, this one below and starboard.

The asteroid field that I'm navigating is secluded and quiet, but that's because I'm a few jumps from any real civilization. The farther one jumps from Sol, the quieter space becomes. Where Sol's asteroid belts are mined out, and the fields around the Centauris and Tau Ceti are a hubbub of industrial platforms, miners, brages, tankers and factories, this one is distant enough to be largely untouched by Raxan and Ceticorp and their smaller competitors.

Oh, I'm not in uncharted space. This is Chandrasekhar System. That's a mouthful. Call it Chandra; everyone else does. There are a few settlements in orbit here over the various planets and moons. But those stations are sparsely populated and support only light industry and agriculture.
I can see some fishing boats pinging on the part of the scanner that isn't covered by the cat. There's a small drilling platform showing, too.

Other than that, it's just me out here. And the cat. Sailing Starflower.
2018-02-07 03:06:26 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

yeah, I guess. but it's never for public consumption
2018-02-07 03:09:38 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

No, so N/A on the second.  I have no natural creativity, so there's nothing to stream.  My "creativity" is more like a bunch of coin tosses, then piecing together some kind of cohesion among the results.  I can create a story that way, but it's probably the polar opposite of going with the flow.  In fact, if you have natural creativity then I'm jealous of you and I hate you and your feet smell so neener neener.
2018-02-07 03:11:14 PM  
Minor progress to report: prepping a short story as a potential anthology submission, although I'm kind of worried that the core ideas are strange enough that they'll be difficult to get across to a reader.  We'll see where it goes; approx.. 3K words so far.  I have a couple of other fragments that look workable, if this doesn't pan out.

I did get some background stuff to get this years anthology going.  Mostly, this is just setting up accounts so I can make sure that all submissions go to X and get forwarded to Y and what not.  I will admit to having done nothing at all this last weekend, however.  I did absolutely nothing and it was everything I thought it could be.

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

I tried an experiment in that a while ago, but I've never had much luck.  On the other hand, I have a hard time reading stream-of-consciousness, so maybe that's part of it?
2018-02-07 03:30:23 PM  
It's how I've been doing my chapter outlines so far in my first novel attempt. I switch into the chapter's focal character and describe what happened in Spew Mode in first person.
2018-02-07 04:03:59 PM  
Working on five short stories, and I submitted one today to a submission call. That's my first submission for the year. I also am still in the running to be included in a horror anthology that will be a big deal if I get in. Keeping my fingers crossed. Got the edits back for a novel I'm working on. I have a lot more work ahead of me to tighten the book and make it ready to sub to agents.

Going to Stokercon in Providence, RI next month. Looking forward to it. It's my first Stokercon and likely my last unless it returns to a location near my home.

And now my throat hurts and I have a cold. Going to take it easy for the rest of the day, drink hot tea, and watch bad movies.
2018-02-07 04:05:27 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

I tried it a few times and nothing came of it. I liked some of what I wrote, and I might have used a sentence or two in a WIP but I never went forward with it.
2018-02-07 04:18:59 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

I used to in the morning. When I woke out of a dream I would try to write down some ideas from my dreams. Nothing that someone else hadn't thought of.
2018-02-07 04:32:37 PM  
"There was popping and locking going on." - Lev Grossman
2018-02-07 04:56:38 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

img.fark.netView Full Size

In her book she suggests to write 3 handwritten pages in the morning, stream of conscience style. Not for publishing but to help free blockages. I've never been in the habit but when I've done it, one off, it's helped pull out ideas.
2018-02-07 05:26:22 PM  
Socially acceptable?  Boring.

And no, not much SOC writing.

Goodish news, I don't have to get surgery on the car-accident injury on my leg, the badish news is because surgery won't fix it, nothing will.  It will have to be "managed" not "fixed."

Going to Total Confusion next weekend in Massachusetts (gaming con) to play a lot of Call of Cthulhu (name checks out, right) and that always gets me feeling creative.
2018-02-07 05:47:28 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

Pretty much every email I ever write. And no, I get more done if I edit them before sending. Sometimes they're 1-2000 words, and I'll even talk myself out of points mid-message.
2018-02-07 06:19:02 PM  
FARKing Charlie Royce. This story is starting to consume my writing time. I want to write about Salden and Barras, or Master Davaroc, or even the tales surrounding Inferno, or work on a story for the upcoming anthology. But nooooooooo. I keep getting stuff crowding the inside of my skull about Charlie Royce.

It started out as a writing exercise. Just a couple of thousand words. No big deal. Just something to clear the ol' cobwebs a bit. It's forty FARKing thousand words and counting. I keep getting ideas for the story bubbling up into my brain when I'm trying to do something useful- like earn a paycheck, or drive a car, or finish writing one of the novels I've started.

The really sucky part? It's the easiest writing I've ever done.

Here's a taste:
It took a few minutes longer than it should have to find the place. I drove past it twice. The building looked like a cheap hotel, sandwiched between a shoe factory and used book store. It was only two stories, and the sign out front was so weather-beaten it almost disappeared into the scraggly trees between the sign and the front of the building.

I parked across the street and looked at the place for a minute. The girl in the photo didn't belong in a place like this. This place reminded me of the Shay in Santa Monica, only a lot farther down the road to being a dump. The neighborhood was pretty dingy. Across from the apartment building was a bar with painted-over windows and a Chinese laundry. All the cars along the road were older and in worse shape than the one I was driving, and the one Black Maria I'd seen had two cops in it. The uniforms in the car were watching everything around them with a look I'd seen before- in combat. The folks on the street were all moving slowly, sticking close to the buildings on the sidewalks and watching everything with rabbit-like alertness. Most of the people I could see were older colored folks, with a few Mexicans every so often. They were all aware of me, but carefully avoided looking directly at me or the car.

I shook my head and climbed out of the Plymouth, then locked the doors before crossing the street. The first door on the ground floor had 'Office' painted in peeling yellow letters. I knocked. The flimsy door rattled like a windowpane during an earthquake, knocking a few more flecks of paint from the 'Office' sign. No one answered, so I tried the door. It wasn't locked.

The smells of unwashed bodies, cigarettes, and piss rolled out of the dark room as soon as I pushed the door in. I shoved the door all the way open to let some air in and looked for the light switch. There was an old twist-knob switch on the right hand wall, so I turned on the lights and stepped inside. I immediately wished I hadn't.

I didn't see any rats moving around, but otherwise the small room looked like a garbage dump. There was an old sofa falling to pieces against the left wall under a pile of dirty clothing and paper plates. Next to the sofa was a cheap plywood desk under the curtained-off window on the wall with the door. There was a phone on the desk, but I could see the cord was just laying on the floor, not hooked up to anything. I stopped counting at four ashtrays, all full of butts and enough toothpicks to be a fire hazard. There were a dozen or so cheap ceramic cups scattered around on the end tables and every other flat surface, some of which had cigarette butts in them. A large stuffed chair covered in torn leather was in the far right corner under the only working lamp. There were several days' worth of newspaper scattered on the seat and the chair arms, along with a half-full bottle of gin. I spotted seven mostly-empty pint bottles of booze of various types around and under the newspapers and old clothing which mostly covered the floor.

There was a doorway between the couch and the wrecked sofa, with the wall of a hallway leading off to the left. I kicked my way through the junk on the floor to the doorway and looked down the hall. There were two doors on the left and two more on the right. Another twist knob was on the wall, but nothing happened when I turned it.

First door on the right opened into a kitchen overflowing with garbage and so foul-smelling I shut the door after a quick look to make sure no one was in the room. From that quick glance, I figured no one had done any cooking there for several weeks.

I stepped outside for some fresh air for a minute, then walked back in to try the first door on the left. The door wasn't shut all the way, but there was something heavy behind it, making the door hard to move. The heavy thing turned out to be a dresser lying on the floor, and there was a strong odor of piss and stale vomit. The small room was very dark, and the light switch didn't do anything, so I carefully stepped in and yanked the curtains off the window to let in some light.

The daylight through the window showed a floor covered with wads of discarded clothing, blankets, and shoes. All the drawers were out of the dresser on the floor. I could see several of them just visible under the junk everywhere. A stained and smelly mattress covered by a threadbare sheet was on the floor against the wall under the window. Lying on the mattress was a young colored girl wearing a man's undershirt and not much else. She was probably about thirteen or fourteen, and was still asleep through all the noise I'd made, so I reckoned she was either drugged or exhausted. Possibly both. I could see she was breathing, and there was a dried pool of vomit on the floor next to her.

I stepped back into the hallway and found I was nearly shaking with rage. I'd seen other little girls in similar conditions in the Pacific, when we'd fought our way into villages and small towns and killed every Nip we could find. I never thought I'd see the same sort of crap back home.

I hit the second door on the left a bit harder than I'd intended. The top hinge popped out of the flimsy wood when the door slammed into the wall. This little room was marginally cleaner than the rest of the apartment, for what that's worth. There was slightly less junk on the floor, the furniture was mostly intact, and the bed in the room actually had a frame and was not just a mattress lying on the floor. It stank like a brewery had been buried under a mountain of cheap cigarettes and set on fire. Most of the bedding had burn holes, and butts littered the floor, mixed in with empty beer bottles.

The Mexican guy in the bed got startled awake by the door flying open. He was trying to get up, but was slightly too drunk to manage it. He got tangled up in the blanket and sheets, and sort of slumped off the edge of the bed to the floor all wrapped up like a mummy. He was short, heavy-set, and flabby, with several days' worth of beard and a long, messy mustache. His dark brown hair was dirty and kept falling into his eyes.

A skinny colored girl was still on the bed, not even trying to cover herself after the Mexican guy took all the bedding to the floor with him. She was taller than the Mexican guy, maybe twenty years old and wasn't wearing anything at all. She was so thin I could count her ribs, and her face looked like someone had used it for batting practice. One eye was swollen almost shut and her lips were smashed and cut.

I looked at her. "He do this to you?" I asked, nudging the guy on the floor with my foot. He stopped trying to wriggle out of the bedding and became very still. He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it with a snap when I glared at him.

She shook her head. "Naw," she mumbled. "Bertie whooped me yesterday. " She gestured at the guy on the floor. "Jesus just lettin' me stay here for the night."

"You okay to get dressed?" I asked her, still staring at the guy on the floor.

She scooted off the bed and started grabbing clothes from a small pile near the foot of the bed.

I leaned over and hefted the guy off the floor and dropped him at the edge of the bed. Shoving him back against the wall, I looked him in the eyes and growled, "There's a little girl wearing nothing but a man's undershirt lying in a pool of vomit and piss in the next room." I wasn't even trying to disguise the disgust in my voice. "You want to tell me about that, or should I just tear you in half right now?"

He started babbling. "Never touch her! I swear! Nombre de Dios! I never touch her!"

I ignored him and looked at the girl getting dressed. "You know the little girl?"

She shook her head. "Didn't even know she was there," she said, pulling a tan shirt over her head. "You want me to look?"

"See if you know who she is," I said. "Check to see if she's okay. What's your name?"

She stood up." I'm Marcie."

"Marcie. Good." I dug a twenty out of my pocket. "You make sure she's okay, and come back in here to tell me and I'll give you this twenty."

"What you gone do with Jesus?" She asked.

I glared at him for a second. "Depends on what I hear from you and him." I looked back at Marcie. "I might give him some cash, or I might bash his head in. Haven't decided yet."

Marcie shook her head and limped out of the room. I pointed a finger at the Mexican guy's nose and said, "Be still." Then I moved to where I could watch him and the door.

Marcie came back a couple of minutes later. "Don't recognize her. She breathin', but she ain't wakin' up."

I handed her the twenty I'd promised, along with one of my cards. "Go get something to eat, Marcie," I said. "I'll have a little talk with Jesus, here, about keeping little girls drugged up in dingy apartments."

"He ain't never hurt no one," Marcie said unexpectedly. "He sometimes lets us hide out here when things gets bad."

I smiled at her. "That's good to know, Marcie. His odds just got better 'cause you stood up for him."

"You want me to call a ambulance?"

I nodded. "If you can find a working phone, do that. Know the address?"

"Laundry across the street gots a phone. They'll call."

"Good thinking, Marcie. You go on and do that."

Marcie hurried out. I stepped back to face the guy on the bed. "Based on Marcie's say-so, I'm gonna let you live. But you're gonna tell me everything you know about that little girl next door. If I find out you lied to me, I'll come back and tear you apart. Start talking now."

Stammering with fear, Jesus Moreno babbled for the fifteen minutes or so it took for the ambulance to arrive. He claimed the little girl had showed up at his door yesterday, barely conscious and dressed the way I'd found her. He'd tried to ask her some questions, he said, but she kept falling asleep. He put her in the extra room and claimed he was planning to take her to a doctor, but got too drunk. Then Marcie had shown up looking for a place to hide from her boyfriend, and they'd gone to bed.

I let him get dressed while he talked. He was a sad lump of flab, but Marcie stood up for him when she didn't have to. That didn't count as a 'good guy' by any civilized standards- even mine- but he was probably the best available in the dingy end of Long Beach.

I met the ambulance guys and gave 'em what little information I had on the little girl. They radioed their dispatcher to call the police, but didn't wait around for 'em. I gave the driver one of my cards and told him to let me know what happened to the little girl, then watched the ambulance drive off, lights flashing.

Moreno came waddling out of the apartment a minute later. I grabbed him by the shirt to keep him from slipping away, and shoved the photo of Rosalinda under his nose.

"This girl sent a letter from this place last year," I said. "You know where I can find her?"

He gave up trying to get away and slumped against the wall. "I don't see her before," he said. "She don't live here."

I put the photo away and shoved one of my cards into his hand. "Her name is Rosalinda Gonzalez-Alvarado. You see or hear anything about her, you call me. Understand?"

He nodded. I dragged him away from the wall and let him scuttle away. I found a more-or-less clean newspaper in the front room and carefully wiped my hands while I waited for the police.

The Blues took their time, showing up about ten minutes after Moreno took a powder. There were two uniforms in the car that showed up, and they didn't seem too interested in my story of a drugged-up little girl. They weren't interested in doing much more than pretending to give a damn, and spent less than five minutes looking around. They asked for my name and I told 'em why I was there, but neither of the cops bothered writing anything down. After they left, I walked around the neighborhood and asked some of the locals to look at Rosalinda's photo. No one remembered seeing her, though a couple of people said the photo looked familiar.

After a couple of hours of repeating the same questions and showing the photo to a bunch of people who really wanted me to go away and leave them alone, I gave it up as a bad job and headed back to my car. As I walked down the sidewalk across from the Buena Vista, I could see someone sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

I stopped and took a look around. I remembered locking the doors when I got out of the car, so there shouldn't be anyone inside it. But there was a tall colored guy sitting in the right front seat. I slipped the Colt out of its home in my armpit and kept walking toward the car. The window was down, and a long arm was resting on the edge of the door as I walked up. I stopped a few yards behind the car and took a look at the guy inside. Something about him  looked slightly familiar.

I walked closer. Chick Farmer stuck his round face out the window and smiled. "Expectin' trouble, Charlie?"

I laughed, more than it was worth, but I'd been just a bit anxious. I shoved the pistol back into the holster under my arm and shook my head. "If I'd known it was you in the car, I wouldn't have bothered," I said. "If I'd shot you, it might make you mad."

Chick opened the door and rolled out of the car. He was wearing the same outfit as the last time I'd seen him- sleeveless undershirt and blue jeans. He closed the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms. "Heard there was some tough white boy scarin' people down here in the darker section of town, and thought I'd check it out."

"If I find a scary, tough white boy running around, I'll be sure to let you know."

"What brings you back down here, Charlie?"

I pulled out Rosalinda's photo and handed it to him. "I'm working for an attorney out of San Bernardino. We're trying to find information about this girl. Name's Rosalinda Gonzalez-Alvarado." While Chick looked at the picture, I waved at the Buena Vista across the street. "Client says she sent him a letter from the apartments over there last year."

Chick handed the photo back. "She don't look familiar," he rumbled, the trace of southern drawl very strong in his voice. "Photo does, but I can't place it right now."

"Couple of other people said the same thing," I replied, stuffing the picture back in my pocket. I took out a card and handed it to him. "If you hear something you think I might use, please give me a call."

He looked at the card and raised an eyebrow. "Private Investigator?"

I frowned. "Only way I could get a license to carry," I muttered. "I keep telling people I ain't smart enough to be a detective."

Chick laughed and slipped the card into his pants pocket. The humor slowly left his face. "Little girl's mama asked me to look for her yesterday," he said, his voice low. "Her name's Jeanie, and the hospital folks say she might not have made it if you hadn't found her first."

I shook my head. "Just lucky. Glad she's gonna be okay."

"Marcie say you were fixin' to rip Jesus Moreno into thin strips," Chick said. "Think he gave her the stuff got her junked up?"

"Not sure," I admitted. "Don't know enough about him to guess about the drugs. Don't know if he took advantage of her, but he might've. Had the opportunity, and he didn't seem the type to care how old she was."

Chick nodded. "I be checkin' around about that. Leave him to me, either way."

I shrugged. "He said he didn't know Rosalinda from her photo, so I got no further official interest in Moreno."

Chick turned to walk away, then stopped. "What about 'unofficially'?"

"Unofficially, if you decide he hurt that little girl, I'll be happy to come back down here and deal with him."

"I let you know." He walked off down the street. I climbed into the Plymouth through the passenger door and rolled up the window before I slid over into the driver's seat. I took a few minutes to write up some notes before starting it up and putting the car into gear. I had a lot to think about on the ride back to Pasadena.
2018-02-07 06:54:10 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

Yes, no.

I kept a diary for around 7 years. It was all stream of consciousness. It's a honest, unflinching look at myself that today I find hard to read. It relies too much on allusions. But, that could be the diary.

I also had to be in a special sort of mood to write like that.

When I read out loud I do voices. Not in a super-obvious way, but the inflections and cadence shift. I sometimes drop words to improve the flow. Most people don't notice.
2018-02-07 07:46:58 PM  

Spawn_of_Cthulhu: Socially acceptable?  Boring.

Well it means at least one thing I do is socially acceptable, apparently.  For an otherwise universally loathed individual, I'll take what I can get.
2018-02-07 08:29:36 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

As in fiction, or just like freewriting?

I recently wrote and finished my first story in four months doing just that, actually.  It ended up being little more than a couple of thousand words of a character's rambling, disjointed thoughts about another character, but it worked.  And it seemed easier to write than other narrative styles, in that I managed to turn off that pesky internal censor and just write things.  I may try it again in the future on other projects that aren't meant to be stream-of-consciousness, and then edit from that later.

I personally hate freewriting for the sake of freewriting, however.  Stupid waste of time that yields nothing of value, ever.
2018-02-07 08:38:24 PM  
Thanks for all the replies to my stream of consciousness question.

The few times it sort of happened (just let words go without thinking about them, just writing what was coming to mind), I've gotten a few good ideas from them. It seems a few of you also have had some success with it.

I may just try to do that for while and see what comes from it.
2018-02-07 09:14:04 PM  
I think I am close to finishing my book, I have completed writing and am now working on editing grammar and punctuation. It is a factual account of three years of my criminal life on and around St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands during the late 1980s.

If you note, there are enough stories to easily cover crime(s) committed serially each weekend over a year and a half. I think I can say I've brought enough explosives aboard a plane to blow it up, and probably could have been charged with over a hundred crimes on one particular night.

It is titled "THE REAL PARADISE Diary of a Modern-Day Caribbean Pirate" and can be found at:

or directly at:

The book is in 6x11 inch 11 point Times New Roman and is 67 pages long with one picture included. It should not take long to read.

There are no ads and nothing to download. I don't get anything from this except maybe some input from some of you who may be kind enough to read what I have written. My email is johnph­antom[nospam-﹫-backwards]li­am­toh*c­om if you wish to contact me, and there is more information in my profile detailing exactly where I lived on STT.

//diagnosed and given disability with no argument for bi-polar with schizoaffective disorder (episodic schizophrenia) back in May of 2001
2018-02-07 09:46:51 PM  
Zbloznog:  "Hey!  What's that on the scanner?  It's approaching pretty fast."

Xendorff: "Aiming optic tracker.  Projecting image on screen."

Zbloznog: "What in Asdrott?  It appears to be some sort of vehicle, but not one suited for space travel.  Can you calculate an orbit?"

Xendorff:  "It appears to be orbiting the central star of this system, at a speed of 17,000 kleebs per stonac.  I calculate it will pass within 0.0008 kleeb of us in .00012 stonac.  We can try to identify it then."

Zbloznog:  "Our computer has identified it as a surface vehicle used by the inhabitants of the third planet."

Xendorff:  "I will make a report."

Xendorff: "Xendorff to Sector Command.  Patrol zrx-2901 reporting an unusual object passing us."

Qatlon" "Qatlon of Sector Command.  What is the nature of the object?"

Xendorff: "A Tesla."

Qatlon: "A WHAT?"

xendorff: "A Tesla.  A surface vehicle used by the inhabitants of the third planet, to travel upon their paved road-system."

Qatlon: "What is its propulsion method?"

xendorff: "Electric motors rotating pneumatic tires mounted on metal wheels."

Qatlon: "And this passed you in deep space?  Is it occupied?"

Xendorff: "Yes. there is a pilot seated at the controls."

Qatlon: "How many times have I told you to lay off the Romulan Ale when you're on duty?"
2018-02-07 10:46:49 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

One of my favorite stories about writers concerns Yeats and his wife contacting the spirits via her "automatic writing"  while in a Pullman berth rattling across the US from NYC to Cleveland. She was pulling his leg, so to speak, and trying to be helpful, but the image of that daft bugger imagining that he's in touch with the infinite while in a sleeper car on the way to Cleveland is fantastic.
2018-02-07 10:59:38 PM  

ph0rk: FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

Pretty much every email I ever write. And no, I get more done if I edit them before sending. Sometimes they're 1-2000 words, and I'll even talk myself out of points mid-message.

I am certain every email i have ever written has been between one and two thousand words.
2018-02-08 12:16:06 AM  
Creepy Lurker Guy:

Qatlon" "Qatlon of Sector Command.  What is the nature of the object?"

Xendorff: "A Tesla."

Qatlon: "A WHAT?"

Mildly off topic digression: Elon Musk is having you all on. He's re-enacting the beginning act of what was, AFAICR, the first movie I saw after making E5...

Heavy Metal - Soft Landing - Corvette 1959
Youtube DWMPe3wF9jQ
2018-02-08 10:41:46 AM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

In a sense, everything, though it's not what usually called stream of consciousness.  I sit at the computer and type out the story.  This describes my method precisely:
img.fark.netView Full Size
2018-02-08 04:26:09 PM  
Here's a general question: what in your opinion makes a Universe both a fertile and wanted field for other writers (both professional and fan fic ones) to add to the 'Verse?

The novel my wife and I are writing is, AFAIK, a unique concept. The main characters are "starfish" (i.e.: not rubber forehead) aliens who - because all life forms have certain similar origins and existential needs - often think and feel about "Life the Universe and Everything" in much the same way that humans do.

And it's a big 'Verse: an alien interstellar empire of almost 1,000 worlds, 24 main and secondary characters with dozens of supplemental ones, overpowering weapons, war, space pirates, 100,000 years of often-chaotic and uber-violent history, and, yes, lots of interactions with 21st century Earth. And yes, we are writing it with a movie in mind; the storyline and characters will more than support one. My estimate now of finished length is about 120,000 to 140,000 words for the first of three novels.

The ROOM is there for lots of offshoot story lines, but I want to build in the characteristics that make other writers DESIRE, nay SLAVER, to add to it. I want them beating down the doors. I'm not saying our 'Verse will be as important as Star Wars or the Trek 'Verse, or Star Gate, but the aftermarket stories they have is the kind of 3rd party participation I am looking for.

Reason: my 48 year old wife is disabled. I am now 68, with bladder cancer (currently in remission, they think). Before I am gone, I need to give her an income stream from share of royalties and residuals from writers who will pay small fees to use the 'Verse for their own sagas.

What do I need to do? thanks.
2018-02-08 06:01:29 PM  

FuLinHyu: Quick question: Do any of you stream of consciousness write? Anything any good ever come out of it?

All the time. I try to structure each of my paragraphs to lead to the next paragraph. This happens a lot when a character is reflecting on something that happened in the past. One idea suggests another idea, which then suggests another. There is also a "range" to this: if I have a mentally sound character I try to have the transitions in be natural, small steps. With someone at the edge of crazy, the logic is less obvious (but still barely evident) and I think it helps reinforce the idea that the character is "not wrapped too tight."

When I can't do this, or it is too tortured, I know that it's time for a scene change, and I throw in a "#" to indicate a new section.
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