January 6, 2012: Everybody's Fool

Letter: E
CD Number: 7
Track Number: 14

Song: “Everybody’s Fool” by Evanescence from Fallen


Girl Longs for Boy, My longing is tragic. Tragedy is beautiful. Ipso facto, my longing is beautiful.

Handsome Man
surrounded by girls
Handsome Man
orchestrating their whirls

Handsome Man
too smooth to swallow
Handsome Man
ridiculously hollow

Handsome Man
hiding the pain
Handsome Man
I understand what you can’t explain

Handsome Man
what you obscure from them I can see
Handsome Man
why won’t you look at me?

Handsome Man
no one else knows
Handsome Man
so alone

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 5, 2012: Dashboard

Letter: M
CD Number: 27
Track Number: 2

Song: “Dashboard” by Modest Mouse from We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
Listen to it here




Hands on steering wheel, 10 and 2 is a lie!!!

(Picture taken from http://www.surfnetparents.com/760/cell-phone-restrictions-for-teenage-drivers/)


Sarah and Marty clamored into the car, like always, Sarah in the driver side, Marty to her right. It was Sunday and it was driving time.

Sarah adjusted her seat, like she always did, even though she was the only one to ever sit in it and it always ended up in the same exact spot as it started. Marty clicked his seatbelt into place and poked at Sarah until she did the same. She hated the feel of the belt. This was supposed to be about escape and that piece of nylon just made her feel trapped. But Marty asked and so she did it. He smiled widely and she felt free again. One look at his happiness and that piece of nylon was forgotten.

And they were off. Down the driveway, banking right on to Pine. West on Pine until the pass the factory that smells like bread and it is another left onto Main. They don’t blow the light, but their right hand turn on red follows what could be describe, in the most charitably terms possible, as a rolling stop.

Town fell away and they are out on the state road, zipping down cracked back asphalt, trees lining the road on one side, a long since gone fallow farm on the right. Marty flips on the radio and turns it to that station where all they do is talk all the time. Sarah glances at him out of the corner of her eye and frowns a bit. He shakes with laughter in response, failing to sell the gag and not caring. He flips the dial once he gets his giggles a bit more under control and the sound of rhythmic bass and a serious guitar lick smother them. This is freedom.

The top is down and Sarah feels the wind grab hold of her hair and toss it about like a cat with a skein of yarn. She delights in it. She knows it will make a mess of things but for now, she gives herself permission not to care. It somehow stay out of her face and that’s all that matters.

Next to her, Marty alternates between leaning out the window and learning close enough to her that they almost touch to see around the crack in the glass that spreads outward over most of his side like ripples on a pond. Each time he gets close to her, they both breathe in deeply the smell of the other mixed with the smell of the road. Both notice, both pretend not to, both will not admit to the other they are doing the same.

A new song begins and Sarah smiles wide. She screams what she imagines is a fun sound, a Tarzan shout of joyful triumph and throws her hands skyward. She shimmies in her seat to the music. While Marty would like nothing more than to appreciate the view and her joy, he’s just too tightly wound to. He knows it and sometimes wishes it was not so. But it is and he knows that. So he reaches out and grabs the wheel while she dances and tries hard not to scold. She catches his look, somewhere between panic and sadness and brings her arms down again, taking control back. She mumbles and apology and he only nods in response. She can feel that piece of nylon again, digging in.

Then the chorus kicks in and she finds herself singing along. And she hears Marty join in, in that voice she thinks is beautiful but he cannot or will not agree, will not share it with anyone else. She leaves her hands on the wheel, but dances in her seat. She feels Marty look and dances harder, enjoying his eyes on her, enjoying how she know it makes him feel. He blushes, laughs, and takes it all in.

The highway, the real one, the big one, stabs into the sky in front of them. That is their destination, their goal. Sarah’s thinking Chicago. Or, dare she dream, New York. Big places. Faraway places. Places where a girl like Sarah and a boy like Marty could blend in and stick out. Places where “the same old same old” was anything but. She sees that highway and pushes the pedal harder. Today’s the day.

Marty sees her determination and cheers her on quietly. He does not care as much for the idea of those places beyond where he’s been, but he knows she does and that’s enough for him. He’s sure he can make home be wherever. And, maybe someday, Sarah will grow tired of Chicago or New York or—god forbid—Los Angeles and they could follow that big highway back, returned as conquering heroes and that be enough for Sarah to feel freedom there, anywhere, and not need to leave again.

The highway drew closer. They could make out cars on it now. Cars that seemed impossibly shiny and impossibly fast. Adrenaline flowed thick like honey into Sarah’s veins. She bit back a welling in her throat and eyes. This. Was. I—

“Sarah!” her mother yelled from the front door, “Now what did I say about playing around in that death trap? You’ll get tetanus or something. And Marty, I thought you were a sensible boy? Why you keep going along with her, climbing into that useless husk of a car.”

Sarah’s mom walked back inside, the screen door slamming like a thunderclap. “Rick, please, please get rid of that hunk of junk. It’s got no wheels, a broken windshield, and God knows what else. Just admit you’re never going to fix it up,” they heard her yell.

Rick, her brother, Sarah’s uncle grumbled back, “Radio still works.”

Sarah’s mom sighed and the argument ended like it always did.

Meanwhile, Sarah and Marty’s fast car to freedom was back to being the rotting lemon it always was. Sarah unclicked the seatbelt, the sour feeling of a fantasy ending eating at her stomach. Marty tried hard to look at her but not look at her, be there but not be stifling. She sighed, not unlike her mother, though she’d strike you for saying it, and pushing open the creaking door. Marty just stepped out as the passenger side had yielded its door to the ages some time ago.

Sarah kicked a pebble and pouted. Marty sat on the ground. After a moment, she sat down next to him, placing her head on his shoulder. Her sadness became a cloak over them both.

After a moment he spoke, clear and confident and very un-Marty-like, “For now, we’re 13, no car, no money, no job. But soon we’ll be sixteen and things will change. And we’ll leave. I promise you we will.”

“Until then?” she asked, voice just this side of shattering.

“Until then…” he paused, searching for something, anything hopeful. “Until then…we ride our bikes to the movies, buy one ticket, and spend all day theatre hopping.”

“What if we get caught?” she said, skeptical but perking up.

“We won’t get caught,” he assured her. “Marty and Sarah don’t get caught. We’re too darn fast.”

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 4, 2012: Once In a Lifetime

Letter: T
CD Number: 4
Track Number: 12
Song: “Once In a Lifetime” by Talking Heads from Stop Making Sense
House- Exterior, Is this your beautiful house?

You approach slowly. They offered to pick you up, but you made up a lie to stop them. You didn’t want them to see you there, in those clothes. Not sure why. No secret where you were. Everyone knows. Still, it felt important.

The house looks the same…kind of. The bushes are new, you think. Maybe. Probably. Hard to say.

You know you should head in, but you have to stop to gather your thoughts. It’s cold. Not bitterly so, but colder than you’ve felt in a long time. You wonder if you’ll still blush like you used to when you enter the warm home on a cold day.

Through the windows, the lights blaze out, spilling faint yellow spears across the walk and onto to the lawn. Too many lights, you think. Wasting electricity. Then you remind yourself you’ve been gone for a little while and maybe some flaw pointing can, or should, wait.

Gabrielle walks by the window carrying balloons. You stop breathing for a moment. She looks utterly the same and completely different. You’ve obviously seen photos since you left, but seeing her in person. It’s…shocking.

You feel your heart beating faster and faster. Part of you is wondering if a hotel might be a good idea. Just for tonight. Or just for a week. Or for a little while, at least. Until everyone can get used to the idea of you being home again. But you know that’s silly. It’s home. What’s there to get used to?

And, also, a part of you confesses, you’re never really going to get used to it again. You aren’t you anymore. Not that you, the one that signed the lease, the one that installed the swingset in the backseat. You are hoping to discover that you somewhere in walls or in the closets of this former and now almost home. You are hoping. But you aren’t optimistic.

The wind pushes by hard in a quick flush. It stings you back to the here and now. You realized you’ve been watching the house for ten minutes. You take another step forward and see Gaby talking to Tyler. God, he’s got big. Wow. You feel a lump in your throat and you want, so desperately, to just turn and run. Turn and run all the way back, beg them to take you back. Admit you were wrong, you didn’t hate it. Beg them to not send you home. Back where you used to belong. Back to where everything is a reminder that this is not your world anymore.

You want it, but you can’t. The people in that house waited for you, bought your hollow assurances of life returning to the way it was. You owe them. They may be the old you’s family, but you owe them nonetheless.
So, with a deep breath, you walk in, smile crinkling your face tight, hiding the doubt and panic. The house smells of vanilla and heat and for a moment you cannot decide if you are going to vomit or pass out or both.

Tyler sees you and gives you an awkward hug. You feel tears on your face. You hear them say, “Welcome home.”

You hope they’re right.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 3, 2012: Sleep to Dream

Letter: A
CD Number: 10
Track Number 21

Song: “Sleep to Dream” by Apple, Fiona from Tidal



Break Up Hand, Too cold, too cold


When Ginny burst into the party, I confess it took me a moment to process that she was there. You get so used to seeing someone day in and day out that you kind of don’t find anything odd about them being there. Even after you’ve broken up with them.

Her beet red complexion quickly reminded me of my choice though. Because, yes, I had broken up with her. Earlier that day. By phone.

Okay, okay, I admit it. It is hardly the classiest of moods. But I’d been calling her all week. And…and…she’d be ducking me. Now answering the phone, calling back when she knew I couldn’t answer or would be asleep. Ducking me. Totally. And don’t try and tell me it might have been something else because, well, no, I don’t think it was. Although she’d probably say it was.

So, yes, I called her. I was very nice though. Very polite.

“Hey Ginny, it’s Cassandra…Cassie. Anyway, umm…this is sort of awkward, but… let me start again. Hey Ginny, it’s Cassandra. I’ve been trying to reach you all week but have had no luck. I would really prefer to do this some other way, but if you won’t answer the phone, this is all I can do. I am sorry, but…I feel our relationship is over. I care about you, you are a wonderful person. I just don’t see myself as being with you forever, so it would be wrong of me to draw this out any longer. Good bye. Please take care.”

See? Classy. I explained my point of view, I wasn’t rude, I bolstered her confidence. What else does a break-up need.

Apparently, more is the answer. A break-up needs more.

So here we are. On the dance floor of my grandmother’s 90th birthday. And Ginny is yelling at me with all her might. She giving it to me, both barrels. I’m a shit girlfriend. I’m selfish. I’m a space cadet. I am wildly unrealistic and crippled by insecurity. And so on and so on. You get the idea.

This is, of course, a party with my extended family, a rather conservative group of people who were unaware of my sexual preferences until just this moment. The good news is the shock of it seemed to have rendered them too speechless to tell me how they had this friend who went to this camp and now she was married with three kids and living in Duluth. I suppose I will need to thank Ginny for helping me come out someday soon.

For her grand finale, she reveals that I was simply no good at oral—a horrible lie; I am amazing at it and she knows it—and proceeds to rend her garments. She also repeatedly referred to me as a slug hiding from the light of truth under rocks of my construction, built from the lies I told myself about who I was.

Did I mention she’s into theatre?

Anyway, I know I should be mad at her, but, frankly. It was kind of hot. She was all sweaty and mad and…wow…she looked great. I almost kissed her mid-rant, not to cut her off just because this side of her was totally doing it for me. I didn’t though. I thought a break-up by phone followed by a meaningless makeout session that she’d be unaware of the meaninglessness of was probably not a good idea.

In a couple of months though? That’s probably okay, right?

Oh, and Grandma said it was her best birthday yet. Even better than the time Uncle Bob and Uncle Ray beat up on each other for eyeballing each other’s respective dames. And that, I assure you, was a pretty spectacular fight.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 2, 2012: Lemon

Letter: U
CD Number: 7
Track Number 4

Song: “Lemon” by U2 from Zooropa
Listen to it here



Diorama, A cool diorama

(Picture taken from http://gaygamer.net/2007/04/reminder_2_chocobo_tales_diora.html)


“What am I looking at here?” Marta asked her friend, tentatively poking at the assembly of cardboard and construction paper in front of her.

Nastia suggested hesitantly, “I think it’s a diorama.”

“A diorama?”

“Yeah, it is a three dimensional representation of a larger scene. Often of an important historical event or key sequence from a work of literature or film.”

Marta started at her a moment before reply, “No, I know what a diorama is. I attended elementary school. I meant, what is it a diorama of?”

“Oh,” Nastia mumbled. “I am…less clear on that. It appears to be my apartment but on the surface…I don’t know…maybe the moon?”

“Uh-huh. And he sent this to you.”

“Yup.”

“Because?”

“He…well…he loves me. So…”

“So?”

“I…well, it’s sweet, right?”

Marta could only shrug and offer a half-hearted, “Maybe?”

“Otherwise…why even send it?” Nastia talked it out.

They both got quiet and stared at it.

“The thing is—” Nastia began.

“It’s not even that pretty,” Marta pitched in.

“…yeah.”

“Could he be joking?”

“Does he ever joke?”

Marta did not respond. It was a rhetorical question with an obvious answer.

Nastia’s phone buzzed. She rolled her eyes, grabbed it, and ducked into the next room.

“Hello,” she said to the man on the other end.

“Yes. I was just looking at it.”

“No…well…I honestly don’t ‘get’ it.”

“Uh-huh. Well…uh-huh. Oh. No, no. Now I see it. That’s so nice! Thanks you.”

The phone beeped the end and was sauntered back in.

Marta, “So…”

“It is a post-modern summation of our romance; an attempt to capture a memory in a childhood medium,” she announced proudly.

“Oh…so you like it now?”

“Oh God, no. It’s terrible. But, you know, it’s the thought that counts.”

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 1, 2012: Wake Up Bomb

Letter: R
CD Number: 11
Track Number 16

Song: “Wake Up Bomb” by R.E.M. from New Adventures in Hi-Fi



People Sleeping, Sleeping and such
(Picture taken from http://www.plant-medicine.com/community/learning/greeks/gods_role.htm)

Alee zipped up her dark, shiny jumpsuit and pulled the cord. Air hissed and the suit crinkled as it wrapped itself tight around her frame. “Midnight,” she whispered once, twice, three times; her own personal mantra. She picked up her medallion.

Outside the prep pod, her cohort Delu kicked at invisible dust bunnies on the rubber floor. It was an act born, perhaps, from the collective unconscious; Delu had never seen dust. His comm buzzed deep, long, and loud. He jerked his head instinctually, like always. He had been an Officer of the Crop for 12 years, he should have promoted at least twice. Every performance review, though, there was that note: “Cannot remain still while receiving instruction.” It was a little thing perhaps, but big enough to keep him in the jumpsuit and out of the towers.

Delu banged on the Alee’s gate, annoyed and antsy. He did not understand her faith, the mantra, the relics…it bothered him in a way he struggled to define. In some ways, he preferred the roaming vicars with their pea soup colored robes, looping head shaves, and inevitable hypocrisy. Her earnestness and lack of evangelizing was disquieting.

“Job?” she asked quietly paying his typical taciturn attitude no mind.

“Word from the towers. Going to the Crop.”

“Bad dose?”

Delu shook his head and gripped his static stick hard, “WUB. Those shifties from Another Way repeating.”

"Third?”

“Fourth.”

“Guaranteed?”

“Word from the towers,” he replied with a nod. If it came from towers, it was right. It really was this simple.

Alee shook her head. She simply could not understand Another Way. Why the WUBs, why their obsession with derailing the Crop? She knew Another Way was short for another way to power our lives, but she had not heard them actually propose anything, only seek to disrupt what already worked.

“The Crop” was where the Reverii were. The Reverii gave five years of their lives to the towers, slept for some 80 percent of those five years and dreamt. Through the science of the tower, the dreams and Siliciahomo, the medication that kept them sleeping for so long, produced energy. Every major city in the world had a Crop, every country had not had energy problems for decades upon decades.

The Reverii were treated like Kings and Queens after their service, from what Alee had been told. Beautiful homes, unlimited flesh-based pleasures, education credits, whatever they desired. There were rumors, of course, that the dreams were the most intense kind of nightmares, of entire Crops of Reverii going mad, of severely shortened lives, but they were only rumors. There was no proof and, as an Officer of the Crop, Alee would know if there was proof.

Another Way’s approach was simple. Ideally, drop a WUB into the middle of The Crop without being detected. When it was engaged, it caused a chemical reaction that rendered Siliciahomo inert and all the Reverii would be roused. It took hours to reinduce slumber and thus hours of energy that went unrealized. The extra doses of Siliciahomo were expensive and several Reverii had died because it was hard to estimate how much was still present in their systems following a WUB attack.

This was Alee’s first trip to The Crop to investigate a WUB. She admitted she was nearly giddy. She gritted her teeth to suppress the adrenaline and kept herself stoic.

"Engaged?” she grunted at Delu.

“Neg. Shifties dropped transmission. The cardinals caught them no problem. But…they’re roos,” he paused to roll his eyes despite them being nearly impossible to see through the thick white shielding of his helmet, “Not to be trusted with the scene-making. The towers have demanded only Officers deal with WUBs. So we have to take it off line before activation. Crossed.”

For Delu, this was old hat, although it had been years. He had worked WUBs a lot early on and then they seemed to go away. The past month had seen a steep resurgence. Unlike Alee, he had a certain amount of belief in the rumors. Some Reverii thrived and got every possible desire realized, he knew this for sure. But he had also seen many of them post WUB. Hollow looks. Panicked sounds more like dogs than people. He had no use for Another Way and their silly “the globe can provide us all the energy we need” philosophizing, but he also thought anyone who bought the towers line on the Reverii energy just wasn’t paying attention. He just didn’t care. If dumb kids wanted to volunteer for hazard duty so he could run his loom overnight, so be it.

“You ever,” Alee paused, throat suddenly tight with rising panic, “ever…not take one off line in time?”

Delu shrugged, “Pos. Chokes. Those Silic-Skulls come out, the towers gasket.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.”

Delu offered the same non-committal shrug.

Alee let it drop, she had more pressing concerns. “But…does it hurt?”

“Us? Neg. Feels like the desaturater. Tastes funny though. Like licking a static stick. Don’t worry. We’ll scud in, show them the scene, scud out.”

They mounted the rapid transport and arced out toward The Crop. Alee was back to being only excited again, Delu was just hoping to get out there in time so he did not have to see or worse, hear, the Reverii re-meet the world of the awake and busy.

Both would find themselves sorely disappointed by the end of their shift. Another Way was not behind this attack and this was not your typical WUB. But that was in the future. For now, there was only the thin wispy sound of the rapid transport and the comm hum.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

We're Back!

 Welcome to...

The January Project 2012!

The rules are the same: 31 new pieces of writing written over 31 days, inspired by 31 songs. Shortly, the first of this year’s project will debut for your reading pleasure and then I don’t stop until January 31st.

The selection process remains the same as well. To quote myself:

I will utilize a card system. First, I will draw a card labeled “Number,” “Mix,” “Soundtrack,” or a letter of the alphabet. Then, comes the card with numbers one through 30 on them. Then, whatever card is draw is reinserted into the pile, the number card pile is reshuffled, and another number drawn.

The first card tells me where to go in my (and my wife, the Thunder’s) collection. It runs alphabetically by artist from Numbers (your 50 Cents and 10,000 Maniacs, if you will) to Z—in case you did not know how the alphabet went. Then we have soundtracks (alphabetical by film, if you must know) and mixes (chronologically). For the sake of me, holiday mixes are exempt from this process.

The next card is how many I count off in the category to get to the correct CD to use. The last card gives me the track number to use as inspiration.

Thus, if I got “F”, “6”, and “8”, I would have to write something inspired by Fountains of Wayne’s “I Got a Flair,” which can be found on their self titled debut album.

So, there you go. Pretty straightforward, yes?

Is there anything new? Umm…too early to say. There are some things I’d like to do differently, but we’ll see if I can realize that. The biggest of these is that I want to do Writer’s Commentaries much closer to the pieces in question. I am thinking/hoping for a week later. In other words, the commentary on January 1st would go up on the 8th, the 2nd the 9th and so on. This way, maybe I’ll actually finish them. Also, you guys will probably care more with the stories fresher in your mind.

The other big change I’d like to make is more consistency in terms of posting times. Going forward, I am hoping for a morning post , say between 7 and 9 AM, every day. And, if and when the Writer’s Commentaries kick in, an evening posting time for that between 5 and 7 PM would be the ideal. Again though, this is a hope not a guarantee. Tonight, for instance, I already missed it. But we’ll be better tomorrow at least.

And that’s it. Tell your friends, your neighbors, your family, your religious or non-religious mentor…anyone really. Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com with song suggestions (I’ll try to do one reader suggestion a week) or feedback and follow me at @ungajje on Twitter. Thanks.

Writer's Commentary: Living Well is the Best Revenge

On Post: Living Well is the Best Revenge

Date: January 29

Find It Here

Lee Newsome is a bit of a jerk then, isn’t he?

I kind of like it though.

I should clarify.

I don’t condone the behavior, obviously. You should never gloat to an ex (or anyone, I suppose, but especially an ex) about your current successes and you definitely not do it to someone who wasn’t even really an ex in the first place.

However, I am sure we have all had the impulse to. Perhaps not via the postal service like Lee here does, but still. Maybe the high school reunion, or a mutual friend’s birthday, or when you randomly run into them on the street. Heck, Facebook is one big platform designated to assuring everyone how grand your life is. But rarely do we do it with the kind of flair Lee does here. We might though, if we had zero shame or conscience. So, no I don’t like him or his actions, but there is something interesting to the point of fascination about a guy who does what he wants regardless of social norms. Characters like Michael Scott on The Office and Abed on Community on TV or any of Nic Cage’s roles in films kind of prove this.

As far as the inspiration that got this ball rolling, I knew someone back in the day who claimed this, the rejection part happened to him. He asked a girl out to some dance, she said she was out of town, he was disappointed but largely fine with it because sometimes people already have plans. If anything he was a bit pissed at himself for taking so long. Then, in conversation with a friend of the girl, this friend said something like, “So you are going to the dance with __________” and he explained, “No, she’s out of town.” His intended date’s friend was clearly caught flat footed by this and this guy could tell that the girl he had asked was not going to be out of town at all. He did not press the friend before him further and never called the girl he asked on it, but when he told me about it, he was 5 years removed from it. And it still, clearly, bothered him. From there, Lee was easy to jump to. This fella with more guts and no sense of propriety.

Why the song sent me there? Are we ever talking about anything else when we use that expression?

Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

A Primer on The January Project for Our New Guests

If all has gone according to plan, you have been lured here due to my powerful, inescapable recent ad blitz.



(By the way, if you like the posters and business cards, drop Danielle O’Brien a note saying so and/or asking her to do work for you on Twitter @DanielleOBrien)
Or perhaps you are here because of some of my other work for Marvel.com, The Living Room Times, or New Paris Press. Either way, WELCOME!
Now that you have got here, you may be asking yourself what exactly here is. Well, these posts probably does the best job of giving you the nitty gritty of what The January Project is all about and how it works. But here’s the quick overview: Everyday in January, I randomly selected a song from my CD collection and wrote a piece inspired by it in some way. Then, I paired it with an image and posted it on the site.
As such the pieces are often short and always unedited. This is not polished writing, but that was not the purpose. The purpose was to challenge myself to write something original every day for a month and to do so in a variety of styles that required me to stretch, however slightly, beyond my typical writing comfort zone. To further this, I also did a Reader Suggestion a week which could literally be any song of their choosing.
Now that you know that, I hope your interest is piqued. If so, allow me to suggest starting with this post, a prequel, Zero issue, ashcan, teaser, chase edition, etc that doubles as both a demonstration of what’s to come and a legitimate work of random writing at the same time.
From there, feel free to peruse all of January’s entries, starting here. I’d suggest only doing a couple at a time, taking a break, and coming back later. This much creativity can be overwhelming. Or something. In all seriousness, I find my attention wanes after reading a few blog posts from talented people I respect and it is not that the quality of what they are doing has worsened. Given that and that I am under no illusions about my talent level, I’d imagine many of you would feel the same.
After reading one, some, or all, by all means drop me a line. The end of each piece gives you numerous ways to do just that including making public comments here, dropping me an email, and or hollering at me via Twitter.
Currently, the site is in “Special Features” phase. Mostly, that means I am writing a “Writer’s Commentary” for each piece, approximately three times a week. It will also include “Deleted Scenes” which are Reader Suggestions I could not get to in January but still wanted to honor; and “Alternate Takes,” ideas that I tried and ultimately cast aside for another direction during the month. The Special Features start here, but I would really recommend holding off on them until after you read all of January’s entries.
And that, I believe, is it. Welcome to Tim Stevens’s January Project. Please read, enjoy, and comment. Oh, and if you like it at all (or, I suppose, loathe it) please show it to your friends, too.
Thank you!

(And here’s a picture of an awesome manatee kissing on a dude for your time)

Picture from: http://www.brandoncole.com/

Writer's Commentary: Both Sides of the Story

On Post: Both Sides of the Story 
Date: January 28
Welcome back to the strip club.


For those who don’t know what I am talking about, the links above makes things a bit clearer. To summarize, earlier in the Project, we went inside The Hot House. There we met a somewhat uncomfortable gentleman who was visiting such an institute for the first time courtesy of the tune “But It’s Better If You Do.”
Given the song, it was obvious to me, immediately, that it would be set in such a “sinful” joint. Less obvious was whose perspective I’d be taking. I vacillated between customer and dancer for a time because I thought both had the potential to be interesting. Ultimately, I went with the first timer because I felt it reflected the song better as the POV character in the song clearly conveys an attitude of “Oh my god, I can’t believe I am here,” with ambivalence—although his ambivalence is a different sort than the character in my story.
While I did not regret that choice, I still had a bit of the dancer character floating around my head.

Then came this song. From the title, I was already thinking of presenting the “opposite perspective” of an earlier entry. But which one made sense? For that, I looked to the lyrics.

For those not from the hip hop community—and thus, not truly appreciative of Collins’ genius—it revolves around people encountering the “undesirables of society” and getting their perspective on why they are homeless alcoholics or gun wielding muggers. So I looked at my entries for unsavory types. There were a few: a stalker-y esque, a pair of parents rupturing their marriage in front of their kids, nasty bosses, an arrogant, emotionally wounded super villain, and so on. Worthy candidates to be sure. However, I still had the exotic dancer kicking around my head and thought this was the place for her.
My basic premise was a reflection of the earlier piece. The lead character there expressed his surprise at how the Hot House and the dancers failed to fulfill either the positive or negative depictions of such places or people. I wanted my dancer to continue that trend by being achingly average. Because, honestly, I can’t believe all exotic dancers are burnt husks of human beings or abuse survivors or super sexy super beings.

Interestingly, I had a lot more ideas that what came out on the page. I wanted to have her talk about her parents either not knowing or pretending not to know what she was doing and her brother sort of passively condemning her for it. But it didn’t fit naturally into the pace of the piece and I was not willing to violate the principle of the Project to extensively edit the piece to hit all those beats. So I miss not having that, but I think, on the whole, it was for the best.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Hands

On Post: Hands

Date: January 27

Find it here

Oof.

Can you tell I had no idea what to do with this song? Because I didn’t.
What they are discussing would’ve made a hell of a random musical moment in a movie though. And it is a great tune.

But yeah…had no friggin’ clue here. The killer of it is, I’m still not sure what I’d do differently with it. Maybe choose another song and pretend that that one was the randomly selected one?

Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Superstar

On Post: Superstar

Date: January 26
This is another one of those posts that I completely forgot about until just re-reading it now.
It is also another one of those entries that I did not do a very good job with.
Because of that, I won’t waste much of your time here today. I’ll be quick and concise.
-It’s obvious. The song is about performing and I wrote about performing.
-The biggest problem is this: this is the kind of writing that needs to build atmosphere to sell it. I have a few clever turns of phrase (I am thinking the knight part in particular) but no atmosphere. I feint towards it, but never deliver. It is flat and airless as a result.
-The twist is only mildly amusing. I like it just fine, but the rest of the entry is so “eh” that the twist needs to save it and that’s asking too much of a fairly simple “cute” moment. If the rest of the piece was stronger, it’d be nice. Here it feels too little too late.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Joe Rey

On Post: Joe Rey

Date: January 25
I really like this song.
That said, as a song to inspire an original piece of writing, it was not very helpful.

A song that is good fodder to spin a story out of is hard to describe. Too vague or symbolic gives you no foundation. Too specific and story-telling-y (word? WHO CARES?) and there is nowhere to go because the song has already done everything for you. Joe Rey is more of the latter. It is a character sketch of Joe Rey that describes him well, certainly, but it does not really give you a sense of his personality so it’s hard to place him in a world.

I initially considered going the Maniac Magee route with it and having him be a sort of local legend. However, the song more or less already does that. Having a few more people echo those points does not for an interesting read make. So then I thought of where Joe Rey and the narrator are and figured it is probably high school.

And what is high school like? High school is a world where everyone assumes someone, if not most people have it better, are happier, and/or are crushing life a lot better than they are. So the narrator—who ended up being Chris in the piece because the songwriter is named Chris and that struck me as a smart idea at the time—resents Rey for what he perceives as Rey’s advanced social standing.

But how does Rey view Chris? Given the circle of assumption, jealous, resentment, etc that school can sometimes be, it is conceivable that everything that makes Chris think Rey has it easy Rey himself dislikes. Rey stands out, all he wants to do is blend in. Rey carries with him the thrill of the new, but he’d prefer to be comfortable and well known. Rey goes cool places and does cool things while wishing he could just stay home and go to a house party with classmates. And so on. Chris and Joe actually feel, more or less, the same about each other, but their social strata and assumptions guarantee that neither will ever really know that.

Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Not As We

On Post: Not As We

Date: January 22
Well, I screwed up.
I mean, more so than usual.
In sequence, I should have covered this one a few days ago. But I somehow missed it and just realized today that I had done so. Please accept my apologies on this front. I can only imagine your headshaking disappointment.

Apology accepted? Good. On to the matter at hand then.

This was a Reader Suggestion from my local pusher comic book purveyor and while I am by no means an Alanis Morrisette expert, I was a bit surprised that I had no idea what this song was. Unsurprisingly, given that it is an Alanis tune it was about a break-up. Ah, but I kid Alanis. Sort of.

(I actually think, as I write this, that this was about the end of her relationship with Ryan Reynolds. I only mention this because, well, I think it is important to remind ourselves every now and then that they dated. What did they have in common besides being Canadian (*shudder*) and famous? I know not. I presume it involved Reynolds’ abs though.)

The temptation with this kind of song is to go serious and emotional and when it comes to breakups, that’s where I’m tempted to go, too. I’m a bit of a softee, if you didn’t know. Given the purpose of the Project, I did not necessarily want to succumb to that temptation. Additionally, at the time, I felt I had written “serious” about breakups a lot over the course of this. In looking back now I realize that was not the case at all. I did one serious story about a long ended relationship (Gasoline) and one sort of serious piece in which a breakup occurs, although it is redacted later in the story (This Time). Perception is not necessarily fact, my friends.

In any case, these factors guided me to not go serious and not go straightforward. I thought it was more of a challenge to do something different. After considering and rejecting some approaches (first or third person prose=too easy, dialogue=felt like I had done it too much lately, second person prose=kind of hacky, poetry=good for no one, etc) the idea of itinerary occurred to me. It let me go through an entire day without a high word or page count, so that was a plus. The matter-of-fact nature of an itinerary also let me convey the utter, let’s call it pathetic-ness, of the recently dumped while still mining humor from it.

My personal favorite part of the itinerary? This:   


“9 A- 9:15 A- Slowly grow to realize that regardless of how monstrous those people are, they are still happier. Break something.

9: 15 A- 9:20 A- Realize broken item was not P.’s. Curse self.”

Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: We Don't Care

On Post: We Don’t Care
Date: January 23
This song gave me absolute fits.
My first effort at this entry had absolutely nothing to do with the approach I eventually took here. Eventually, as I will put it up as “Alternate Take” but sufficed to say, I thought it was all sorts of lousy. Certainly not worthy of ‘Ye’s (as he’s known to his nearest and dearest) music. Or his personality for that matter.
So I took a hard turn away from it and decided to not even try to “fix” the initial idea. Instead, I listened to the song another five times and re-read the lyrics over at least twice as many times.
The first entry was drawn to the lyric “Stack your money til it gets sky high” because, well, that’s just great—if clichéd—imagery. Great imagery or not though, it was not connecting so I had to abandon it. Eventually, from the listening and the reading, the lyric “Wasn’t supposed to make it past 25/jokes on you we still alive” began to increasingly catch my attention.
By happenstance, I had also recently rewatched Romeo and Juliet, Baz Luhrman edition. That’s the biggest “joke’s on you, I’m still alive” moment in the history of literature—even if the fact that everyone took it seriously kind of undercut the punchline—and so I was inspired to take a similar approach here. Thankfully, no one in the story committed suicide in response, but I got to believe the community was none too thrilled about the hoax or what I imagine was the rampant zombie speculation that consumed their sleepy town.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Halloween

On Post: Halloween
Date: January 21
It may surprise people to know that finding the sweet spot between avoiding plagiarizing Disney and avoiding being way creepy is fairly thin.

At least, that is how I felt while writing (and, today, re-reading) this entry. The boogeyman motif is pretty clear in the Dave Matthews Band tune that inspired this piece. It is so clear, in fact, it almost seems like the narrator—Matthews, natch—is trying too hard to convince himself and us. It is compensatory bragging that cracks when he demands and then begs of his quarry, “Don’t walk away.” The song’s epilogue, of sorts, serves only to reinforce this as he desperately attempts to reassert himself via further threats but still cannot avoid asking if the person—I assumed, rightly or wrongly, the focus was a female—if she is happy with love. He’s a boogeyman who can’t decide if he wants to terrify her or just get married to her.
So, I set about to write such a character. The classic trope is, of course, the monster under the bed or in the closet. It is classic enough that Monsters, Inc used it to excellent results back ten years ago. So I wanted to be aware of that and avoid simply writing Sully or Mike fan fiction.
At the same time, however, I did not want to go overboard on tone and make the monster too scary or, more likely, skeezy. Being obsessed with his nemesis Britney was fine, but I did not want the tone to sound too much like it was coming from a peeping tom or sexual predator about to pounce on his prey.
It was not an easy balancing act. A first pass on it produced a monster that was WAY too creepy. Or felt that way to me anyway. There are still parts in the finished product that hit the site that I read now and imagine people could make worse than they were. Those moments, though, were relatively fleeting and usually undercut soon, if not immediately, but the monster’s running monologue. Which, thankfully, is not too Mike or Sully.
And Britney is absolutely nothing like Boo. Monster or not, she was damn mean to him.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Pieces of the Night

On Post: Pieces of the Night
Date: January 20
When I was growing up, I went through a big Greek gods phase. I have no idea why.
I was 8, maybe 9? Still in elementary school, I know that. In any case, it was not like we were reading The Iliad or The Odyssey as our chapter books. Yet, there was young Tim Stevens, doing reports on the gods. Thankfully, for my social life, I eventually stopped being all about Greek deities. However, from that foundation, I always maintained a fondness for them.

For the record, Hephaestus was always my favorite (so much so that I could spell his name without spell check, even now). How the “ugly” god who could not walk became my favorite, I cannot say. I also always preferred Simon over Alvin, Egon over Peter, and Cyclops over Wolverine, so maybe I’m just a sucker for the smart, but very uncool guy of the group. I supposed the fact that he still managed to land Aphrodite helped—although Aphrodite, from what I recall, was not all that faithful to him.
I am sure those preferences say all sorts of deep psychological things about me, but, sadly, we won’t be discussing those today. Maybe with a therapist someday, but not with all of you today.
Aphrodite is, of course, the reason for this piece as she gets a shout out in the song. Specifically, “Aphrodite on a barstool by your side.” From that lyric came the thought, “What if it really was Aphrodite saddling up to you in that bar?” And from there, it was “Well, how would she get there?” For whatever reason I found that question a lot more interesting than what it would be like to run into Aphrodite at a night club and so we ended up at the pad of the gods. Where, apparently, they are all living together.
I tried as best I could to match up personalities with the stories I could remember of the gods. Thus, Hephaestus is a decent guy with an attractive wife who is not particularly faithful to him. Zeus is the patriarch who, now that he cannot sleep with whoever he wants whenever he wants, has grown a bit bored. Hera is the matriarch who used to be wildly jealous but is now very happy since her aforementioned husband has had to rein in the philandering since giving up Olympus. And so on.
The biggest departures for that approach were probably Hades and Poseidon. With Poseidon, I really had no idea what to do with him to not just make him sound like a soggy Zeus. So I took a page from other famous undersea dwellers and made him a lot like Batman: The Brave and The Bold’s depiction of Aquaman. Thus, he’s a gregarious fun-loving sort; big hearted and probably more than a little bit silly without knowing it. There’s really no traditional basis for it, but it was fun so I think I made the right choice.
He is, by the way, also the reason there is a guy holding a fish for the picture for this entry. The fish would be Chester Winsworth, though I confess I have no idea if it is a blue or not. Or why, really, the ruler of all the water on Earth would be impressed with a fish.
Hades is arguably the bigger change and I basically just went with how people of faith purport to feel about death and how we often act about it. Thus, Hade is a really nice guy with a lot to offer who everyone is weirded out by. Again, nothing in any source text to build that characterization from, but it made a sort of sense to me and gives him an identity beyond “Zeus, but below ground.”
I really did intend to eventually got to the bar and have an everyman encounter Aphrodite, but…well, clearly I didn’t. One reason was length. Another was, once I established she was married, the fun of the wish fulfillment involved in flirting with a beautiful former god kind of tanked. It just not as pure when you know that the everyman is helping her cheat on a disabled guy who loves her very much.
Hollywood, if you are reading this, I would totally work on a show about Greek gods who have been demoted to living life in a big house all together and interacting with mortals at discotheques, coffee shops, grocery stores, and car repair shops. Or, you know, just watch a show or movie about that. Either way, Hollywood, either way.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year

On Post: Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year
Date: January 19
I haven’t talked much (at all) about the images I paired with my stories because, frankly, I was disappointed with most of them. I was trying to multiculturally sensitive and represent the story without giving it away and choose an aesthetically pleasing image and, sadly, my Google Image search skills were often not equal to the task. Especially when it came to finding pictures of something besides white folks. At a certain point, I just kind of gave up (as you can probably tell).

I say all this as prelude to declaring that this is one I am actually proud of.
 
It doesn’t match the hair described in the entry, but I think it is striking and attention grabbing in a way that most of my other choices never reached. So it caught the “feeling” of the piece even if it did fail to literally reflect it.
****
I have real affection for this piece. I have no idea if it “works” per se. I’m not sure it is as creepy as I would have liked. I do not have a lot of experience writing thriller-esque villains and I suspect that it probably shows. I am largely ok with that though. It is one of those pieces that I like the idea so much that even if my execution is as questionable as I suspect it might be, I still dig it.
I am also kind of proud of how I actually managed to work in most elements of the song into the “protagonist’s” MOs. The only one I couldn’t make it work is “Therapists pumping through your speakers” line, which may be my future slogan when I go private practice. “Tim Stevens: The Therapist Pumping Through Your Speakers, Delivering Just What You Need.”
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: Hide Away

On Post: Hide Away
Date: January 18
It was bound to happen eventually.
As evidenced by writing for Marvel.com, I like super powered folk. But since I do write about them roughly once a week, I actively tried to avoid them at the start of the Project to force myself to not just do a month of different flavor of comic book-esque stories. I treaded close to it with Daisychain with the feel and the Shroud reference, but it was still not really a super power story.
However, as I was more than halfway at this point, I felt I could take off the restriction here without it becoming the only thing I wrote the rest of the time. In our world, we have no super heroes. But we do have rock stars like Mick Jagger, larger than life entertainers who seem, at times, to be a different, advanced species. So if, in our world, a rock star might sing a song like this, wouldn’t a super hero feel the same sentiments in a fictional world.
Comic book fans are probably familiar with the book Inconceivable which tells the story of a Superman-esque hero who finally cracks and lashes out at the public in the most violent way possible. Initially, it appeared he just folded under the constant criticism he was receiving, even as he saved oodles and oodles of people. I took that same idea here and thought about how else you can respond to criticism. You can ignore it, you can hurt the person physically, you can forever try to live up to people’s expectations…or you can take your ball and go home after mocking everybody.
I liked the idea of a “hero” doing the most childish thing possible, so the latter is the track I took.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.

Writer's Commentary: I Can Do it Without You

On Post: I Can Do It Without You
Date: January 17
As noted previously, I’ll be a dad soon. (Fingers crossed) I blame that reality for this entry.
Look, there’s no two ways about it. I went for sentimentality here and I…I just whiffed. The set up is there. In the abstract, I think it could work. But it doesn’t.
I am not entirely sure why either. Or rather, I’m not sure what I’d do differently now to make the sentimentality work. The pieces seem in place and seem arranged properly. But the emotion is not.
My only idea for improvement is if you could film it. A minute to two minute clip of a kid pushing dad away before coming to him and thanking for his help would kill. Think of commercials with kids on television. They do this sort of thing all the time and pluck the heart strings nicely.
Actually, I think I may have just hit on the real problem. I was, consciously or not, trying to elicit the same feeling(s) as those commercials with words as opposed to images. It can be done, it just needs more work and I did not put enough on the page to bridge that gap.
Also, the kid’s final speech? Waaaaaaay too precocious.
Just because the Project has ended doesn't mean I still don't value your feedback. Feel free to let me know on Twitter (@UnGajje) or drop me a note at tim[dot]g[dot]stevens[at]gmail[dot]com or on Facebook. If you see anything you like, I am all over the net too, so please check out my other works at Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press (which is now up and running) or my various 140 character missives on that Twitter account.