Writing Blogs as Entertainment and Bonus Story

I am new to this site. That is to say that I am new to this blogging community, but not to blogging in general. I am a writer. And by that I mean someone who sits down to write almost every day. For a long time now I have kept a journal. I reflect on my life and try to write about any scrap of story idea or image that comes to mind throughout my day. Many people use their blogs as a kind of personal journal, blabbing on about their lives, who they're going out with, and how much their boss has it out for them. Stuff like that. But why do you care? You don't know me, just as I don't know you. I'd never share my personal journal with the entire virtual world. That writing is done for my own benefit and mine alone.

That is why I am going to try something. I am going to start a writing and story blog. I will be including with every blog I write a section of a story or some other piece of writing. I'm not going to lie. Many of these sections will end with cliffhangers, to be continued in my next blog.

I may also use this blog to reflect on the writing process in general. I will discuss the craft of writing and what it takes to be writer, even if it you aren't a published or monetarily successful one.

I don't claim to be the best writer in the world. I just want to share my process and also to share some of my writing. As always, contructive criticism and comments are always appreciated. Most of what you will see hear is very rough and in its fledgling stages.

And now, on with the writing sample for today...

Crazy Roommates

The next thing I know I’m waking up on the couch with the sun in my face and the neighbor knocking at the door. I answer the knocking with my hair all crazy and my eyes even crazier and ask him what he wants. He asks if he can clean some of the shit out of my yard so he and his wife don’t have to look at it any more. It’s scaring the children. Apparently, they’re trying to sell their house and the condition of our yard is decreasing their property value. Fuck it, I’m thinking, why not? And I’m about to give him my blessing when I hear the neighbor say something else. I’m not sure what it is so I look up at the man standing in the doorway of my house, but my contact lenses are out of focus and all I can see is a blurry figure dressed in white. I must be looking at the blurry man-neighbor funny because he takes a step backwards. Then he repeats himself, “What’s that smell?”

My contacts are beginning to come into focus and I can see the man is dressed in a pair of white jean shorts that ride above his knees; shorts like the ones my grandma wears. The man-neighbor takes another step back as I advance into my doorway. I don’t say anything. I must be looking at the man-neighbor funny because he takes another step backwards and then another and then turns and hurriedly makes his way off my property. I scratch the stubble under my chin as I watch him leave and then turn back inside of my home, shutting the door tight behind me.

I stumble across the living room and into the kitchen. I must have had something to drink last night because my head feels like it’s been whacked with a shovel a few hundred times. There is a bottle of Percoset under the sink. I take two. Then I feel hungry so I make myself a bowl of Apple Jacks with milk. We eat what we like. With my bowl in one hand and my spoon in the other I sit down on the floor in the middle of the kitchen and begin to philosophize with myself while I devour my cereal.

This is a life of choices, that is, if you choose to live it. I choose to live in this dilapidated dumpster I call home with a bunch of nasty insane people I call roommates. I choose to work a dead-end job 40 hours a week for an hourly wage of almost nothing so that I can live in this shit-hole with 4 fuck-faced roommates. Apparently I have chosen to live life, if that is what you want to call it.

My roommates are my best friends. They think life is peachy clean so long as the bills are paid on time and the dirty dishes are washed. They don’t understand how fragile one’s emotions can be. Sometimes even a little comment will set off a chain reaction of obsessive doubt. What’s that smell? Sometimes I feel like telling them to shut the fuck up. Can I have some of your cheese? Sometimes I feel like screaming in their pimply faces to get the fuck away from me. Could you give me a ride to the video store? Sometimes I feel like ripping their throats out with my bare fingers and smearing blood all over the walls of my house. GET OUT!

The next thing I know I’m standing in the kitchen thinking about how much my friends love me. A cigarette hangs limply from the corner of my mouth. I don’t remember putting it there so I must have had a minor memory lapse. I’m in the kitchen and still haven’t showered so it couldn’t have been much of one. A bowl of orange tinted milk sits in the sink; another sign that not much time has passed. I shrug, as that’s all I can do, and fish an orange tinted lighter from the pocket of my jeans. These things happen from time to time.

I light my cigarette and inhale deeply. I exhale slowly, watching the curls of smoke rise into the air before dissipating and I remember something, a thought carried in the air. If I pretend not to care they’ll kill themselves. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t really care.

My thoughts are interrupted by the clank of the mailbox being shut, which means the mailman just paid me a little visit. I make my way from the kitchen, across the living room, to the front door. I open the front door and step outside onto my porch. I pull open my mailbox and fetch my mail. I sort through my small stack of letters as I slowly walk back inside. Of the five letters present, one is a credit card advertisement, one is a utility bill, and one is a sweepstakes offer. The other two letters are personal and the first one is addressed to me from my grandmother. I drop the other letters and rip it open greedily.

Dear Grady,
Like always, I am so happy to hear your good news and happier yet that you would tell your old grandma about it. There were some things you mentioned in your letter that, I must admit, disturbed me a little, but most of your news was good.
You asked how I have been and I’ve really quite been doing quite well. I feel better than I have in a long time. You know how much I love to camp and since your grandfather was put in the health center it was been difficult. A man in my RV group had to put his wife in the health center, also with Alzheimer’s. We have been helping each other, he helps with mechanical problems and I shower his wife. We share expenses and I do the cooking, which he likes. We go to dances together, and are often invited as a couple to parties. We have grown fond of each other and the companionship has done us both good. We share a bed…

The letter goes on for several more paragraphs, but I toss it to the floor in disgust. I try to push the image of my grandmother having old-people sex with a man who is not my grandfather, but I can’t. This image enrages me and I stagger over to one of two couches in the living room. My contacts fog out again and I am clenching my fists so tightly that I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms.