True crime podcasts are wildly popular as of late. I mainly listen to True Crime Garage and Sword and Scale.
Sometimes I wonder if there is something morally questionable about being entertained by the activities of criminals, and the suffering of their victims. Is true crime socially acceptable porn? But even porn is socially acceptable these days.
I might have been a detective in a past life—I’ll post about my belief in reincarnation another time.
I’m intrigued by the process of investigating a crime. The detectives examine the crime scene and collect evidence. They look into the background of the victim to figure out who they associated with and who might have had reason to harm them. Sometimes the victim happens to be at the right place at the right time for the perpetrator. In these cases, investigators hope to find someone who witnessed the crime or saw something before or after the crime occurred.
This post is not meant to be a primer on how to be a criminal investigator. I am not qualified to write such a primer. However, my consumption of true crime entertainment and detective fiction is filling me with fodder for writing my own crime fiction. I could refer you to previous posts about me not writing enough, but blah, blah, blah.
This entry (if I can call it that) sort of went off the rails. I need a blogging plan. I need all sorts of plans. Here’s a list.
- Fiction writing
- Plans for plans
Get the picture? Now watch as very little comes of any of it. I guess a Little is better than nothing.
I’m going to call these pieces writing sketches. They’re short and meant to go nowhere. I might do something with them one day.
Edmund wore a hat on most days because he thought it made him look friendly. Theresa thought he wore the hat to hide his receding hairline. He was one of those balding guys with long hair. He played guitar in a local band that was destined to remain that way. But he refused to give up his rock star aspirations. Theresa had been his on and off girlfriend since their freshman year of college. She believed she could find someone better than Edmund, but didn’t have the will to leave. They were both unhappy, but comfortable with the lives they were living. Making the smallest change seemed too risky a proposition, so the couple kept any hopes and dreams in check. Then Sam came to town.
Sam was what you’d call a go-getter. Edmund and Theresa met him at the university. He was a business major who was always thinking of new ways to make money. His schemes worked about 40% of the time, but he looked at each failure as a stepping stone to success. You would expect someone like Sam would achieve a moderate amount of success in life. Don’t be too quick to make assumptions.
What would happen if these characters met a woman and her imaginary polar bear?
Jake sat in the grass at the foot of the great statue. He didn’t know what the statue signified, but he was drawn to it for some reason. Every day at lunchtime he would leave his office on the 15th floor of the shiny blue building, walk across the courtyard, and take a seat beneath the stone giant. Jake would lay out a hand towel on the grass and then place his sandwich, chips, and soda on top of it. Some days, today included, Julia, from the 12th floor, would sit with him and eat her bagel and cream cheese. They would discuss the doings on the 15th and 12th floors. Jake managed the A-L accounts, and Julia handled M-Z. The conversations were not at all interesting.
They sat and ate until Julia abruptly stood up and pulled Jake to his feet. His sandwich dropped to the ground, and he looked at it forlornly. Julia swiftly kicked the sandwich away and looked pleadingly into Jake’s eyes. He understood her request and answered with a nod. The pair then ducked under the statue’s parted legs and strode away in the opposite direction of the office building. They did not look back.
A response to Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner, Week 3. 199 words~
The woman found she was on her feet and walking along a winding highway. She could see mountains in the hazy distance. She looked down at her feet to see shoes that she didn’t recognize. The shirt and jeans she wore did not seem familiar either. She thought she must be dreaming, because when a person finds oneself in an unfamiliar place wearing strange shoes and clothes, that person must be in a dream.
The dream was boring, so she decided to make something happen.
She moved to the shoulder as a light blue sedan rolled to a stop beside her. The front passenger-side door opened. She looked and saw that there was no driver. She considered getting in and going for a ride. That didn’t seem safe, so she decided to do the driving herself. She walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. To her surprise, she saw herself sitting behind the wheel. With a feeling of relief, she went back to the passenger side and got in the car. The car began moving forward. The driver and passenger glanced at each other and smiled knowingly. They would soon reach their destination.
Response to challenge from Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner (196 words)
I guess I’ll keep writing about anxiety when I quit experiencing it everyday. I made an art journal spread this week. Working on it helped ease my troubled mind. I wrote about it in another blog.
I remembered today that in the days before I went on Prozac I was anxious a lot. Once I was on it for a while, I realized how different I felt. I need that to happen again.
There are times during the course of the day that I don’t feel anxious, but when I notice that I feel okay I get anxious about not feeling anxious.
I need to consult a thesaurus.
I’m learning to use the Pen Tool from a lynda.com course. That is a step forward for me. Soon I can stop floundering and failing when I try to do something in Adobe Illustrator. “There is so much to learn and not enough time,” she sighed.
I’m just spitting out words because I think it might make a difference.
I once thought it would be nice to go into a coma for a few months just to take a break from life.I guess the problem with that is your muscles atrophy and you wake up in bad shape. Maybe I could visit an alternate dimension for a while. I guess we read fiction to escape to other worlds and other people’s lives. I should read more fiction.
“I should. I should. I should,” she was always saying that to herself. All if did was make her more miserable.
Watching Doctor Who helps bring me out of a funk. I used to have a few episodes with Tom Baker and Peter Davison on VHS. Watching them made everything okay for a while.
I still have a little bit of hope that the TARDIS will someday materialize in my front yard. I would be a brilliant companion!
November is over, and that means all of those people who did NaNoWriMo will stop posting Facebook updates about their progress. I tried NaNoWriMo a couple of times and failed quickly. There are two reasons for my failure, I think. First, I don’t have enough time to write that many words every day. Well, I do have the time, but I apparently would rather be doing other things. The second reason is probably a better one. I don’t think I enjoy writing fiction. At least I don’t think I like it.
Do I really not like writing fiction? When I ask myself that question, I have trouble answering it. I’m always thinking of story ideas, but I don’t jot down those ideas and keep them on file like real writers are supposed to do. When I do start writing a story I start thinking of so many details to include that it makes me tired. I feel like I just want to get to the point and then wrap it up.
A few years ago I had this idea that I would write story components that I could hyperlink to each other at strategic points. I was creating something interesting, I think, but it wasn’t a story. Maybe it could have been. Maybe I should try that approach again.
I just Googled the terms “hyperlink story” and got some results, including this one. So it’s actually a thing! Gotta look into it.
I reckon I’ll continue to struggle. I will also grapple with dance and with art. I hope I can get some enjoyment out of it.
I signed up for The Fiction Project. Now I’m writing a story to put in the little book they sent me after they received my $60.00. I think I signed up so I would be forced to write some fiction. I’m not really being forced to do it, but wasting $60.00 would be a silly thing to do.
Here’s the thing; writing fiction takes a lot of work. I have to wonder why I’m compelled to do it. It’s kind of not fun. It’s kind of grueling.
Today I watched about 6 episodes of the X-Files on Netflix. That was easy. That didn’t require any effort. I also fed the outside dog, Annie; I fed the other two dogs, picked up their poo with a plastic bag, and fed the cats. None of these tasks were difficult.
Finally, I sat down to add some more words to the story I began last week. I like the story, and I think the idea is good, but I’m finding it mentally exhausting to write. I keep adding all of these little details, and quirks to the characters’ personalities, and a back story about the main character’s schizophrenic aunt. Why do I put myself through this?
I don’t expect to have my fiction published. I’m apparently doing this just for me, but I don’t know why.
I once started writing a novel, thinking that if I were a novelist, I would be important. I would deserve to be here on this planet. I don’t feel that need anymore, but for some reason, I still write. It just doesn’t make any sense!
Annie-I call her Annie Bannanie