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Fall is for books except it’s not.

October 28, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random, The Craft  0 Comments

Fall is for books, or is it?

In younger days the allowance would go up for school, only I would eat less and splurge on paperbacks. Living a modest drive into the city from Powell’s was a money draining endeavor, despite the great prices. I usually had a feminine book reading cutie at my side, so it was all good.

When older with a job, my brain couldn’t get out of the mode of Fall = New School Year = Keep Brain Sharp. The desire for the comfort of a good story as the leaves turned consumed like a drug. This desire walked hand-in-hand, like that book reading cutie, with wanting a hardcover book. That was my badge of adulthood. Screw the bills. I’m buying a hardcover because I can.

These experiences blend into the background of those memories that turn on when I see a falling leaf and the celebration of change that is fall.

Lately, though, I’ve come to realize my fall yearning isn’t for books, it’s for a good story. Fall is the brain’s time to leave the summer literary pulp and fluff and enter the realm of thought provoking entertainment.

Make me think. Make me yearn. Make me cry. Turn me on. Reach out to that place only words can go. Tell me a story, and I’ll tell you one.

Under Construction

September 30, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random  0 Comments

Once again, I am doing layout changes to the website. Please excuse the construction dust.

My Blog is Four Years Old!

July 21, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random  2 Comments

Wow!

I may not be the most prolific blogger, but slow and steady wins the race, eh?

I do miss the people who would comment on my blog on a regular basis though.

HI GUYS! HOW ARE YOU? I AM FINE.

The Fiction Writing Process Explained

June 23, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random, The Craft  0 Comments

Tam, the Princess of Snark and High Velocity Projectiles, talks about a subject near and dear to my heart.

Yes, I know, I said that writing about writing is counter-productive but every now and then something speaks to you.

The foundation of the Fiction Writing Process is honesty. Did I not write my minimum five hundred words today because… of what, actually? Five hundred words. Five. Hundred. Skipping five hundred words is the heart of a broken process.

But, actually, once you got that five hundred words down (ZOMG I WROTE A BOOK!) the hard part, the true trip to Writer Purgatory, is elimination of the Talent Suck Cycle.

That’s where one day you hand a writer you wish you could be when you grow up some of your material and she breathlessly tells you over Skype “Anthony, this is brilliant!” which sends feelings through you as if the nubile barista whose ass you’ve been admiring from afar lifts up her skirt and begs you to take her virtue.

Then the very next day you produce the literary breakfast of gravel grits served over turd biscuits.

Missing Graphics

June 17, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random  2 Comments

The WordPress upgrade ate half my photos and graphics. Where did they go? I don’t know.

Please excuse the missing media content. I’ll bulk upload the wayward images sometime this week and fix the posts.

I’ve never had this problem happen before. Odd.

Missing

June 10, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random  0 Comments

Ever since I was a child I yearned for those that I could not see again.

I remember the bad man. But sometimes he smiled and in my dreams he would smile at me. I never remembered him, really, as the broken person I knew him to be, even though I tried with everything I had to blame him for the world’s ills.

As I got older, I yearned to talk to the girl I left behind. How was your day? Did you pass that AP test? How many shirts did you iron for your uncle this month? Tell me why you liked that book you gave me.

Sometimes it wasn’t me. Ms. Karma would sit at my elbow, and let me tell you, she was a righteous woman, filled to the brim with everything I deserved and more.

I think, I think this is my nature. I am designed to simply be there, and when I’m not, it eats away at me, like an itch I can’t scratch. Some days, I stand on an island surrounded by an ocean of regret, but the waters are not my tears, they belong to others.

I can never forget, therefore I was not made to be forgotten.

aaaaand done!

June 02, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random  0 Comments

I’ve migrated all the links that were active, and now I am finished with the old blog. Welcome to the new blog.

If I had linked to you before and now am not, it was because your blog was way out of date.

But I still love you!

LOVE!

Blog Construction

May 29, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random  0 Comments

I am doing major construction of the blog. And when I say major, I mean major.

I’m just getting started, here, folks.

PHEAR ME!

:-p

A Detached Sort of Darkness

May 11, 2012 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Not Exactly Random, The Craft  0 Comments

I’ve been meaning to change the blog style again. Every time I come to the blog it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I surf themes and troll styles, but the dark tone draws me in and I forget about it.

Memory is a strange thing.

Sometimes it’s the smell. Tangy, visceral and very uninvited. That’s not the worst, though.

Other times, it’s the table. It’s round and has metal legs with a dark green top. I am sure it was stylish back then, but the rest of the memories find this one rather silly. That is, until I see round kitchen table with metal legs. One time, I found myself staring at one. Hypnotized by a table. Oh how foolish I felt when my girlfriend touched my arm and asked me if I was okay.

I wonder what happened to that girl? Did she think I was a bit odd? Does she have her own kitchen table with metal legs that she stares at?

I hope not.

Other times it’s the sock. That stupid white sock.

The first thing, and I mean the very first thing, I did when I moved into my own apartment, alone and by myself, was to buy little white sports socks. I mixed water with cornstarch and heated the concoction until it has some thickness to it. Then I added red food dye. With a spoon I dribbled some on the sock on my right foot. I splashed some around the kitchen.

Then I stood there and stared at the sock, and surprisingly felt nothing much at all. What was I thinking? I don’t know. I really don’t. I rather think it was my lame attempt at controlling the memory, but truth be told, I had already mastered that long before then. I thought at the time that my detachment was a betrayal to my inner most self. That’s what I thought when I threw the socks away and cleaned up the kitchen.

Now I am not so sure.

The sounds, of course, are the worse. Worse than the little white sock with the red spot by far. The sounds are distinctive as they are evil. They have a terrible truth to it all, a blend of metallic malevolence that I wish defied description.

But I could, if I wanted to, paint a vivid picture. The words would be easy but like anything terrible that holds truth, getting them out gives them life.

I wonder, sometimes, if I was on to something buying those socks. I wonder what would have happened if I put a round table with metal legs in the kitchen and then put the red dot on the sock and then closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I bet the smell would come back, followed by the sounds. All of them at once, instead of the random serialization I have floating up there aimlessly.

I’ve been meaning to change the blog style again. Every time I come to the blog it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I surf themes and troll styles, but the dark tone draws me in and I forget about it.