This leads me to two ideas for future blog posts:
1. My love of reading and writing–how I grew up with it, let it fade away, and have now brought it back into my life.
2. The process of finding time to write, fitting it into your schedule and so on.

I also need to spend some time updating this blog a little bit more and perhaps make posts not solely about writing, but some posts involving books, movies, creativity and the like. That’s a good idea, I should write that down. Oh wait, I just did.

There have been plenty of times I have wanted to skip prologues because I’ve read so many before that were dull and slow. I never felt like they did anything to bring me into the story that was worth my time reading them. I swore that when I started writing a novel I would never write a prologue.

Guess what? I’ve written a prologue.

I’m only into the first chapter of my novel and it’s been sort of slow going as I figure out how I want to tell the story and what information I should be including this early and what I should be saving for later, what narrative mode should I follow and should I show what another character is doing, what are the right and wrong things to do in a first chapter, and so on.

But with all that going on I knew I needed a prologue. Why? Because I felt that there was a scene which takes place in the past, without the protagonist, which I felt really sets the stage nicely for the book’s style and genre. I personally don’t consider this book to be science fiction, but it will contain an element that goes beyond what is scientifically possible in our “real world”. So by those standards it will probably be categorized as science fiction. The protagonist however, doesn’t discover that sci-fi element until maybe chapter 2 or 3 (I haven’t gotten that far so I can’t say for sure). Since he doesn’t discover it in chapter 1, I felt that a prologue was necessary to give the readers a sense of what they were in for before they got a couple chapters in and say, “I hate science fiction, I just wasted my time reading this.”

So that’s why I’m writing a prologue. I should have more to share on my book very soon. Stay tuned.

The problem now is that when I try to start writing I get more ideas. I have an idea for three novels now. Crazy, I know.

I’d like to have a name for the book already to help inspire and give me some direction. It’s like when I start designing a website I begin with a logo and work out from there. I let the logo dictate the direction of the website. I’ve tried naming this book and have successfully named another novel that I might write next. Ugh.

I found a good blog post about Naming a Novel.

Ok, time for me to start writing today.

I used a random writing prompt I found on a website to inspire this scene. Enjoy.

“Sir? Sir, this man here is Victor Gleason, our Security Director, he’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Good Afternoon Mister…Nicolas, William Nicolas,” Gleason was looking down at a scrap of paper handed to him moments earlier from the store clerk. The name William Nicolas was scrawled in blue ballpoint pen above a series of numbers. He turned his attention back to the young suspect standing in front of him who appeared to be no more than twenty-five years old; he was nearly six feet tall, clean-cut, physically fit, and at this moment distracted. “Mr. Nicolas you may be in some serious trouble here. I’m going to need you to follow me to the office so I can ask you some questions.”

Nicolas, who wasn’t Nicolas, sheepishly followed SD Gleason through the electronics store towards the stock room office. People, products and signs entered and exited his line of sight as he walked leaving only impressions of color behind. The only image that persisted was of twelve digits etched in plastic above the name William Nicolas. Who is William Nicolas and how did I get his credit card?

Gleason worked like a Good-Cop/Bad-Cop hybrid, a technique he proudly developed in 1997 interrogating a sixteen year old girl caught stealing underwear at the West Chester Mall Victoria’s Secret. His scripted performances played like a one-man show, all that changed was the location and audience. Gleason sat at the Store Manager’s desk and made small talk, which he followed up by standing over the perpetrator, his moist stale breath trapped in the space between their two faces, asking questions like, “Are you prepared to spend the next twenty years of your pathetic life in prison?”

“Can I please explain?” Nicolas’ sagging expression begged SD Gleason for an opportunity to tell his story. He didn’t want to be William Nicolas anymore. He just wanted to explain everything that happened that day and get out of there.

Security Director Gleason straightened up and took two steps backwards. He kept his eyes locked on Nicolas’, careful not to break the stare (a trick this time he learned at a security training seminar), and with a wave of his right hand motioned for the young man to continue.

The next words out of William Nicolas’ mouth were, “My name is Brandon Spencer.” To this Gleason did not betray his surprise, but this case had just taken a turn that he wasn’t expecting.

Writing contests are a great way for writers to gain exposure. This is why I am personally excited about this new start-up website called Fiction or Non.

Here is a brief description from the site itself:

It’s a simple but powerful service where you can publish and promote your own writing contest, and participate in others. Stories, essays, interviews, speeches, or other kinds of written expression in 1,000 words or less.

Currently the site is in development and it isn’t much to look at (that’s the web designer in me talking) but the functionality is coming together.

They are offering a pilot writing contest for everyone who has signed up to the project launch newsletter. I am currently working on a short story of my own for this contest so that I can be part of the beginnings of this new site.

If Fiction or Non is able to put together an attractive, user-friendly experience for writing contests, then this just might be the service that writers have been long looking for.

Isn’t it funny how it always seems like the new idea that comes into your mind is so much better than whatever it is you are currently working on? Even though you thought you were working on a masterpiece, it pales in comparison to this new, great idea that just popped into your head. It’s frustrating.

I’ve found the result of all this focus changing is this: nothing gets written. So here I sit with good ideas but I’m not writing any of the stories because I can’t keep myself focused on one story idea long enough to produce anything. Did I mention that it’s frustrating?

So my advice to myself and to anyone reading this post is simply: stay focused. Ok, but how? As soon as you start writing a story stick with it. See it through to the end. Believe in your story, believe that it is just as good as anything you will write in the future. If other ideas come into your mind in the process of writing that story–Great! But don’t start writing that new story. It’s tempting, I know just how tempting, but don’t do it. Write down the idea and file it away for later. Keep going on what you are currently working on.

By forcing yourself to stick to one thing at a time–and one thing only–you will increase your writing productivity.

This is a story I wrote for the Your Story contest for Writer’s Digest magazine. It didn’t make the cut into the top 5 so I’m now posting it here. The story was inspired by the following prompt which they provided. Enjoy.
Prompt: You wake up to find a dead body on the floor—and a bloody knife in your hands.
You can’t remember exactly what happened, so you piece together the clues.

There was an icy quality to the air and a grayness, like a sponge had wiped the world clean of it’s color, all around me that afternoon as I sat silently on my bed. The whites of my eyes had turned a dull shade of pink and my salty tears stained vertical lines down the front of my face. I cried not only at the loss of life but also my loss of innocence. I was sixteen years old, I was nearly a man, but there I sat feeling like the confused child I wanted to leave behind. The back of my head was throbbing, my vision was slightly blurred, and I struggled to remember why I had just done what I had.

Could it have been how I was treated or how I was perceived that drove me to pick up the knife that day? I was always the last kid picked for all sports activities, not because I was the fat kid, even he got picked before me, but because I was seen as weak, and where I’m from males are rugged and tough. I harbored a lot of anger in those days, which I didn’t realize until years later, mostly aimed at myself for not being the type of person I was supposed to be. By that age I should have had calloused hands and leathery skin. I was rail thin and soft. I needed to toughen up. I needed to prove myself.

There were voices audible from another room that permeated the uninsulated walls of my house and found their way into my ear drums. I was the topic of conversation.

“No, I told you, I saw him do it,” It was a man’s voice, gravelly and deep. “Then he fainted, with the knife in his hand, lucky he didn’t fall on it himself.”

The response came from a woman, her voice was gentle, but blanketed with concern, “I hope you realize that this means it’s time to rethink his future.”

One-hundred year old floorboards creaked and groaned, clearly showing their age, with every step the man and woman took. Soon the voices trailed off and became too faint for me to hear. I was staring down at my feet, but really I was looking through them, looking through the floor, through the earth even, to a place of total darkness. In that darkness I hoped to find my future, to see a glimpse of what would become of me. Even though my entire life to this point was characterized by moments that exposed my differences, I did my best to fit in the established mold. That’s why I took the knife that day; that’s why I spilled blood.

I stood up from my bed, knowing that this was the moment I would confront who I was and what I had done, and with slow, deliberate steps, I treaded outside. The bright sunlight enhanced the colors of the rural landscape and the warm mid-day air was comforting, like it was holding me tight, reassuring me that everything would be alright. I smelled the familiar pungence of manure in the air, rising up from the fields as I passed behind the old barn, and approached the couple talking on the other side.

Her face was soft and her eyes seemed to say, I understand. His face was tight, jaw firmly locked in place, gazing at me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. I tried to resist, but I surrendered to my weakness and looked away, in doing so I caught a glimpse of my victim for the first time. I knew that it had only taken her body a few seconds to bleed out after I struck her with the sharp knife. I could smell blood lingering in the air and for a moment felt like I was going to be sick. His voice brought me out of my head and back into the world with them.

“I guess this means you ain’t gonna be no farmer then?” He spoke directly and his tone was firm.

I inhaled air deeply through my nostrils, feeling the sensations up into my brain, nearly causing me to become lightheaded. Tears began to well up in my eyes again, not because I felt bad for slaughtering the hen, but because this was the first time in my life that I truly felt that I caused my father disappointment. I just lowered my head and shook it back and forth.

Here’s a link directly to my story for you to read.
Enjoy!

Flash Fiction Contest Honorable Mention: “An Unbelievable Afternoon” by Jason Zimmerman

I wrote this story a few weeks ago to break out of my writing slump that lasted for five years.  Despite how awkward I felt trying to write it, it turned out to be really good practice. Hope you enjoy.

Clinton Holly stared at the tray of overcooked, processed, questionably nutritious cafeteria food in front of him and asked himself, am I gay? He knew that he wasn’t gay. Well, he was mostly certain that he wasn’t gay. Though it was possible that he was gay and didn’t exactly know what being gay felt like. Clinton couldn’t help wondering if being told daily that he is gay meant that someone saw something he didn’t. Or, if just having it spoken and thought of every day meant that it could come true. His mom tended to believe in the possibilities of the latter.

After watching a particularly memorable episode of Oprah, Clinton’s mom went on and on for weeks about a book that said all you had to do was keep thinking something, I mean really focus on it everyday, and eventually it would happen. She told him that the power of positive thinking was real; it said so in The Book. But what about the power of negative thinking? Was that real too? Clinton wondered if the fact that he thought being called gay was a negative thing made him homophobic. Maybe he was actually a fourteen year old self loathing homosexual. These thoughts stressed out his brain and made it feel like it was swelling up inside his head.

Again, Clinton tried to focus on the food in front of him, he wanted to force his mind to change the subject. Melted mozzarella cheese-product hung over the edge of limp, square pizza dough. Tiny cubes of what had been named pepperoni, though real pepperoni had every right to claim identity theft, left blotches of orange grease on top of the melted cheese-product. The food was not helping. French fries would have been tasty–it was hard to screw up french fries–except that Greg Lewis, his least favorite person in the entire world, had already walked by and with a single swipe of his chubby hand, snatched all the fries from Clinton’s tray. At least he thanked him for the french fries.

Thanks for the fries, gay-boy, Greg Lewis said as he stole the fries from Clinton’s tray.

Greg Lewis, the overweight senior class clown and starting offensive lineman for the Forest Lake High School football team who had an ego to match the size of his body, routinely went out of his way to make sure that freshman Clinton Holly felt his presence, and feared him. Clinton’s friends made no attempt to stick up for him, or give the appearance that they had any intention of sticking up for him when Greg Lewis was around. They knew that making one false move meant they might be the next freshmen to be targeted, and they were quite content laughing uncomfortably at their friend while he was picked on by the larger upperclassman. Clinton didn’t necessarily hold this against his friends, he just wished he had bigger, stronger, braver friends, and not the math club and AV club types he hung around with.

Without saying a word to anyone, Clinton stood up, disposed of his tray of food, and weaved his way to the back of the cafeteria. He tried to walk softly, yet swiftly, like a rogue or a ninja, past Jenny Scott, through the shadow of Doug Harbinger, around the kid that’s always drawing breasts in his notebook, and he was almost there. He stopped near the back wall, on the side of a vending machine and glanced across the cafeteria, over the multi-colored sea of heads, to the table where Greg Lewis sat. Clinton hoped to God that Greg Lewis was in his seat, telling everyone how great he was going to play in tonight’s football game, or commenting on how hot so-and-so cheerleader looked today, or even asking his friends if they saw the look on that Holly kid’s face when he took his fries. Clinton didn’t want to find out the hard way that Greg Lewis was actually standing right behind him about to make this lunch period even more painful. Clinton inhaled slowly and wheezed just a little.

There he was. The round-faced bully was still in his chair paying no attention to the whereabouts of Clinton Holly. Clinton moved as fast as his short, bony legs would take him; down the hall to the left, a quick right turn, and inside the boy’s bathroom.

In his haste to duck out of sight for a few minutes, Clinton forgot that this was the boy’s bathroom that always smelled of stinkbombs and urine. He’d have to deal with it this time, he just hoped that his clothes wouldn’t absorb any of the smell causing people to make undue assumptions about him. Clinton stood in front of the far sink against the wall–the one that actually worked–and washed his hands with meticulous care. He allowed his hands to become fully covered in lather and then gave them plenty of time to shower in the warm water from the faucet above. Once he felt that his hands had been sufficiently cleaned, he stepped back from the faucet to get a full view of himself in the mirror.

“Are you gay?” he said. His voice was barely a whisper but saying it out loud made the question real, it was now something that he had to answer. He hated knowing that months of being bullied, months of being called gay, gay-boy, homo, fag, and so on, had caused him to start questioning himself. Clinton looked himself up and down, taking in all of his possibly gay features; his small frame, tiny waist, neatly ironed khaki pants and polo shirt–his mom couldn’t have him going to school looking all a mess–and the soft hairless face of a boy who was not yet a man. None of these features really appeared all that gay to him. He might not have been the most fashionable or most trendy kid at school, but he didn’t feel that he was necessarily the gayest either.

And what about those times that he had been attracted to girls. There was that time at the Junior High spring dance when he danced with his science class lab partner Melissa Riley. Even though they stood at an arms length apart so as to keep all private parts private, and not come in contact with those of their dance partner, he had very heterosexual feelings for Melissa. There was also that time a few months ago when his older brother Mark caught him going through Mark’s secret Playboy collection. Clinton was embarrassed to be sure, but the feelings he felt looking at the pictures of the nude women were certainly not gay feelings. So if he wasn’t gay, which now he felt sure that he wasn’t, he needed to get Greg Lewis to stop calling him gay, stop pushing him around, stop taking his food, and stop making him feel bad about himself.

Clinton leaned forward, placed his hands on the cold porcelain sink, and looked closely into his own eyes. He opened his mouth to speak words of encouragement to himself, out loud so he would make them real.

“What are you doing Holly, talking to yourself?” The voice came from Dave Kraft, a friend–the type of friend whom you get along with fine at school, you might eat lunch together at the same table, but don’t necessarily hang out on the weekends–had just walked into the boy’s bathroom and saw Clinton giving himself a pep talk in the mirror.

Clinton flinched and backed away from the mirror. He hated when people called him only by his last name, Holly, it was a girl’s name and he didn’t like being called a girl’s name.

“No, I just thought I had something in my eye is all.” Clinton was getting better at coming up with lies on the spot. It was a defense mechanism he had been subconsciously developing to deal with things like bullies and peer pressure.

Clinton scooted himself between Dave on his left and the row on sinks on his right as he made his way out of the boy’s bathroom. He could tell that Dave was looking suspiciously at him so he tried not to make eye contact as he left the bathroom. He just needed to survive the rest of the afternoon, he thought to himself, and then this weekend he would come up with a plan to stop Greg Lewis from picking on him.

Monday morning Clinton Holly walked through the front door of Forest Lake High School with his head up, chest out, ready to take on the world, or at the very least, one person in the world, albeit a very large and nasty one. He hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning because despite the newfound confidence he was feeling, there was a maelstrom of anxiety swirling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing to worry about, he kept telling himself, it’s like taking a test, as long as you are prepared for what you are about to face, you will do fine. It’s those times in life when you are completely unprepared that you fall apart. This time he was prepared. He had done exactly as The Book had instructed, he focused on what he wanted to accomplish, he got in touch with the universe. Clinton even used the law of attraction to summon a friend to stand by his side and fight with him. A Dark Warlock named Alatar.

Clinton hadn’t originally planned on summoning a force of evil to help him fight his arch-nemesis, Greg Lewis, the bully. The weekend had started off innocently enough. He played video games, watched TV, skimmed through chapters of The Book. It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon, while sitting on his bed picturing himself standing up to Greg Lewis and subsequently getting punched in the stomach, that everything changed.

For twenty-two consecutive minutes Clinton’s mind was visualizing and focusing and visualizing some more, then interrupted for a split second, wondering what he would eat for dinner, and back to visualizing and focusing. The entire time he was subconsciously rolling a twelve-sided die around in his left hand. When twenty-two minutes became twenty-six, and Clinton saw himself getting punched in the stomach, he decided he needed a break from visualizing and focusing. He shook his left hand up and down, the die bounced around within it, and with a flick of his wrist he released the die out in front of him onto his bed. The number twelve sat proudly on top of the die.

“That’s it!” Clinton’s voice went up nearly an octave and cracked on the word “it”. Thoughts were coming fast into his head and he needed to slow his brain down so that he could plan his course of action.

He sprang from his bed and headed straight for his desk. The battered wood desk has been in Clinton’s room since he was one year old. His parents had found it at a garage sale for twenty dollars and even though it wasn’t in good shape thirteen years ago, they felt it would suit their son just fine for doing homework until he went to college. In his current state of excitement, Clinton pulled so hard at the top drawer of the desk that it broke free of the rails that held it in place. In his defense, the wood began rotting thirteen years ago and it was only a matter of time before it finally gave up the fight.

Clinton’s hands were trembling, adrenaline had been released throughout his body like a rush of water from a dam that had just given way, and he started pulling papers furiously from the broken desk drawer that now lay on the carpeted floor next to his desk. He arranged the papers in two rows near the foot of his bed. Clinton stepped back to examine his work.

In front of him were Dungeons & Dragons character sheets, notes, drawings and multi-sided dice. All of these items were related to Alatar, his Dungeons & Dragon’s character, a Warlock that Clinton believed no one would want to mess with. Alatar had placed crippling curses on even the strongest Warriors, Monks and Shaman, and would be Clinton’s secret weapon in the fight against Greg Lewis. He could see the events unfolding in his mind, Greg Lewis would be on his knees begging for mercy after Alatar cast a Curse of Agony on him.

Come on Greg, Clinton would say, he’s only just started, you can’t be ready to give up now.

Then Clinton would give his Warlock instructions to continue, to which Alatar would gladly nod his head, and begin draining Greg Lewis’ soul from his body. The bully would be lying in the fetal position on the cold tiled floor of Forest Lake High School, begging for mercy. Alatar would look to his master for guidance, simply raising one eyebrow as if to ask, should I stop? But Clinton would not let Greg Lewis off quite so easily.

Immolate him, Clinton would simply reply.

Again, Alatar would nod approvingly before raising his arms above his head, conjuring an immolation spell that would cause his eyes to turn red and his hands to glow with an aura of immense heat. Then, as if he had spontaneously combusted, Greg Lewis’ body would burst into flames.

Clinton shook his head and returned himself to his bedroom.

He spent the rest of the evening staring at his miniature shrine, visualizing and focusing on bringing Alatar the Warlock to life. He did however, leave his room briefly for dinner, but then scampered immediately back to continue the summons. Neither Clinton’s parents nor older brother suspected anything unusual in his behavior, he spent a lot of time in his room sketching, playing video games and reading, so this seemed like a typical Sunday to them. Little did they know that Clinton was on the verge of calling forth a force of evil from another world.

At 6:30 A.M. Monday morning, Clinton’s alarm clock sounded its wake-up call of high-pitched beeps. He smacked the alarm clock to silence the piercing sound, still groggy and confused he looked around his room. He was still fully clothed from the day before, lying on top of his comforter with his head at the bottom of the bed, a couple dice were wedged into his side. Clinton yawned sleepily, rubbed his eyes, and rolled himself to the edge of his bed and sat up. Alatar’s character sheets were wrinkled from having been slept on, dice were scattered on the bed and on the floor, but Clinton knew that despite having fallen asleep, he had been successful and Alatar was watching over him, waiting to strike the enemy.

By lunchtime that day, Clinton still hadn’t decided how or when he was going to get back at Greg Lewis. Actually, part of him still wasn’t sure if he was even going to get back at Greg Lewis. Words he had heard in the past from his parents and teachers cycled through his mind.

Might does not make right.
Walk away from a fight.
Defend yourself with words.
Violence never solves anything.

Clinton tried to stay focused on his objective, but there was a conflict taking place inside himself. After so much time being abused, he did not want to become the abuser. He did not want to appear weak and vulnerable any longer, but he did not want to become that which he hated the most.

He held his lunch tray between his hands and walked from the cashier out into the cafeteria. His fingers firmly gripped the tray of food, elbows were at a perfect ninety degree angle, shoulders tight against his neck. Clinton’s legs carried him instinctively toward his usual seat without any cognizant instruction. His mind was elsewhere. He didn’t see the other students around him, or the cafeteria, or the building, or the world.

His eyes were open but all he saw were images of Greg Lewis, himself, a fight, words flying by, his parents, a teacher, Greg Lewis, more words overlaying the images, the principal’s office, versions of himself throughout the years. In that moment nothing else existed, yet his physical body continued to walk.

There was a collision and Clinton was again painfully aware of his surroundings. A tray was pressed up against his body, mashed potatoes and jello were smeared across his chest, sliding down the front of his shirt. A piece of chicken that would never be eaten lie on the floor at his feet.

“Watch where you’re walking gay-boy,” Greg Lewis said with a sarcastic sneer and continued walking. Greg Lewis’ cronies, as well as everyone nearby who had just witnessed Clinton get his tray of food smacked up against him by the hand of his oppressor, laughed at him. Clinton casually picked up the piece of chicken, scraped what food he could back onto his tray, and dumped the wasted lunch into the garbage bin. He grabbed napkins from a nearby dispenser and kneeled down to wipe up the sauce, gravy, and mashed potatoes that remained on the cafeteria floor. The feeling of being down on his knees, cleaning the cafeteria floor was just as belittling to Clinton as being attacked in the first place.

“Now is the time to fight back, Clinton,” the voice of Alatar spoke to him. “We will now extract your revenge upon your enemy. Prepare yourself for battle.”

Clinton took a deep breath in through his nose and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He clenched his top and bottom teeth together, his jaw muscles tight and protruding on the sides of his cheeks. Clinton stood up with a wad of dirty napkins in hand, and marched himself, with Alatar by his side, to the table where Greg Lewis proudly sat enjoying his lunch. Greg Lewis sat near the isle at the end of a long row of tables on the left side of the cafeteria–this was his seat and everyone knew it–and Clinton approached him without reserve and stood over the seated giant. Greg Lewis craned his neck upward and opened his eyes wide in amazement.

“What the hell are you doing over here?” Greg Lewis looked around at his table of friends, which consisted mostly of other football players, gestured to the figure standing over him and said, “Can you believe this kid is standing here right now?”

Clinton knew that he only had a short window of time to act before he would most likely be picked up by his underwear and thrown into a garbage can just for standing here. He told himself he didn’t have to be afraid because this time he had help, Alatar the Warlock had his back. Without any further deliberation Clinton threw the napkins that had just been used to clean his lunch off the floor on top of Greg Lewis’ tray of food. The bully looked at the filthy napkins covered with food and dust, which were now touching his lunch, then looked up at Clinton, and then back to the napkins. The arrogant smile that had adorned Greg Lewis’ face was now replaced with a tight expression of hostility. These few seconds where Greg Lewis sat confounded by what had happened were the most crucial for Clinton. It was in these few seconds where all the visualizing, focusing, soul searching, planning and worrying would have to come together. If these two or three seconds were to pass, like seconds often do, without action, the only thing that would survive this moment and live as a reminder would be regret.

The second hand on the cafeteria clock clicked each time it moved.

Click. One second passed.
Click. Two seconds passed.
Click.

Clinton however, readied himself, he saw Alatar raising his hands to cast a Curse of Agony on Greg Lewis, the warlock’s hands glowed green as the spell was being cast. He felt the confidence of his warlock flowing through his own body.

Three seconds passed.

The sound of fist hitting cheekbone wasn’t so much a smacking sound, but more of a thud. Clinton had thrown the first punch of his life and it connected squarely on the side of Greg Lewis’ face. Clinton felt a stinging sensation in his hand that shot through his wrist, up into his elbow, and ended in his shoulder. Punching someone wasn’t supposed to hurt you as much as it hurt them, he thought. Clearly he wasn’t built for fighting.

Greg Lewis raised a hand to his face and rubbed the spot that had just been hit. Clinton looked down on his opponent, and then around the cafeteria at the stunned, silenced audience. This was it, this was what it felt like to hit someone, to be the aggressor. He didn’t like the person who currently inhabited his body, the person who punched people and acted violently. But he had sent a message. Clinton Holly wasn’t going to accept being the victim any longer. He looked away from Greg Lewis and the rest of the fifth period lunch crowd and walked toward the side exit of the cafeteria. Clinton tried to walk with an air of confidence, his fists were clenched, which was mainly to keep his hands from shaking, his heart beat was noticeably fast and his breathing was shallow, but he wanted people to believe that he was unaffected by what had just happened. When he reached the hallway, Clinton turned to look back at the cafeteria, half expecting a table of jocks to be standing behind him ready to beat him until they were forced to stop, but he saw that even though most of the room was still staring at him, no one had followed. He turned away and continued walking down the hallway away from the cafeteria. He maintained a slow, steady pace until he was sure that he was out of line of sight from anyone in the cafeteria.

Then, Clinton ran.

Clinton didn’t just run, he took off in the sprint of his life straight for the exit. He decided he would run all the way home, a twenty minute journey at most if he maintained his current pace, and feign sickness if his mom asked why he was home so early. He would deal with consequences and repercussions tomorrow, because for the rest of that day he just enjoyed victory.

The writer said, “Just start writing and get your words out. Don’t worry about what the website looks like.”

The designer in me raised one eyebrow, stared directly into my soul, and said, “You know that you need to create a custom design for your blog and have it looking beautiful before you even think about writing anything.”

So like I said, it was a struggle. In the end the writer won. I don’t know exactly how he won, and to be honest, the designer in me still winces in pain when he sees that I used a generic pre-made template for my blog. I guess the writer finally convinced him that I didn’t have time to design something new from scratch and the compromise would be that I would slowly update the site. That seems fair to me.

Now you are wondering what I’m going to write here aren’t you? I plan to use this space to write about writing, to write about books I’m reading, brainstorming, share cool things I’ve discovered, and of course some of my fiction.

I’m going to have a lot of fun with this blog and I hope you enjoy it.