OUT OF PLACE, OUT OF TIME 2
Welcome to the next installment of Out of Place, Out of Time. For those of you who were published in the first book, you know what this is all about. For the rest of you, I’m sure you’ve see something similar to this before.
First a few changes from last time:
1) I am doubling the max word count from 1000 to 2000. Hear that? We’re capping these stories at 2000 this time. Go nuts with that extra thousand words.
2) I, personally, will not be doing anywhere near the amount of stories that I did for the last book. It was fun, but I just don’t have the time and I felt kind of strange dominating the last edition. That being said, I’m hoping we can get significantly more entries this time around so that the book is still approximately the same size.
So here are the rules:
- Write a story about someone who is OUT OF PLACE. How you interpret that is up to you, and half the fun.
- I am looking for an absolute minimum of 10 contributors other than myself to write 2000 (max) words on this subject. Hopefully we get closer to 30 to make this a robust collection.
- Submitters are allowed to send me up to three (3) stories.
- I am going to make the due date October 1, 2012.
- Send submissions to steevo83 at the gmail dot commz.
- I do reserve the right to reject any stories at my discretion, however, I trust you lot to send me good work, so I doubt I'll have to use that caveat.
As I said last year, I would love to pay you all for this, and I might just if I can strap together the cash, but chances are pretty good that I won’t have that kind of loot… What I can promise this time is, at the very least a free e-copy, and hopefully a physical edition for each contributor as soon as the books hit print. If you have any questions at all, feel free to ask here or email me directly. We had a great response last year and hopefully this year’s edition will be even better.
See you all in the funny pages.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Best Man Research
So I'm going to be a Best Man next summer. Speech looming. Pants-shitting terror at the idea of saying something stupid or embarrassing. Preparation necessary:
http://artofmanliness.com/2008/07/22/how-to-write-deliver-good-best-man-speech/
http://www.robotii.co.uk/best-mans-speech/
http://artofmanliness.com/2008/07/22/how-to-write-deliver-good-best-man-speech/
http://www.robotii.co.uk/best-mans-speech/
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Delirious at Dawn
It is early for a weekend. I've been up nearly two hours. There is a wedding coming up later today. It's going to be a strange night, I think. Meanwhile, I've been writing today. This is a good thing. Only about 300 words so far, but better than the nothing I've written all the rest of the week. It's a story about an old worn out rock star and his best friend. We've all been there, right?
It is time, I think, to suss out my life. I've said this before, but for real now. For real. Staring down the barrel of 30, where do I have to go from here? I feel my own mortality daily. But that's always been the case. I don't tell people, but it has. Is that normal? I have no idea. It's a funny thing. When you think about the end of you, it makes your desire to leave a legacy stronger, but you become less and less sure of how to do it. You become a cliche of your own design. You become stagnant ostensibly by sheer will alone. This seems impossible. I feel an oxymoron.
The following will make no sense... Unless, of course, it does.
Words tumble from me, at times, that are not well understood. I have felt humbled recently. My movement has become restricted. I am an island made of broken glass. Don't tread on me. We are, all of us, constantly running into each other in the hopes that we can beach comfortably, that we don't smash ourselves on another's shore. It is painful. The last thing I want to do is per-rambulate myself into oblivion here, but it seems to be inevitable. I want this to mean something. I want everything to mean something. I often feel that taking meaning where there is none is a crutch of the weak. I struggle with that. Mainly because, I feel it can also be a sign of great genius.
Humanity is relative, generally. Our rules give us insight into ideas that are beyond us. Our songs, our paintings, our novels, our wars, ourselves; these are the things that we have. These are the things that make us us. They have no meaning outside of what we have constructed for them. They mean everything to us. We are not a gnat's fart to anything in this universe other than ourselves, but according to us, we are the most sophisticated, important thing in this damn place. I'm not sure why I went off on that tangent...it's gone now.
I've scraped by my whole life, convincing myself that I have it good. No one does. No one gets everything they want. Not even the richest among us. We are too greedy. We want contradictory things. We are all oxymorons. I stress the moron. Accept exception. Decry oblivion. Ha...just thought of this one: Defenestrate the hate. I want that bumper sticker. On second thought, maybe I don't. I've got plenty of hate in me. You do too. Saying you don't means you're only lying to yourself. That's ok, we all do it.
In the end...I don't know. No one knows what happens in the end. It's a line, you only get the one. No Tom Sawyering yourselves. Though I wonder what that would be like. A bird's eye view to your own funeral could be fun. You'd definitely learn a lot. Death makes people do some crazy shit. I wish it weren't so. I wish we were able to be crazy all the time.
I wish I may, I wish I might, I might do some foolish things tonight. That's life. Social faux pas? Fuck it. Say something awkward at work? Fuck it. Improbable love triangle got you down? Fuck it. That's a double entendre for you. YOLO, right? Carpe diem and all that. Never get a second chance at a first impression... no wait, that one doesn't fit. Forget it. This is it, laid out. Nonsensical though it may be, these are the things I am thinking about right fucking now. Deal with it. Or don't... you know, up to you.
It is time, I think, to suss out my life. I've said this before, but for real now. For real. Staring down the barrel of 30, where do I have to go from here? I feel my own mortality daily. But that's always been the case. I don't tell people, but it has. Is that normal? I have no idea. It's a funny thing. When you think about the end of you, it makes your desire to leave a legacy stronger, but you become less and less sure of how to do it. You become a cliche of your own design. You become stagnant ostensibly by sheer will alone. This seems impossible. I feel an oxymoron.
The following will make no sense... Unless, of course, it does.
Words tumble from me, at times, that are not well understood. I have felt humbled recently. My movement has become restricted. I am an island made of broken glass. Don't tread on me. We are, all of us, constantly running into each other in the hopes that we can beach comfortably, that we don't smash ourselves on another's shore. It is painful. The last thing I want to do is per-rambulate myself into oblivion here, but it seems to be inevitable. I want this to mean something. I want everything to mean something. I often feel that taking meaning where there is none is a crutch of the weak. I struggle with that. Mainly because, I feel it can also be a sign of great genius.
Humanity is relative, generally. Our rules give us insight into ideas that are beyond us. Our songs, our paintings, our novels, our wars, ourselves; these are the things that we have. These are the things that make us us. They have no meaning outside of what we have constructed for them. They mean everything to us. We are not a gnat's fart to anything in this universe other than ourselves, but according to us, we are the most sophisticated, important thing in this damn place. I'm not sure why I went off on that tangent...it's gone now.
I've scraped by my whole life, convincing myself that I have it good. No one does. No one gets everything they want. Not even the richest among us. We are too greedy. We want contradictory things. We are all oxymorons. I stress the moron. Accept exception. Decry oblivion. Ha...just thought of this one: Defenestrate the hate. I want that bumper sticker. On second thought, maybe I don't. I've got plenty of hate in me. You do too. Saying you don't means you're only lying to yourself. That's ok, we all do it.
In the end...I don't know. No one knows what happens in the end. It's a line, you only get the one. No Tom Sawyering yourselves. Though I wonder what that would be like. A bird's eye view to your own funeral could be fun. You'd definitely learn a lot. Death makes people do some crazy shit. I wish it weren't so. I wish we were able to be crazy all the time.
I wish I may, I wish I might, I might do some foolish things tonight. That's life. Social faux pas? Fuck it. Say something awkward at work? Fuck it. Improbable love triangle got you down? Fuck it. That's a double entendre for you. YOLO, right? Carpe diem and all that. Never get a second chance at a first impression... no wait, that one doesn't fit. Forget it. This is it, laid out. Nonsensical though it may be, these are the things I am thinking about right fucking now. Deal with it. Or don't... you know, up to you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)