For the TEDIAD, I had to come up with a portrait of the character, Dr. Phadius Gillenderg. He is a modern-day archaeologist who serves as the framing device of the story. He gives a lengthy introduction but then pops up throughout the book in the form of irrelevant footnotes. Continue reading “Making of Phadius”→
When I was a part of the Avalanche Write Club (before the studio closed), one of our exercises was to write loglines for our projects. A logline is a sentence-long distillation of your story. It’s essentially the description you would see in a Netflix menu. It is obviously quite challenging reducing a full story to a single sentence, but it does help you determine the main thrust of your narrative. Here are a few attempts, including one for my upcoming story The Tediad. The rest are potential future projects.
I’ve been working on a novel called The Tediad. It was conceived in a period of dispiriting unemployment, and perhaps fittingly, it might be completed in a similar state. It has taken me an embarrassing amount of time to finish. It’s such a terrible cliché, but you got to build your life out of something. Let me tell you, clichés are a surprisingly affordable building material. Continue reading “Announcing The Tediad”→
It’s that time again folks, time to polish up those old resumes. I thought I would share a few helpful hints on taking a good resume and making it into a great one. Please review the example down below:
I woke up the next morning stiff and cold. My phone, which became useless the moment I arrived, had plunged to 60% battery life.
As we gathered around the kitchen area, waiting for the water to heat up for coffee, we were given the choice of prospecting or working in the quarry for the day. I elected to go with the prospecting team.
I say goodnight to my co-workers and stroll out of the building as I have done countless times. This night however, I’m not going straight home. I head west to a part of the city where I rarely visit. The further I walk away from the downtown, the seedier the city becomes. I pull my arms in tight and walk faster.
The elevator doors slide open slowly. Across from me is another set of elevators. Upon the metal doors, I can see my reflection staring back. I look both old and young, like a child wearing his father’s jacket. I also look like I’m about to carry out a holiday bank heist. I see myself, what I have become, and suddenly all my nervous excitement disappears. It’s all very real.
In my motel during the first week in SLC, I was reading an article about changes to the city’s New Years Eve celebration. The locals were considering replacing the traditional firework show with a giant disco ball, because of something called The Inversion. I read the word again. Thinking that I had missed an important sentence somewhere, I searched the article for some sort of hint as to the nature of this ominous proper noun.