This board has a ton of great writers. That I know. Just curious, who out there writes fiction? Anything counts: professionally, semi-professionally, serious but unpublished, just screwing around for fun? As for me, I'm getting an MFA in Creative Writing. (Yeah, now that's a degree that'll pay for itself!) I'm working on a novel, a project I'd be through with if it wasn't for the never-ending distraction of the GARM! It's about the rise and fall of a fictitious women's lingerie company. The anti-hero is a shady, twentysomething, alcoholic womanizer that illegally uses names from the company's customer database to meet girls. (Kind of a cross between Swingers and Office Space and American Psycho). So . . . any other fiction writers? How often do you write? What kinds of projects are you working on? Short stories? A novel? The occasional character sketch? Comedy? Erotica? Rocket fan fiction? Erotic Rocket fan fiction?
Love and basketball, Mobes and SF style? "Oh yeah baby, you know how I like it." "You want me to dribble the ball like this?" "Ooooh yeah, now do a cross-over." "Forget the foreplay, I'm goin right into a palming violation." ***dribbles ball off foot, out of bounds*** "Well, I'm spent, night baby."
I've written some plays. They were mostly fiction. Are you in the UH program? I have a few friends that came out of there.
Good stuff. Here's some more: During the 2002-2003 season. After a Rockets practice. Cuttino and Steve alone in the gym. Cuttino slipped the armband off his wrist. It was damp with sweat. He put the basketball on the ground and sat on it like he would a stool. He was out of breath from the wind sprints, shoulders heaving up and down, a sharp pain in his gut. Why did he and Steve do this to themselves? Why were they the last ones at practice? He looked at Steve and was glad to see that he was out of breath, too. "Tired you out again." Cuttino said and laughed. He hunched forward and gave Steve a playful punch in the arm. "b****. I could go another five games. You like that crossover? Damn near broke your ankle. I'm gonna talk to Rudy tomorrow, see if he'll let me run some more isos." "You need to pass the ball to Yao," Cuttino said. He was sitting across from Steve. Their knees were touching and the skin of Steve's leg felt warm. "You think the rumor's true, Cat?" Steve said. Like always, when Cuttino heard Steve use his nickname, a jolt of electricity shot down his spine. He looked down at the sweaty armband to avoid Steve's eyes. It was too painful to hold that intense stare. Those eyes! He mumbled, "What rumor?" "About Rudy. They say he might not come back. Or that one of us . . . might not come back." Steve placed a hand on Cuttino's thigh. "Not here!" Cuttino hissed. He looked over Steve's shoulder at the doors to the gym. It was empty, but still . . . "What if it's true, Cat? What if we're split up? I need something from you. A sign." Steve grabbed both of Cuttino's hands. Cuttino felt the strength of those fingers, the warm grip. The sweaty armband was now scrunched up in one damp lump, held tight by both Cuttino and Steve. Cuttino freed his hands. He held the armband to his lips. Then he kissed it. "Take this," he handed the armband to Steve. "My number 5. You wear this. Let me wear yours. That will be our sign."
I'm a screenwriter. Well, studying to be one. I haven't actually got one made yet, but I've got a few in the works. Hopefully soon.
Up in NYC, a small university called the New School. (We met once, actually, I think you were in New York for some work. We watched a Rockets game at a sports bar, along with across110th. I was the lame guy who couldn't drink because I had a story due that night). That's cool about the plays. I've dipped my big toe in drama but have mostly stuck with prose. Dialogue's a *****.
How do you think I feel? Ew. I need a cold shower and then I'm going to pop in "Sorority Showers 14" (That's the one that answers all the questions that Sorority Showers 13 left open).
oh Rasselas tell me more! maybe this time have Cuttino going out to the club and seeing Francis with a good friend from highschool. with Cuttino going into a jeleous tirade.
I was working on a story where China took over the world by using it's overpopulation as an advantage: they'd train the "unwanteds" and form the strongest, most loyal military ever. Then I went to college.
Whenever I make a grocery list, I always writea whole bunch of healthy **** on it - sprouts, celery, broccolli - and I never write "lots of beer." So, I guess I am essentially a fiction writer.
Heh. When you finish that one, here's an idea for your followup: maybe a little kid can go to some boarding school, only it turns out that the school is magic.
That is one crazy place. I don't mean that in a bad way. I write short stories every now and then and some poetry, either freestyle or complicated archaic. Actually, one of my short stories has the title of my sig. I write mostly for myself as an alternate writing activity. I cannot even think about writing a novel until I have a book or two published in my real field. Besides, too many crappy novels get published these days, anyway. Why add one more?
I have written a few screenplays, but nothing published. I also have an idea for a basketball story...
that's awesome. i try to write a little also, but talent is an inhibitor. where are all the writers in nyc?
These are the plots that I'm thinking about working on. I'm not sure if I like them yet. 1. During the Civil War the men of the house leave to fight with the confederacy, leaving their women home alone. The war moves into their backyards around midnight, a fog rolls in, and the women sense the need to defend their homes and children. So they begin picking off the creeping union soldiers around the home. In the confusion of the fog they defeat the soldiers, but the next mourning, they awaken to the fact that they killed Confederate soldiers. They killed their husbands, as they were coming home. In grief, the women bury their husbands and frame a wounded union soldier for their crimes. A military trial begins. A young man is asked to defend the Union soldier on trial and make sure to defend him poorly. He is the son of one of the murdered soldiers so he has every intention of a poor defense. Through the course of the trial the lawyer slowly learns that it was his own mother that killed his father. And he is confronted with defending the soldier's innocence and revealing his mother's crime. 2. The story opens with a man locked in a windowless, wooden slave quarter. His anger has been growing. He's been locked in there for nearly 2 years by the family living in the manor at the top of the hill. He was to become a free man after the war, but instead, they wanted to keep him a slave. So, each morning he had been fed through a small opening at midnight. But for three nights in a row nobody fed him. At about midnight of the third day, a key is slid under the door, and footsteps are heard scampering into the fields. He is tempted between freedom and revenge. But he chooses revenge, and trudges up to the manor with the intention of killing everyone in the family. In his weakened state he heads upstairs, only to find that the family has already been slaughtered. A dead body in every room. A little girl's body strung over a bedpost. And he's been set up. In order to gain true freedom he must now find the murderer. The person who set him up. 3. The dark and grim story opens with a father strung out over the kitchen table early in the mourning, with empty long necks leaking beer onto newspapers and old box scores. A red Sox cap sits atop the man's head. His son is nearby cleaning up the mess of his broken life. It's just the two of them. The son wears a dingy bagwell jersey to spite his father's Red Sox loyalty. The boy, having made too much noise while cleaning up, is beaten by the father with a baseball bat. Sitting in his room, he comes to the conclusion that the only way to fix his relationship with his father is to end the curse of the Red Sox. He believes they are the cause of his father's downfall. So he sets out for New York with the intention of bringing the New York Yankees franchise to its knees. After arriving in New York he sees a Yankee memorabilia shop and smashes the window with a bat. Running from the cops and the storeowner a boy grabs him from an alley, hides him, and introduces him to underground group runaways. A Met's underground. They come up with a plot to help the boy. To flash the Red Sox logo on the Yankee scoreboard. And it's a perfect ending for the curse. But it goes wrong. The boy, now dejected, takes his seat in the ballpark. When he looks up at the scoreboard he realizes the Yankees are being no hit by the Astros. He looks down at his bagwell jersey. It was destiny. The whole world is watching. He knows his father will be watching. And the drama begins.
