Posts Tagged ‘writing’

Death in the Making: Prologue

November 18, 2009

A prologue to the Prologue (wherein the author laments the loss of his previous concept and explains the new one):

This blog began as a way for me to chronicle my interest and analysis of shitty entertainment. I love shitty entertainment. It makes me smile. But alas, it proved too hearty an endeavor in a stretch I best describe as “doldrumtastic”, a stretch where getting laid just wasn’t enough, a stretch when I didn’t much feel like analysis of any medium. It was a dark time for your humble narrator, but I’ve bounced back and retooled. I miss having a place to upchuck and since I find blogging for the sake of blogging boring (and since I’ve been revisiting Sufjan), I’d prefer to couch my thought-vomit in a concept of sorts.


The cover.

My decision to post my childhood works, chapter by ridiculous chapter (with commentary), is two-fold:

1) I’d like to chronicle this shit. My hard copies are fading a slow fade.

2) I’m in the mood for self-analysis. And where better to begin than my first major work?


"The text on some pages are bad. So please don't kill me. He-he. Now this copy won't be perfect but when I review it top to bottom it will be better."

The first major work in question is DEATH IN THE MAKING.


Title page.



The following is a piece I wrote two years ago about it. Seems like a good place to begin:

I was 10 or 11,

whatever sixth grade is,

and this was my life.

My novel

I wrote this novel then, in sloppy pencil.

My first real major work: Death in the Making.

I know, horrible title.

My process began with my action figures.

I rounded up every one I had:

a plastic party of WWF wrestlers,

movie figures from Aliens, Jurassic Park, and Star Trek,

humans from the Ninja Turtles cartoons.

My characters came from grabbing one I liked and building a personality out of it.

Kasey Jones, the hockey mask wearing martial artist from the Ninja Turtles became Kasey the sound engineer with his scraggly black hair, jeans, and tank tops.

WWF’s Big Boss Man became my secret villain, Cooper Michaels,

a security officer with a crew cut and police uniform.

The big, blue, slimy alien from the Alien movies even took the role of the main monster.

I spent hours after school, creating scenes,

developing relationships,

and staging deaths over and over and over.

It brought me such joy then,

and I’d sometimes ask my weary mother to watch while I acted out scene after scene,

taking on 10 different voices, 10 different characters with personalities I’d so painstakingly developed. 

Once I could no longer play, I wrote.

And for three solid months, I wrote every day after school,

kneeling on the blue carpet,

writing on the coffee table in front of the TV.

Every time I grabbed a new sheet of notebook paper

and wrote a new, higher, page number in the top right corner,

I felt like I had climbed another mountain.

I even drew little flashy lines around page 100,

which was, at that time, the greatest accomplishment of my life.

There was no revision.

I found a way to make everything I’d written work in the grand narrative.

And a grand endeavor it certainly was.

The book boasts about 20 main characters, and probably 20 more minor ones.

There’s backstabbing, murder, love, longing, memory, loss, grief, treachery, you name it.

And I was 11.

In complete and total love.

 Now I remember, so many years later,

coming home drunk and high,



And I grabbed this book.

I began to read.

And I cried.

Because at that moment I realized it was the greatest thing I’d ever written.

A boy who knew nothing about craft,

who knew nothing about pain,

about disappointment, or depression.

A work not written to be published, or produced,

but it was fun.

I was playing. 

And I was in love.

“Jackson dove off the ledge of the huge mountain into the crashing waterfall feeling pretty nauseous. He has never been that nervous in his entire life. Will I live or die? Will I live or die? The question kept going through his mind. Suddenly he felt a burst of cold cover his body. I’m in the waterfall. Falling. Cutting through water like a bullet. As he damped in water he opened his eyes. It was a blur of wondrous colors. From light blue to fluorescent green. It was beautiful! Suddenly Jackson started to feel loose and happy. He spread his arms out far and put his legs together. Then he twirled and twirled in a circle while falling. He didn’t know why he was doing that. He just felt it.” 

In retrospect, I realize this 11-year old was describing his craft. 

Now I’ve always believed that change is a cosmetic illusion.

At our cores, we never change.

We are who we are who we are who we are. 

And so the same desire exists between this boy and myself.

But what he seemed to grasp is what I now strive for. 

“Suddenly Jackson started to feel loose and happy. He spread his arms out far and put his legs together. Then he twirled and twirled in a circle while falling. He didn’t know why he was doing that. He just felt it.”


Writing was abandon.

And the elation I find now as I create,

An elation which shoots sparks, saves my soul,

It seems to pale in comparison to that 11-year old boy

and his piddly handwritten novel.



Prologue. Probably too faded to make out.


So we begin:

Silas Burton wandered helplessly through the huge forest of the unfinished amusement park. It was nighttime and everyone was gone. Something scurried across his feet. He screamed and fell. He wiped off the dirt on his khaki shirt he noticed a footprint. “Oh great! Someone’s around. I gotta follow the…Oh my god. Oh man.” He stared at the footprint. Only it wasn’t a footprint. It had three toes and a strange marking by the hoof. Then he realized the marking was the marking of the company he’s in. And the markings are on the bottom hoof  of each main attraction monster. But those were locked in the storage area. And no one was in the control room. “Oh my god I gotta get outta here!” He started running until he came to the mountain. He stared at the beatiful scenery. A 500 km drop. Deadly. Well there’s the ladder better go down it,” he said. He heard a rustling sound in the bushes. “Aaah!” he screamed. He felt something stab him in the shoulder. He grabbed his shoulder and pulled out a claw. He pulled out a packet of band-aids. He took one out and put it over the bloody wound. He put the band-aids back in his pocket and headed for the ladder. Suddenly something wacked him in the back and he fell and grabbed the side of the mountain and hung. He saw a figure of some sort but was too dark to see. He felt a sharp pain in his hand he went to grab for it and suddenly remembered he was hanging. He let out a bloodcurdling scene and toppled into darkness.

What I remember: Jurassic Park. I saw the movie some rainy afternoon. I bought the book at a SEARS. I read the book in Science class. I didn’t get half of it. I liked the bloody parts. I don’t remember beginning, although I vaguely recall writing this section long before I wrote the rest. The off-color appearance of the pages, coupled with the especially faded script, contribute to this theory.

I recall reading it to Mike Ethier’s mother. I recall her being struck by my use of “khaki”. Rightly so. I barely knew what khaki was. All I knew was that Michael Critchton’s characters wore it. Which is really where much of this began. When I met Vernell Lillie she told me how August Wilson’s earliest writings were simply imitations of writers he admired. John Guare wrote about how he’d type out the first three acts of Chekhov plays and then write the fourth act himself.

Art often begins with mimicry. Many writers never grow past that stage. 

Critchton was my Chekhov. Death in the Making is Jurassic Park. There’s even a Velociraptor.  Anne Rice took over eventually. But we’ll get there later.

Beautiful:  Silas Burton wandered helplessly through the huge forest of the unfinished amusement park.

Embarrassing: Then he realized the marking was the marking of the company he’s in.

And so, some brief thoughts on a brief intro. Chapter 2: The Meeting coming soon. Prepare for shit to get intense.