Top Five Movies on Writers

Today is Memorial Day, a bittersweet holiday where we as Americans take time to remember those who have been lost fighting in wars. Seeing as our recent several wars have occurred in the last decade, this day holds a twang of pain and heartache from a broken nation. I’m sure most of you (who live in the U.S.) will be grilling some burgers, or sipping some beers around the fire, so I’ll be keeping today’s post short and sweet.

I’m a writer, so movies on writers intrigue me, and entertain me beyond all else. Here’s a simple list of my top five.

5.                                                                          Misery

Misery follows the tale of an obsessed fan finding her beloved author and making him her plaything. The movie is based on a novel by Stephen King.

 

4.                                                                             Kalifornia

I discovered this one on Netflix during one of my late-night browsings. Kalifornia follows a small time writer who acquires a book deal by working on a column for a newspaper. His column focused on serial-killers, and he brings his girlfriend and two new companions on a journey to document the mind of the murderer. However, the truth is closer than he thinks.

 

3.                                                                           1408

1408 is another masterpiece (this time a short-story) by the master of horror Stephen King. 1408 features an author Mike Enslin who writes reviews on horror locations. However, what he discovers in room 1408 is far more real than he had ever assumed.

 

2.                                                                          The ShiningWoo, Stephen King meets the list three times! The Shining is almost considered a metaphorical autobiographical story by the King. The author, an alcoholic father and struggling husband purchases the hotel and attempts to write a new novel. However, the house possesses mysterious powers that trigger the worst in all.

1.                                                                       CalifornicationThough not a movie, Californication is a controversial mess of a show which follows a recently published author with the escapades of rock star life. His bestselling novel, God Hates us All, was transformed into a shit-ball of a movie A crazy Little Thing Called Love. Whether it’s drinking until he passes out, or having sex with hordes of women; author Hank Moody lives in a rockstar that all of us envy, and few of us reach.

 

Story of my life

©http://blog.patrickrothfuss.com/2009/06/penicillin-and-bruce-campbell/

Story of my life.

Another New Story: The Old Box

                                                                        The Old Box

©http://theinspirationroom.com/

by D.F. Rucci

I knew an old man, who lived in an old cabin. He would sit on his old chair, and think of the old days. His hair was gray, and his eyes were old and wise yet cold. For as each day came by, the blue in his pupils grew weary and gray. When he grew tired of sitting on his old chair, on the old porch which barely hung from the front of the cabin, he would bring himself inside it’s old frame.  The cabin was bare, as bare and cold as his lonely heart, nothing stood in its wall besides a small table, and an old box.

The box was made of wood and metal, and looked like a chest. For as long as the old man could remember, he remembered the box as something so valuable, so precious that he may never open it. He grew curious and he grew stubborn and he would trail his fingers over it’s course exterior, dreaming of what could be inside. His eyes would swell and his old fingers would fumble for its padlock, but he would never open it. It was forbidden to open the box, for the box was as old and weary as he was.

Times came slow, and slower as the winters take grasp of the forests around his cabin, keeping him from his old chair, on the old porch. Times like these he would find himself staring at the box, always staring at the box, for the box was ancient and wise and it was his box after all. When he would get especially lonely and bored he would polish his father’s old Winchester, careful as to avoid the deep red stains on it’s barrel. Such a thing was important, such a thing was there to remind him of the past, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember after all, but he did want to know what was in that box.  Always what was in that box.

Sometimes at night, when he would lay on the old floor in his old cabin, he had dreams; rather nightmares that kept him awake most of the night. He thought of a young girl most of the time, he didn’t remember if he had known her or maybe he had just made her up, but she kept him up most of the time.  Whatever she was, she made him sad, bringing old tears to his old eyes, and still couldn’t recall anything. But whenever he thought of her, he thought of the Winchester and he wept. This never perplexed or confused him so to say, for it was the way it had always been, and once he grew disheartened he would forget soon after, most of the time anyway.

It happened one night after he had spent most of the time in his own old thoughts, that he stumbled over to the old table, which held the old box. With reddened eyes and trembling hands he shook the box and he yelled.  Cursing it, cursing whatever it held. His old voice quivered and he shook it with violent strength until the padlock broke free from the old box spilling it’s insides over the old table:

A pink ribbon, a gold ring, and a photo of a young boy and girl lay on the old table.  The Winchester cried out and the old man found peace.

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New Story: Vampyre

Here’s a new piece of flash fiction. Enjoy

It is humorous that money buys nothing in the end. We work for this paper our entire lives and when the end is near we lie there like any other and wait for fate to come down and shit on us. Believe me, I have climbed the ladders from scum to supreme, from poverty to powerful, from a New York City bum to a corporate entrepreneur with more money than the goddamn president; but as I write this down I am immortal. The blood that flows through my veins is not pure, but a coarse black serum that keeps my pale skin thriving in the dark.

My secretary had first introduced me to the treatment. When I had been diagnosed with cancer a year ago I’d given up. The doctor told me I had less than a year to live, that no treatment would remedy the affliction. The bastard gave me a Medical Marijuana card, and enough painkillers to drug a fucking whale.

“I got something” My secretary said nervously, rubbing his hands together. “Shipped straight from Asia, real weird shit.”

“If I’m looking to get high I’d just smoke the weed, Tom” I had told him and twirled a quarter on my desk.  “I need a cure. I have all the money in the world, but the doctors got nothing.”

“Nah, a friend from overseas told me about something that’s been passed around in the underground markets. People call it ‘Vampyre’.”

“Vampyre?”

“Yeah as in ‘Vam-pire’. It comes in a fluid, you inject it and in three days the cancer will be gone.” Tom cleared his throat nervously. “But-“

“Side effects?” I asked.

“Typical bullshit- headaches, nausea, minor hallucinations, and in some of the cases death.” Tom paused.  “But that’s a small percentage of trials. “’Course it’s not FDA approved or nothing but I can get it in here in a week or two,”

That’s all I needed. I just needed to see a spark of opportunity, even if it were dim. I wouldn’t have cared if he were trying to pour rat poison down my throat, or inject cyanide in my veins. As the cancers swam through my veins each and everyday grew more dreary; more cold and hostile. I would eat my lunch at my desk and then stand tall and watch the world flutter by outside of the windowpanes. Sometimes I would count the snowflakes as they splashed against the glass and freeze. When each moment matters and death lingers at your doorway you have two options; to run away until it eventually finds you, or to jump into it and knock death on its ass. I chose the second path.

My secretary came to me one morning with this bottle of dark liquid. He placed it on my desk and dropped a black balloon and a syringe beside it. “Just like shooting dope,” He spoke as if it were nothing. I looked bug-eyed, but I let him tie my arm and inject the ‘Vampyre’ into my veins. It burned but then went cool as it climbed throughout my veins.  He found his way out of my office and I slit down the wall nearest my desk; my skin grew clammy and cold as my insides twisted and turned.  The morning came through the window but I shriveled away from the light of dawn, into a closet near the door. I didn’t leave my office for the last couple of days; I left my wife lonely at my home and my kids oblivious away at school. I cowered from the daylight and marveled in the shine of the harvest moon.

The cancer had subsided, and I watched the world at night through a thin glass array. To my family and friends I was a man who overcame cancer; but to me, I was Vampyre.

Get Your Mind from the drawing board to the sketch

My mind is a cluster of raging ideas, worries, theories and everything else that can stray one’s brain. I have never actually met writer’s block. Instead, I just spend too much of my free-time day dreaming of new story ideas, plot developments and character information, that I wonder away from the actual craft. If storytelling is an art, than writing is its older brother. Our narration dictates the storytelling that swims in our minds and deciphers it into a comprehensible language and structure for our readers to enjoy.

I will plan a story so intensely for weeks without every placing words on the page, that I grow frustrated with myself, and the story. There are good points though. I shape stories precisely before they reach the page, and this gives me the ability to construct strong concepts and lifelike characters. One of my stories which I mentioned a week or so ago was Murders and the City. This was going to be a serial novel that highlighted the actions of a N.Y.P.D. detective that suffered with drugs and a tormented past. Though this story intrigued me, I developed it into a more horror-atmosphere and have completely alienated the story from its past self. This will someday be a novel, but I’m months away from an actual outline.

Now a big challenge for me starting today will be to focus on the writing aspect. Every night I will make time to write. Whether it be a pre-formulated piece or a spur of the moment prose, I will make sure that every night will conclude with several pages of fiction laying about in my laptop or notebook. Life is a learning experience, and I of course, am a mere student.

So everyone, do you plan your stories out beforehand, or do you let your words flow spontaneuously?

Leave a comment below with your answer