HOLY CRAP READ THIS FAST.

Okay, so the following is not quite as important as does warrant an all-caps kinda title thing, but could y'all do me a favor?

If – and only if – you find yourself interested in the further literary ramblings of the guy who is me, could you be a pal and redirect your gaze towards the cavalcade of fun that is www.MikeSpeegle.com?

Because it would be so great if you would go to www.MikeSpeegle.com like all the time. 

And in return? I promise to post all kinds of fun content, what with the typewriting and typecasts and super fun-time fountain pens. Cool? Cool!

XXOO,

-M

Addendum

...and then, I loaned out my Galaxie XII and the ribbon vibrator stopped working! 

I'm cursed, I tells ya.

Typevangelizing

So I've been wandering my fair city, writing itinerant-ly as is my wont, drinking way more espresso than is strictly advisable for even the most stalwart caffeine junkie. And lo, who should I happen upon but a gaggle of young creative-types who were good enough to invite me to their a weekly gathering of creatives called – and I love this – The Collaborative (not quite sure what punctuation to end this sentence with...hm.)

And what's better, when I tentatively admitted that I'm a retrotechnophile, they were totes on board, even going to far as to participate in a round-robin typing circle from which evolved a story of some...singularity, and which chronicled the exploits of a unique nautical-arboreal creature known as a "narw(h)alnut."

I even went so far as to loan one of these fine folks, Erin of Pixology fame, my Underwood Five. Which of course promptly stopped working once she got it home. Figures.

Any case, I'm excited to have met folks of a creative cant, and am looking forward to spreading the gospel of click-clack-ding!

Dialogue: I does it

Maudlin navel-gazing aside, I think I've finally hit my stride viz. Chet Masters is Alarming, and that mainly because over the last couple days I've had the opportunity to insert scads of dialogue into the narrative, an endeavor which I never fail to enjoy. Below is a random excerpt which – however little it makes sense out of context – I really enjoyed writing. 

Chet stared at his argument-shambles for a long time. Then he said, “He’s not a good guy, you know.”

“I know,” she said.

“And he was gonna kick my ass.”

“I know. But then, you baited him.”

“I know.”

“And then you poisoned him.”

“That I did.”

“Not something to be proud of,” she said.

“Well,” he replied.

“No,” she said.

“But,” he said.

“Uh-uh,” she countered.

“But science!” he gambled. “Testable hypotheses!”

“Simple assault,” said she.

“Balls,” he muttered.

“Yep,” she said.

Night thoughts

It’s late here, again, and again my manuscript crouches low on the page, bottom lip outthrust, a “what the fuck you lookin’ at?” look on its face. All mad at me for hemming and hawing when I should be shucking and jiving. Bobbing and weaving. Turnin’ and burnin’.

Updating my long-neglected blog, forinstance.

They say that a change is as good as a break, but no matter how I bob and weave and etc. lately I can’t seem to get any traction. I mean, for God’s sake, the story is there. Right there in the story journal! Beginning, middle, end, all plotted out, a ripe narrative ovum waiting to hatch, and here I sit dithering like a motherfucker.

I filled my pens tonight. Arranged my journals. Read through the first 40k in a blind attempt to regain the animus of the tale. “maybe I just need to find something inspirational to read!” I tell myself. “Maybe it’s just a matter of setting! Or time of day!”

“Well you better figure out what it is,” myself says back to me, “because yer not getting any younger.”

True dat. I feel old and slow. My mind like tallow, dripping away in transparent runnels that reveal, at their end, that there was nothing within all along.

But that aside, I will try again tonight. I will throw myself at the keyboard as the earth turns on its inevitable axis, shuttling me towards another dawn that will cast its light on either my victory over the tale, or yet another defeat.

Here goes nothing. 

Orange Retro Caster Chair

This is what I totally had in mind for my ideal writing space seating arrangements. A seat of one's own, perhaps? In any case – as long as it's OG and orange and can roll, me gusta. 

Or maybe...

A Room of One's Own, Sneaky Preview

So of course by now you've seen the meme initiated by the inimitable Strikethru (see here and also here) in which she ruminates on the idea of a room of one's own, a place in which a hominid can be alone with their scribeo-mechanism, unmolested by the manifold vagaries of modern life.

Before we get started on my own humble contribution to the subject, I have to give a shout out to one Mrs. Speegle, whose constant dedication to my art has been of such crucial importance that I'm sure that — without her — I would be a shambling wreck of a man, scribbling missives (in my own juices, likely) on the underside of freeway overpasses.

But more specifically: a few weeks back I was having a hard time wrapping on the Beta draft of Good Friday. I just. Couldn't. Concentrate.

Now I'm not someone who has to be alone when I compose; often enough you will find me espousing the tired cliche of the writer con Macbook ensconced in a local Starbucks, Americano close at hand. But! When the eponymous rubber meets the titular road, I sometimes need utter solitude in order to make disparate story elements dovetail to a satisfactory degree.

So what does the wife do, seeing me in such distress? Rents me a hotel room for the weekend, right next door to our house, practically, and tells me that I have 48 hours of solitude to do what I had to do. So I checked in, laptop in tow, unplugged the TV, and wrote like a maniac for two days.

Good, good times.

Anyhoo, that aside, if I had my druthers I would mos' def get me one o' them Airstream trailers. I mean, it just doesn't get much more Americana than that, am I right? I prefer the Sport 16 model (because it's sporty!).

Plus it has a bathroom.

The interior, however, doesn't meet my exacting specifications, and thus I have composed the following art-tastic rendering. Because this is my fantasy, dammit, and I can organize my writing space however I want.

I know; it's hard to believe I never took an art class.

Just the essentials here. Place to contemplate, place to sit and write, place for caffeine storage. Place for books. Cool orange retro caster chair. I am a simple man. I have simple needs.

That said, I am once again very tardy what with the promised contest stuff. However, here is a sneak preview of the ultra-cool things to come...