Markup

I’ve really wanted to put more up here recently.  The only thing I really have to show for the last week or so is a mess of pages marked up to hell.  Like, seriously.

word-copy

This is Mother of Mars, in its current state.  All of those markups are changes I’ve made since I “released” it earlier this year– like Junish.  I really want to get it done.  Not just because I’m tired of it, but rather because I’m really into it.

Some parts have been tough.  Today I literally replaced about 2/3 of a chapter with similar yet entirely new writing that that holds a great deal of significance to the plot, or rather the newly revised more coherent more engaging plot that will eventually lead into the sequel.  Sigh.

There are a few notes I’ve left myself to make sure I go back and rewrite a few passages that still feel lazily written.  Some of my notes include:

REVISE

Ehh??

Make this better

I dunno

BAD BAD

I am out of my writing aid; the fancy wine I bought in France so I’m just kind of huffing it now.  I know I promised more “Hell to Pay” this month, but this is consuming all of my time.  At least I think the compilation of the old chapters is revised and edited and pretty much ready to go up.

I have a vlog going up tomorrowish, but I have to upload the video overnight because it’s long and the internet here is abysmal.

Lipstick

It’s a deep, unctuous red; the epitome of sexy. You see it in all the movies. It seems it was something she had practiced.

Taking a seductive sip of her Merlot, a print clung to the glass, almost the same color of the contents.

The night begged to conclude, a few drinks later. She wanted the opposite. Pulling at my tie, I was lured in. I was met with the waxy taste of her pigment. Fake.
Failing to resist, I stopped to consider that for the moment, I didn’t need the real thing.

Memories Fresh in My Head

I didn’t do much for Christmas this year.  I actually haven’t for several years now.  My mom made enchiladas, and we exchanged simple gifts.  I gave her warm wool Slippers that I bought at the Christmas Market in Paris.  I got a nice scarf from her.  I drank some of the fancy wine that I bought also in Paris.  I then took time to put together this video of all the things I did in France while I was there.  If you missed out on some of my vlogs, or just forgot about some of the things I did, this is your chance to catch back up.

It would be awesome of you to Sub to my channel there. I have one that thing planned before the New Year comes as well.

Happy Holidays Greasers.

Bearing Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house-

“Fuck!”

“What happened?” She whispered, standing above him as he attempted to descend the stairs.

“I just stubbed my toe.”

“You should have turned on a light like I told you, Alan.” She nudged him in the back with her presents.

“No, the hallway light will wake up the kids Carol.” He said, shushing her.

“You’re the one who’s being loud. Besides, the kids don’t wake up for anything less than a world war, let alone their alarm clocks.” She explained.

“That’s where you’re mistaken dear. The kids will be up all night, waiting for Santa Clause to come by. They could be up now, listening.” His whispers rose up, almost obnoxiously loud.

There was cracking sound of the door frame adjusting under the weight of the door that had just swung open. “Santa?”

“Dangit, you just woke up Jennifer.” She turned to him. “No, honey; it’s just mommy and daddy.” She spoke up.

“Did Santa come already?” Her tiny voice spoke out from her room.

“No, we’re just making sure we put out the candles.” Alan spoke, looking down at the near invisible treads of the stairs, in a soft glow emanating from downstairs. “We just want to make sure we don’t burn down the house.”

“No no!” The little girl cried out. “If the house burns down how will Santa come?”

“Look what you did now.” She pushed him. “The house isn’t going to burn down.”

“We just want to make sure he doesn’t knock them over with his big sack full of presents.” He explained. She jabbed him again.

“Don’t eat any of the cookies daddy, me and mommy made them just for him.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Carol flashed her smile at him in the dark. “Daddy has a big enough tummy already. I’ll go put her to bed.” She whispered to him.

Alan nodded his head, and she placed her stack of presents on top of his. Carefully, he continued to shuffle down the stairs. He grasped tightly onto the stack of neatly wrapped boxes. Finally at the bottom of the stairs he turned towards the family room, with tree neatly lit up in the corner.

As he stepped over the threshold, his feet made contact with a fleece covering that had been strewn across the tile floor. Before he could gain traction, he slipped and flew backwards. With an ounce of luck, he was able to grab onto the banister, but the gifts had all fallen to the ground with a loud clang.

The blanket he had slipped on started to move, and the lump under it shifted around, bunching it up. A young boy popped his head out from under it.

“Santa?” Came the groggy voice.

“Thomas? What are you doing down here, why aren’t you in bed?” Alan said, catching his breath.

“THAT’S SANTA, HE KNOCKED OVER THE CANDLES.” Came shouting from upstairs, followed by loud yet tiny footsteps down the stairs.

Alan stood in place, surrounded by presents strewn across the ground. The little boy had extracted himself from under the blanket, and began to amass the presents that had fallen close to him. Jennifer arrived at the bottom step to look at the carnage.

“Jenny! Jenny! Santa came! Look at all the presents!” The little boy raved.

“Daddy!” She yelled, sending tiny fists into his shoulder. “You scared Santa didn’t you; you made him drop all the presents.”

Carol stepped down the stairs behind her, shaking her head. The little girl jumped down from the last step and across into the living room, where she began shouting.  “You didn’t even give him enough time to eat the cookies and drink the milk! He’s gonna be mad, and he won’t come next year.”

Carol stepped behind Alan and wrapped her arms over his shoulders, whispering. “It’s okay, by next year they’ll have forgotten.”

“Yeah, but they’re going to tell their friends at school how their dad attacked Santa Clause…”