Story #5 - Positivity

Oh, God, not another one these worthless meetings. And it has to start in the next five minutes. I was supposed to be finished in five. Ughh...
"Come on, Charlie. It'll be fun," Bill said, smiling. He's been working here for two years already. I'm pretty sure he forgot what "fun" actually means. I wonder if he used to wear at his previous job only vests over jumpers, as well as chinos, and black shoes. Come to think of it, even when we went on our trips, he still had the same wardrobe.
"You said that about the last couple of meetings. And they dragged and dragged and dragged," I said, looking at him like he was crazy.
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I think Jeremy had a day off or something. He usually has humor. Or, at least, a few jokes here and there," he said, his joyful mood waning with every word.
"That guy? I somehow don't picture it."
"What do you picture?" His lips somehow lit up again.
"A guy who uses catchphrases because he doesn't have anything else in his repertoire. And grins a lot. What's up with that?" I had my arms crossed, then I checked the time. Two more minutes.
"I think he wants everybody to be positive regardless of where they are in their personal, or even, work related life," There's that smile again.
"I'm curious about his right now. Does he have a wife? Children? Hobbies?"
"Hmm... I don't think anybody knows. Maybe he has, although I haven't seen a ring on his finger."

The bell rang. I saw all my colleagues marching along to the meeting room. They looked like zombies who haven't had their meal yet. Dragging their feet, barely able to lift their knuckles, no mention of arms, eyelids going down faster than a cheap hooker. They must love these meetings. Oh, hey, look, Dave's so worn out that he crashed into the wall and slid on the carpet. I should take a picture. This is funny. I'll have something against this guy who always has a one up on me.
Dammit. Just when I was about to take the photo, Mr. Positivity himself rose through the ashes that was the elevator, and quickly moved through the myriad of minions like it was a steeplechase with a few other obstacles in the way.
I'd better get in before he sees me. And says something. Hate talking one on one with the guy. I like positivity as much as the next guy, but realism should be in direct correlation. 
Anyway, it's high time I go in, sit in the chair, and hide my mouth with my hands or something for an hour or so. 

Story #4 - Working too hard

"Punch, tick, boom. Day in, day out. Seven days a week. I'd say eight, but I get to sleep four-to-five hours, so it's not like I'm working all the time. Or am I?

It doesn't feel like that. Probably because I do what I like.

Even when I'm dead tired, I tend to enjoy my job. 

But sometimes, doc, there's something missing. Do you ever have that?"

"I used to."

"What did you change?'

"I moved jobs, still in the same branch, where I could have a different work schedule. I took on several hobbies that would keep my mind clear, would make my mood enjoyable, and would make my time spent be qualitative. Besides that, I have a girlfriend, soon to be a fiance. We go on various trips together, to the sea, to the mountains. Wherever. 

When I'm stuck here, I tend to open the window and smell nature, hear the birds chirp... Well, that's pretty much it in this place. That's enough I suppose. Then there's classical music in my breaks. I don't know if you listen to it, but you should. It's comforting, relaxing, serene."

"That's well and nice, and you say you changed all of that. So, how where you before?"

"Moody. I had my own doctor. I felt weird. I don't think I can be that person again. At least I hope not."

"Yeah. What do you suggest I do?"

"By doing this insane work schedule, how long do you think you'll last in this job before suffering something bad?"

"How long? I don't know. I've been doing this for almost four months now. If it wasn't for energy drinks on some days, I probably wouldn't have done my job."

"Do you think it's worth it? Are you acknowledged?"

"Hmm... No. Not really. I do like it, though."

"Can't change your work schedule?"

"I suppose I could. I have several job offers from other places. Maybe I'll pick one."

"You do that. You choose one that'll end up saving your life. And stop it with the energy drinks."

Story #3 - Writing songs isn't that easy

"We are the originals. 

We shimmy and we shake. 

We like to rock 'n roll. 

We like to go down low. 

Originals, baby."

Martin has been reading that for over ten minutes now. He was sitting comfortably on the couch beforehand. Now, not so much. 

He looked up at Josh, kid being all smiles. 

Well, shit, I don't want to be the bad guy here. But I also hate having my time wasted. 

"Okay, Josh. I get that you enjoy this chorus. Are you sure it's finished?"

"Pretty sure, Martin. Like I said, it came to me in a dream, and all my dreams tend to be cool, you know?"

"Gotcha. I like you, and you already know that since I let you hang around. The thing about this is that, well, it needs some rework. And a whole lot more. You might have something here, just not enough for me. I'd like you to come back with it when you have a whole song."

"Sure. But, even if I do this, there still isn't anyone on your roster that can sing it. No Elvis sound-alike around."

"Bring me the finished stuff and I'll think about it then. You do step A, I'll do from B to Z. Don't worry."

"Great. See you."

That went well. 

Story #2 - Pep talk

Have you noticed how the world constantly wants to look younger? How you have to start everything from when you're five months old?
When you turn thirty, like I did a few weeks ago, I find that people in their twenties call me an old man. Which is strange
I'm in the decade where that kind of fun dies down, but a whole different, more serious, kind of fun arises. Where if I don't want to go out drinking because I'm working on a project, I won't be called a pussy, or, you know, I won't have my friends come at me with bottles of alcohol and tempt me. They've aged, as well.
I've found myself too eager before and somewhat choked when an opportunity arose. I blew most of it. I would say all of it, yet there was something there. A little spark, perhaps. That kept me going, I guess. That, and my dream.
People dreamed that they would be sports players, musicians, astronauts, actors, athletes, you know, all that stuff that you see on TV and go "Wow".

My choice was something less glamorous. A chemistry teacher. I find the anxiety levels of this quite huge, but then I go to my class, the third grade, and all that vanishes. Why is it so different when I have to do a presentation in front of esteemed chemists?
Look at me, I'm choking again. I have to deliver that in five minutes and my hands are shaking. I just can't contain myself.
If I go on stage and everything goes smoothly, I'll go get drunk with my friends, if not, then I'll get drunk the next time it goes well, whenever that may be.
I have to arrange my bow-tie, wipe my face, and smile.
Oh, boy. Hands, stop it. Once I get out of this toilet, I will kick ass. I will be the man. I will be the man. The one that smiles.

Story #1 - Nobody understands art

"Mom, where are Dad's shoelaces?" Tina said, looking at her father's shoes. "Does he do this often?"
"No. I don't know what's going on. But you know your father. When he gets a crazy idea, he picks up what he can from the house to make it alive."
"I guess so. Like that time he broke all the plates to make an art piece."
"Don't remind me," Rachel smiled as she shook her head in disapproval, then placed one of the six grocery bags on the floor, by the stairs. "Well, come on, stop looking at them. Let's put our shopping in the kitchen. I'm hungry."
"Yeah, okay. My hands are hurting, you know?"
"Good thing we have a car, and that you're in the house, so you can bring them one by one."
"I'll go check on Dad after this."
"Make sure you don't disturb him much."
Tina moved the bags, one by one, briskly, as only a twelve year old with plenty of energy for other things can. Her mom took out the roast and was in the process of lighting the oven when she ran upstairs.
Her pace quickened, passing each door in the blink of an eye, until the curious girl reached the study. A big red door lied in front of her. It had several stickers on it, among which were "Do not disturb when this door is closed" and "If you hear any noises, don't call the cops. Thanks." However, her favorite one was "I know you're always looking at this door, angel. One day, you can work inside and be what I can't." She grabbed the handle and turned it.
"Mom! Come quick. Mom!"
Rachel was tempering with the heat when her daughter yelled, and she almost burned her hand inside the oven. "Oh, that child. One of these days I'll send her somewhere. Just need to figure out where."
Blowing on her hand, she walked up the stairs. Midway through, she saw her daughter looking livid in front of her husband's door. "What did you do now, Tom?" She whispered to herself.
"Mom..." Tina turned around revealing her red and sweaty face.
Rachel froze, then ran.
When she reached the door, she placed her hands on her hips. "Tom, why did you do that for?"
"Because I wanted to bind them together. And there was nothing else I could take," he said with a scowl on his face, directed mostly at his daughter. "You know what I do, she knows what I do. I don't see the big problem."
"The problem is, you idiot, that she grew up with them since she was two, and now you just decided to take her three teddy bears and bind them together with your stupid shoelaces. Tying them is one thing, but popping open their eyes and ears is another. Look at her. She's all upset now. She probably won't talk to you for a while. Then stay in her room, and who knows what else. I hope you're proud."
"Rachel, if I can bring that kind of emotion into her, then I can do the same to my future fans."
"Maybe your future fans can feed you today. And tomorrow." She slammed the door and grabbed her daughter's hand. "Don't worry, darling. It'll all be fine."

Writing a story every day, for one year.

Let's get down to the chase. I will be writing a story every day, starting tomorrow, the 26th of August, until 26th of 2016. I'm probably sure that I will have certain days when I won't have a lot of time, but I managed that it the past, and I can do it again.

Stephen King writes 1000 words a day, and while when I was writing my novel (which won't see anybody else's eyes) I was cranking out between 500-850 words a day, only in a few instances did I reach over four digits.

Before I moved to London (last September), I was writing several times a week, but I have since seen a lack of time, and, ultimately, a lack of progress in my writing. Everybody wants progress, right?

My stories won't be long. Probably between 50-1000 words. If I get more into it, maybe more, who knows.
What I can tell you about me right now is that I write a lot of stuff with dialogue (I am the creator of an e-zine titled Dialogual, after all.) as well as some weird things, with very different humor.
There was a challenge in February about writing a play, every day, for 28 days, and while I did write very short plays (or so I think), I had fun and had some creative juices flowing that time. Then I kinda stopped and the rut began again.

Ultimately, I want this to be a fun thing about writing in various styles (probably dabble into poetry at some point).

Doing the #28playslater challenge from The Space

About a month ago I found an article on ArtsJobs about this a 28-days challenge in which you'd have to write a play each day.
Now, it piqued my interest. However, I don't join things that ask for money. I simply never decided to take step (most of the time because I couldn't afford it, other times it wasn't worth it.)

A day or two before the deadline I went to an improv workshop from IdeasTap, done with David Bottomley from Brockley Jack (lovely improv btw.)
Anyway, after the improv, I was talking to Deborah (a girl that attended the improv) who mentioned this 28 plays challenge, since we were talking about plays. She also mentioned she did a play at Space.
It kinda planted it in my head a bit more.
So, I decided to join. At 10 p.m.. On deadline day. Fortunately, Sebastian replied in about 20 minutes. Yes, I sometimes leave things late (like 8 out of 10 things. Eesh.)

And then the first prompt came. Write something with zombies. Probably the least favorite play I wrote during the whole time.  I simply find them unappealing.
But prompts came and left (sometimes with more than one idea). Write from someone else's POV. So I wrote about an asshole. Not that I could relate with him, but he made some valid points, in his twisted, put-him-in-jail mind.
Then there was the gibberish one that simply killed me.
Yet I had fun adapting a flash fiction story I wrote into a play, and a portion of an episode of Married with Children into a play (Damn bonbons, Peg).
The one that I enjoyed the most was the one where we had to do it according to rules, one of them was to "write every line of dialogue with one of the following: either 5 words, 12 words, 17 words, 33 words or 87 words."

I also rewrote a short play I did and submitted it, and wrote another one for Brockley Jack and one of their contests (here's hoping, right?)

A bit of fun, a bit of torment, and a bit creative thought coming from someone else's brainwaves.
The end result is that I wrote 28 plays, but most of them are 1 or 2 scenes long, simply because I like just one scene/sketch and I think others do, too. That might not be the case yet, though. 

I didn't write many plays prior to the first one, mainly because I don't know other actors, and every play I wrote was with me as the main guy. Funnily, every play I wrote had me as the main guy, or one of them, even if I didn't think it, but, you know, subconsciously, I did. 

And, err, now I have a bunch of stuff that I can work with and send somewhere, or create something with others, I don't know. We'll see. Something has to come out of this. Experiences are nice, but you have to do something with them, not let them wither away to the bottom of your head and have a flashback when you're 65 and go "Oh, I remember I used to write plays. Damn that was nice. Why did I stop?"

So, thank you, Sebastian Rex, for the challenge. 

Part 2 of my debut @ Political Pageantry

Here's part 2, the one with the video.

As I was mentioning, this reminded me of Podul (The Attic) by its lovely setting. 

 vs 

Okay, not very similar, as Podul doesn't have a raised stand like ORLT, but they both have that pleasant and united atmosphere, where you know something good will go down.

Back to the story. When I arrived, I was in high spirits because I knew it was going to be good, although I had some doubts in the back of my head due to not knowing every word. Rewriting the whole thing just minutes prior can do that to you.

The compere, Charles Barrett, was rehearsing a bit. It sounded good. And he encouraged me during the event, telling me how the Brits kinda act like in football, which was on spot (they were cheery at times, but stone-faced at others).

I got acquainted with most of them. Some of them were in their performing mood, some were chilling. 

Time flew by, and before I knew it, people came in. Oh, boy.

I started sweating a bit just by looking at them. So much so that my t-shirt got messed up (hence why I'm with my hands in my back pockets. Never, ever, do that on stage.)

I was supposed to be the last guy in the first act. Thankfully, the guy appeared and gave the best performance of the night.

How the heck do you top that after a 15 minute break, huh?

Regardless, you can watch the (somewhat) cringing video below.

I didn't feel that great after the show, but I felt at ease because I performed for the first time in 2 years and 5 months. With material that I wrote. 

Until the next time.