Writer friends! You should check out this website: Fighter’s Block (http://cerey.github.io/fighters-block/).
Basically, the idea is that you have an avatar and you set a word goal and then your avatar fights a monster as you type, and if you slow down the monster attacks. I thought it was a cool idea, so I tried it, and I actually wrote 500 words for the first time in 3 years.
I’m including it because I’m just happy to have actually written something, and, although it is garbage and I hate it and it would definitely need a LOT of editing and some serious fine tuning on style/characterization/voice if I planned to publish it, it only took like ten minutes to write and it is not the worst thing I have ever seen. Which to me just means that it’s not going to be as hard as I thought to get back into writing and to get better.
(Side note: Part of why it doesn’t seem to really have a direction is because I had nothing when I started. I just started typing and went one word at a type. It stopped abruptly because I reached my goal and still had no idea where I was going.)
I know I should have told them the house was haunted when I rented it to them. I know. But I didn’t. People don’t like to hear that their house is haunted. If I had told them the house was haunted upfront, they would have taken their money and left, and I reeeeeally needed the money.
Why do I need the money? Well, why does anyone need money? To live, of course. They need to pay the rent and buy food and buy clothes and pay off credit card bills and go on vacation to the Bahamas. You know. The essentials. (Get a better reason here.) I just need the money and, honestly, working at a feed store in the middle of nowhere doesn’t really make you enough to put away any money.
It’s just hand-to-mouth living is what it is. I have not had a day off in like six years. Six YEARS, man. No holidays (seriously, every guy just has to get his mother a pair of cowboy boots on Christmas day because he forgot to get her anything until the day before). No paid time off. No sick days. Well, one sick day. I once ate an undercooked chicken leg at my niece’s high school graduation barbecue because my brother dared me to. Got food poisoning and ending up shitting myself for the next two days straight. I definitely did NOT go to work that Monday. Aside from that day, I have worked every Monday through Friday from seven in the morning until five in the evening. Loading hay into flatbeds with the mudflaps with the naked ladies on them, stacking Stetsons, folding Levi’s, doing donuts with the forklift in the parking lot. Every day for six straight years.
And it is time for a break, I think. So, last week I rented out the bottom two floors of my house to this nice Midwest couple, their dog, and their two-point-five children. (They don’t really have two-point-five children, but how cool would that be? Half a kid. How would that work?)
I kept the top floor for myself, of course. I still needed a place to live. The plan is to continue working at the feed store for the basics, and then I can just thro the money from the rent into a jar and once I have enough to cover the time I’ll have to take off work as well as the cost of the vacation, then I’ll buy myself a ticket to…I don’t know. Fiji, maybe? Someplace tropical. Someplace that is not this podunk little town I was born and raised in.
So I show the place to this couple, right, and they want to sign the lease right away. Of course, I forgot to even write up a lease, so I tell them I have another prospective renter coming in after them and tell them I’ll make my decision soon, and I push them out the door.