Why I Stopped Eating Fast Food

Why I Stopped Eating Fast Food

Before we get started, I just want to point out that this post is in no way a damning of fast food itself, its legions of underpaid workers, or the corporate overlords who have so effectively blanketed the world in dollar burgers and super-sized cartons of fries. Don’t expect me to wax poetic about all the reasons why fast food is bad and how we should all subsist on kale smoothies and quinoa sandwiches. I’m not going to judge (unless you mean Dredd – I AM the law!) anyone’s eating habits. This is just a rundown of why I made this decision for my own life; take from it what you will. Or not. I’m easy.

All set? Okay, let’s go.

I Need To Lose Some Weight

You can’t talk about cutting out fast food without some guy in the audience raising his hand and saying, “Get off the stage! We’re here to see Aerosmith!”

Some people.

Then, after evading security, you spend a pleasant half-hour discussing why healthy eating and fast food don’t mix with the voices in your head. It’s a common enough story, and it’s happened to us all.

So, being a gentleman of, let’s say, significant proportions, I need to lose weight. A lot of it. And that’s not going to happen on a diet of double cheeseburgers and burrito supremes.

Once I Pop, I Just Can’t Stop

I have something of an addictive personality. Thankfully, I’ve avoided vices like drugs and alcohol, but if you set me loose on a buffet of fried chicken and curly fries, it turns into an after-school special starring me as a fast food junkie and Alan Thicke as my TV dad who wants me to be happy, but doesn’t realize that his pressuring me to join the school track team is making me turn to disreputable late-night burger runs to deal with the stress.

My name is TR Goodman, and I’m addicted to fast food.

And, as we all know, the first step toward getting help is avoiding responsibility for ten years admitting that you have a problem. Why is fast food addictive? Hell if I know. I just know that if I eat it, something happens in my brain that turns me into a burger-crazed zombie.

It’s not pretty, and the only way to avoid it is to stop eating fast food altogether.

Cooking At Home Saves Money

It pretty well goes without saying that it’s a lot cheaper to make up a hefty pot of mushroom and barley stew at home than it is to buy a sack of burgers down at the corner drive-thru. Given that I’m still in the process of paying down a number of old debts from my care-and-responsibility-free college days, more money to dump on those old credit cards is a pretty big plus.

It also means that I have more money for the important cultural things in life. Like video games. And pretty book covers.

Now I just need to write a few books to go with those pretty, pretty covers…

It’s not that I’m never going to eat out again, but when you’re not eating out 7X per week, you save up enough that when you actually do go out, you can buy yourself a nice steak dinner. Now that’s something to look forward to.

I Can Be Supportive

Whether you’re married, in a committed relationship, or just have a cat that you really like to hang out with, your decisions affect more than just you. They affect the people (and cats) around you, sometimes just as much, if not more. And when those decisions impact the health of those around you, it becomes a problem.

My fiancee has a particular chronic ailment (not zombie-ism – sheesh) that makes her have to follow a strict diet, mostly a vegan one with some fish and a bit of chicken breast thrown in. She’s done very well on this diet, in terms of her illness, and I want to do everything I can to support her. She’s been a good sport about my addiction, and generally doesn’t say anything when I run out for sausage and cheese biscuits, hash browns, or a bag of tacos. Sometimes she even shares them with me.

And then it hit me that in doing what I was doing, I was directly jeopardizing her health by bringing all these unhealthy foods into the house. When you love someone, you do everything you can to support them, not tempt them away from what has clearly been working.

Once the guilt storm passed, it made the decision obvious.

It Doesn’t Taste That Great

I love salt and fat and heaping mounds of meat as much as the next guy. Probably more, to be honest. And while there are definitely some things on various fast food menus that I’m going to miss (I’m looking at you, Carl’s Jr burgers and hash browns from just about anywhere), but none of it really tastes that great compared to what I make at home. I just tend to be too lazy to do any actual cooking.

I Feel Better Without It

On top of everything else, this is the one that made my decision easy. The effects of eating fast food, at least for me, are similar to the annual Thanksgiving binge: a bloated, slow, waddling feeling, followed by a food coma that knocks me out on the couch in the middle of Doctor Who. It’s not fun, and I don’t want to have to have someone explain to me how the Doctor defeated the Daleks (hint: stairs).

After only a few days of “clean” eating, I have more energy, I feel better, my back pain goes away, I win the lottery, and all sorts of little physical things become easier for me. During those moments when the drive-thru becomes and the aroma of bacon fills the air, it’s those little things that remind me that I made the right decision.

So, I think that’s enough serious discourse for the moment. Those are my reasons not to eat fast food. Your mileage may vary if you decide to try something similar. If you think you might want to give it a shot, more power to you. If you read this article while dipping your fries in a chocolate shake and noshing on a bucket of fried chicken, I applaud your sense of irony.

Well played, sir (or madam or other). Well played, indeed.

Photo Credit: Flickr

Flash Fiction Fridays Shattered Irons Part 1

Flash Fiction Friday: Shattered Irons Part 1

Writing flash fiction is a great way to keep the creativity muscles sharp and avoid boredom by bouncing around between words and characters like a Tigger with a pen after eating a bowl of sugar, but the constant shifting from one world or character to the next has the unfortunate side effect of never letting you spend enough time in a single world to really explore it or its characters. It has been a lot of fun these past N^something weeks writing about different themes and situations, but this Tigger is tired of bouncing and has decided to try something new.

What if I continued writing flash fiction, but instead of changing the world, characters, and everything else each week, I remain in a single world and tell a continuing story about a consistent group of characters? I’ve never written a serial before, so it could be a lot of fun.

Let’s see how it goes, shall we?

Shattered Irons: Part 1

The great floating mountain peak above cast its shadow down across the valley below as the sun disappeared behind it. Foren stretched out on his back in the soft grass, inhaling deeply of its sweet scent as he pillowed his hands behind his head. Somewhere above him, a muted chittering sound told him that Alfons had woken up. He yawned and closed his eyes, fully intending to let the slow, rhythmic creaking of the massive chain tethering the airborne mountain lull him to sleep.

He smiled as a gust of wind and heavy thump signaled Alfons’s return to the ground. Beggar’d be looking to get fed, but there were naps to get on and Foren was never one to pass up an excuse for a snooze, however brief, and noonshade seemed as good a time as any.

But then, nobody ever mistook horsebats for patient creatures. Unlike their miniscule bat cousins, horsebats adored people and were raised alongside their riders as mount, pet, and best friend all rolled into one. Before Foren even managed to skirt the edge of unconsciousness, Alfons had crawled over top of him, chittering and whuffling at his jacket in search of his aftershade treat.

Foren feigned sleep and pretended to ignore the beast, but the dam holding back his laughter cracked, crumbled, and finally broke by the time Alfons nudged his face with his nose, chittering with utmost insistency and puffing insect-smelling breath all over him. With a grin, he opened his eyes and scratched behind Alfons’s ears, eliciting a contented whine before the horsebat learned too far into the touch and flopped to the ground beside him in a tangle of wings and fur.

Still chuckling, Foren rolled over and scratched up and down his friend’s hairy, exposed belly. “Let’s see how you like it, huh? Not so nice being pinned down with an ugly face staring down at you, is it?”

For his part, Alfons wriggled and chittered in joy. Foren knew all the best spots to scratch after having been together for the better part of twenty years, when both of them were little more than babies. After several minutes of wrestling and scratching, he pulled back, breathless with laughter as he reached into an inner jacket pocket. “I know what you want. How do a few sugared crickets sound?”

At the merest mention of the treat, Alfons flipped back onto his belly and scampered up to his friend. His mouth still moved as if it was chittering, but in his excitement, the sound had risen higher than Foren could hear. He crouched low, ready to pounce as Foren withdrew the first treat, then sprang upward as it was tossed high in the air.

The force of the wind generated by the beating of Alfons’s wings pushed Foren onto his back, but he did not miss the view of Alfons snatching the cricket out of the air and greedily downing it without ever changing course. One after another, he tossed crickets in random directions into the air, and each one was gobbled down by Alfons without either cricket or horsebat touching the ground.

Once the sixth and final cricket was consumed, Foren relaxed, fully intending to return to his noonshade nap as Alfons wheeled and dove and frolicked in the air above. After a few moments of watching the play, when the first fuzziness of sleep began to creep over his mind, an urgent cry from above roused him to full consciousness.

High above, Alfons was circling a spot on the chain and crying out to alert him to the danger. Foren’s heart sank when he saw what had upset the horsebat.

The side of one of the chain’s links had broken, and that link was being slowly pulled apart by the force of the mountain above. Interminable minutes passed before it finally snapped, leaving him helpless as the mountain began drifting skyward, trailing the upper part of the chain as the lower part thundered to the ground in front of him.

So, what did you think? How do you feel about exploring this new (as yet unnamed) world with me? I have no idea of where the story is headed, but that’s the fun. We’ll travel together and see just what kind of trouble this pair can get into. Let me know in the comments below, and be sure to share with friends, family, your grandma, your grandma’s dog (or cat; we don’t judge here), and anyone else you think might enjoy it.

Thanks for reading!

Flash Fiction Fridays: One Star's Honor

Flash Fiction Friday: One Star’s Honor

So, here we are, about to set out on another excursion into the delightful, terrifying, and occasionally frustrating world of Flash Fiction Friday. After a few weeks of downtime brought on by famine, disease, and a powerful bout of laziness, I’m back with a new story inspired by a roll of the Story Dice and fueled by coffee.

<Announcer>Coffee: Because drinking creamer and sugar alone would just be silly.</Announcer>

Actually, I’m doing something a bit different this week. I’ve been on something of a self-improvement kick the last few weeks, reading The Nerdist Way and Your Money Or Your Life, both of which I intend to review in the future, and getting back into exercise.

I decided that I didn’t want to write just another steampunk flash fiction with a few cool concepts but not a lot of depth, but instead something more challenging, something with subtext and romance and other cool stuff that’s hard to do well.

While there is always room for improvement, I’m pleased with the results and hope you enjoy this week’s story.

One Star’s Honor

Dania tipped the silvery visor down the tip of her nose and peered with an arched eyebrow across the café table at her companion. The iridescent reflection of the midday glare off her eyewear danced across his face, and he bent forward to dodge the light. From where Dania sat, it looked almost as if Wuln were trying to squirm his way down into the book just to avoid talking to her. Really, who still read paper books nowadays?

“I know what you’re doing, Dani, and I don’t appreciate it,” Wuln muttered with a bare glance in her direction over the top of the book.

Typical. Leave it to Wuln to sulk when any sane human would be bouncing with glee. “Sweets,” she rumbled as she pushed down the book so she could see his face. “It’s an honor. Why can’t you see that?”

His gaze met hers, and he gave her the look he reserved for battles he knew couldn’t win, but was determined to fight anyway. “I don’t care if they’re going to make the whole empire stop what they’re doing and spend an hour chanting about what I did and how handsome I am. I’m not going.”

A smile flashed Dania’s lips as she trailed the back of a claw along one of his fingers. “They don’t give out medals for being handsome.”

Though he was, and if the company ever started giving out medals for the most human sentients, Dania felt certain that Wuln would be the first recipient. Of course, she was a bit biased, but a wife deserved a few pardons when it came to such things.

Wuln scrunched up his nose at her, but did not pull his hand away. In fact, his cheeks pinkened a touch and his scent grew more acute, causing her to shiver. “No, but you know what I mean. It’s not a big deal. Really.”

That claw trailed up his palm, and she savored the warmth of his bare skin against the short hairs on the back of her hand. “I could make it an order.”

“You wouldn’t.”

By Sage, he could be stubborn. Dania laid her palm against his and caressed one of his fingertips with the edge of a claw as she rested a foot against his beneath the table. “No. I suppose I wouldn’t, but there’s no reason to be so swine-headed about this. Two hours. That’s all. Just be embarrassed for two hours, and then you’ll come home and we can pretend it never happened.”

Fingertips slid back against her claws as Wuln sighed. “They’re going to make me wear the whites. I hate wearing the whites.”

A soft chuckle bubbled up from deep in her belly. “I know you do, but you look so good in them. And it’s just for one night.”

“If I spill something, it’s going to stain.”

“When have you ever spilled anything?”

A temporary reprieve arrived in the form of lunch, delivered by a stick-thin human waitress with an altogether too-long mane for her tiny frame. Dania beamed inwardly that the excessive amount of bare skin displayed by the server did nothing to draw Wuln’s attention, though it grated that he took the opportunity to shield himself once more with that book.

She would need to take another approach. The near-intoxicating aroma of her mate’s desire indicated that her physical teasing had certainly had an effect, if not the intended result. Still, Wuln had given so much to the company in his years of service, and if they finally saw fit to show him even a fraction of the respect he deserved, she would not let that opportunity pass. Loving her had already cost him too much.

Neither spoke until their platters were nearly empty. Then he murmured, almost too softly to hear, “It’s not right. If I can’t take you with me, I don’t want to go. You’re not just my chef, you’re my wife. If anyone deserves to be there with me, it’s you.”

Dania whispered a soft sigh and stretched across the table to caress his cheek. “You sweet, stubborn, stupid man. Right now, it doesn’t matter what’s right or wrong. We’re together, and nothing they do or say can change that. Times will change, and things will get better, but for now, we take whatever victories we can, and it that means I have to stay home and make dinner while you listen to a dozen boring speeches about how good your béarnaise is while they give you your first Michelin, I’ll take it.”

Wuln kissed and nuzzled her palm before taking her hand in his and sliding it down to cover his heart. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

She could almost feel his heart chanting her name as she fell into his gaze. Slowly, she smiled. “Well, I have to admit that your béarnaise is pretty good.”

He snorted, but the tiny smile curling at the edges of his lips signaled her victory. “Fine. You win. I’ll go, but I’m not going to enjoy a moment of it.”

Dania felt her whole face brighten, and saw it reflected in Wuln’s own smile. “Just don’t eat too much of the slop they serve at the head table. I’ll have a feast waiting when you get home.”

“Yes, Chef.”

So, how do you think it turned out? Admittedly, I don’t have a lot of experience writing romance, but it was an interesting challenge and I plan to do more of it in the future.

Let me know your thoughts in the comments below, and make sure to share this story though your favorite flavor of social media (I like strawberry cheesecake Twitter; it’s a lot of calories, but it’s full of Gundams and Sailor Scouts).

Flash Fiction Friday: An Ocean Without Rails

Wow, three weeks in a row of Flash Fiction Friday. This is actually turning into a regular thing. This week, the Story Dice gave me a ship, a stag, and a train. As is my wont, I wrote up a bit of steam-inspired flash, which I have shared below.

Fair bit of warning, though: I’m super crunched for time this week, so I have not had any time to edit or proof this week’s story before posting it. As is the case with all first drafts, errors are likely to abound, misspellings litter the landscape like discarded Taco Bell wrappers on a frat house floor, and you may find your first look at one of my first drafts terrifying.

But take heart, gentle reader. Know that no matter how much suffering may be wrought by this unpolished prose, J and I will be seeing Nightwish in concert and celebrating our seventeenth anniversary. It’s going to be awesome.

Onward, into the wild frontier of the first draft!

An Ocean Without Rails

It had been often said that only the bravest or most foolhardy of men would dare attempt to cross the great salt sea. Once upon a time, Captain Shu Xi had been one of those men, bursting with tales of the wonders and dangers lurking among and beneath those waves. That was a time when men sailed by the stars, risked death each time he set out into the blue, and then came home filthy, half-starved, and barely able to remember what a woman looked like.

Then someone invented the damned steamship and ruined everyone’s fun.

It had taken two years of poverty and the threat of losing his ship before he’d finally given in and had it retooled with a steam engine that took up most of the cargo bay and a massive propeller so he could keep up with all the fancy new cargo ships his competitors had taken to using. Of course, the lack of cargo space meant he had to improvise how to actually drag his goods from port to port.

Shu scaled the ladder to the crow’s nest to survey the long line of barges stretching nearly a quarter mile behind. Each one connected to the next through a series of steel cables, rigging, and half a hundred different clamps, pulleys, and good old-fashioned knots. From so high, his crew looked like little more than distant ants, scurrying to and fro as they tightened and adjusted the myriad of webbing needed to keep the waves from tearing his aquatic locomotive to pieces.

The corners of his lips pulled downward as he spied a cluster of men two barges away. It looked as if they were in a brawl or some other struggle. He pulled a spyglass from his vest pocket and swung it around to face the disturbance. What he saw made him swear under his breath and slide down the ladder, already calling out to the first mate to watch the bridge before leaping into the wiring connecting the ship with the first barge.

A litany of curses rampaged through his consciousness. Someone on that barge didn’t do his job, and now the entire voyage was at risk. If somehow they lived to see shore again, Shu would make his displeasure obvious in the most physical manner. But before that, they needed to get it locked back up.

He dropped to the deck of the first barge and barreled his way toward the second, weaving in and out to dodge the crew and shouting, “Out of the way!” to warn them aside.

First, he heard the shouting. Must have been a dozen men trying to subdue the beast, and it didn’t sound like they were having much success. He almost stopped cold when he heard the monster’s cry, a bellow of frustration and rage that shook his bones made his heart stutter. A deep breath steeled his resolve, and he redoubled his efforts, fists clenched at his sides as he charged ahead.

When he reached the aft railing, he leapt again, fingers stretched toward the mess of cables leading to his destination. Rough, corded steel slipped along his fingers before he found purchase, but then gave way as the cable snapped and he dropped face-first into the churning saline waves.

The impact blew the air from his lungs and allowed seawater to rush in to fill the void. Shu coughed, sputtered and heaved, desperately working to clear his airways he bounced along between the barges, dragged along by nothing more than his iron grip on the snapped cable.

“Man overboard!” someone called out from above.

The edges of his vision blurred and began to darken. No help would be coming. The first barge’s first concern would be to ensure that the rest of the cables remained intact and the train did not come apart, and the second barge had much bigger problems, the sounds of which still reached him, even as the waves rolled over him again and again.

After coughing up enough salt water to allow a breath, Shu shook his head to no avail, trying to cast off the creeping darkness that both worked to limit his vision and weaken his body. He was a man of the sea, and he would not allow a bit of water to be his end.

He began to climb.

Every muscle howled in protest, and the burning of that effort spread quickly, through his arms and down his torso and into his legs. It would have been easy, so seductively easy, to just let go and give himself to the sea. It would claim him eventually, he had no doubt, but not today. Not while he had a cargo to deliver and men under his protection.

One hand over the other, he made his way up. Legs wrapped around the cable and held on tight each time the slippery steel threatened to elude his grasp. More than once, the cable slipped through his fingers and he had to scramble to regain his grip. Below, the waves beckoned, promising a long sleep. Gods, he was tired. With every meter’s progress, sleep sounded better and better, but not now. He had a job to do, and he’d be damned if he let it go undone.

It felt like a year had passed by the time Shy stumbled over the railing. The blackness threatened to overwhelm him now. Through the haze, he saw his crew struggling with the beast, a four-legged brute covered in course fur and crowned with a nest of shimmering silver antlers. Silver flashed as it thrashed, barely held by a dozen ropes as it lashed out with hoof and great swings of its head. For the most part, the crew appeared to have avoided injury, but they would lose the battle before long.

Shu coughed again, spattering the deck with another mouthful of salt water before hooking an arm over the railing and hauling himself to his feet. His gaze locked with the massive stag as he shambled forward. Fury raged within those eyes, and now it fixed squarely on him.

He grimaced as he stepped forward. While he kept the beast’s attention two more ropes hooked around its neck, holding it more securely, but still not enough. It snorted and bellowed and tried to rear up, but somehow the crew fast.

When he reached the creature, Shu turned back, then spun toward it, fist outstretched as he threw his entire body into the swing. Bones snapped upon impact, and a surge of pain shot through his arm that nearly took him off his feet. With a roar that sounded tinged with surprise, the stag fell, unconscious.

Shu couldn’t see anything now beyond a hazy mess of fur on the deck surrounded by blackness. He knew he was about to pass out. The body could only take so much, and a broken hand combined with his previous lack of oxygen seemed to be his limit. He gave the order to have the beast taken back down below, and then he slept.

So, what did you think? What sort of story would you put together based on this week’s dice roll? Let me know in the comments below, and remember to Like and Share. Thanks for reading!

Flash Fiction Fridays: A Gentle Breeze I Swear

Flash Fiction Fridays: A Gentle Breeze, I Swear

Last week, I challenged myself to write a new piece of original flash fiction every Friday based on a roll of the Story Dice. The idea behind this was to get my butt in the chair and actually get back to writing, as opposed to my original authorial plan for the past year, which has been to read books on writing and think about how oh-so-nice it would be to have a dozen books under my belt and legions of fans all clambering for another. Believe me, it was awesome.

And you know what the best part of that plan was? It didn’t require any actual effort. Just a dream, a little imagination, a liter of unacknowledged self-doubt, and a great mountain of laziness that just begs you to say, Eh, I’ll do it tomorrow.

To be completely honest, I wasn’t sure I’d actually make it to a second week, but, surprisingly, here it is, fresh and steaming from the bread oven where I keep my brain. For the second week in a row, for your reading…let’s say pleasure…is this week’s installment of Flash Fiction Fridays.

Strap yourselves in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

A Gentle Breeze, I Swear

Risti bent over the wheel and braced herself against the wind. All around, the crew struggled to secure the airship, tightening and rearranging the massive spiderweb of cabling that connected the hull to the great balloon above, lest one of them snap and they all make a real quick descent. Through the rain, she saw their mouths move as they called out to each other, but the storm stole the sound of their voices before any could reach her.

She would kill him if they lived through this. Really ain’t gonna be more than a little wind and a few drops of rain, he’d cajoled. Come on now, Risti. There’s money to be made on this cargo, and you well on know that there ain’t no ship here that don’t want the job.

The wheel jerked, and a gust of wind tossed the ship sideways. For a moment, she was airborne, dragged along with the ship by nothing more than a white-knuckled grip on the wheel and the rope that tied her to the steering console. The rope dug into her frame, and any gratitude for its presence was lost in the irrational thought that it might cut her in two. But as soon as she lifted off the ground, was was forcefully reacquainted with the deck in a face-first sort of manner.

The world swam, spinning far more than seemed reasonable. And not just the world. The wheel spun back and forth as the ship twisted out of control, thrown to and fro by the swirling gale. Lightning flashed, and everything seemed to slow down as the ship was flung sideways once more. The wet grain of the wooden deck slipped against her fingers as she slid away, struggling for purchase.

In the distance, one of the crew was launched into the air as the knot tying the rope around his waist came undone. Limbs flailed in every direction as he streaked past. She’d already given him up for gone when he collided with one of the overhead cables and somehow managed to hold on. His body whipped around like a flag, but somehow he managed to maintain his grip long enough for to slide back down to the deck.

Lucky bastard, Risti thought as she crawled back toward the wheel, clawing for any purchase she could find against the soaked deck and finding little more than the bare seams between planks and the occasional loose nail. He’ll be more careful with his knots from now on.

By the time she hauled herself back to her feet and regained control of the wheel, her arms burned, the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, and loose strands of hair plastered across her goggles, obscuring what little visibility she had. The ship couldn’t last much longer in this storm. She had to get under the worst of it if they were going to have any chance at making it to breakfast.

She wrapped an arm around the wheel and waved at the kharren first mate. When she had his attention, she jabbed her hand repeatedly downward toward the deck. He nodded in understanding, and then began relaying her order to the rest of the crew.

Once everyone understood, she pulled the levers on either side of the console to vent the fore and aft air bladders. Her stomach lurched as the ship dropped, losing altitude at a disconcerting rate. Swirling masses of cloud rushed up all around as the ship plummeted toward a desert floor still invisible through the storm.

And then she saw it, the normally pristine sand awash with the only rain it would likely see for the next year, and far too close for comfort. Risti slammed the bladder vents shut and pulled another lever to signal the engine room to stoke the boiler to full. If they didn’t regain some lift right quick, they were in for a landing the likes of which they were unlikely to walk away from.

The ground swept up toward them. They were too close. Not enough time to build the lift she needed to pull out of the dive. She cried out, ordering everyone to hold on, and then she spun the wheel all the way to the left, nearly turning the ship sideways as it spun into a wild corkscrew. While it did the trick of slowing the actual descent, it had quite the opposite effect on the meager contents of her stomach. She just hoped they wouldn’t make an appearance before all was said and done.

Closer. Closer. Windblown sand stung the exposed portions of her face and coated her teeth. She spat and sputtered, but did not loosen her grip. Still, the combination of wet wood and the force of their spin were too much to overcome. The wheel slipped free, and she tumbled to the ground. With a deep breath and a silent prayer, Risti closed her eyes and waited for the end.

Only the impact never came.

Every muscle groaned with protest as Risti pushed herself up enough to see the desert around her. Sand still bit into her skin, carried by the swirling masses of wind, but at least the ship was stable, even if it was only a dozen meters off the ground. She turned away from the wind and heaved a slow, measured breath before calling out for a damage report.

She wouldn’t kill him. Of course she wouldn’t…but imagining all the different ways she might do so would certainly be entertaining.

So, what did you think of this week’s story? Let me know in the comments below, and be sure to Like and Share this post with your friends. Thanks for reading!

Flash Fiction Fridays By Ram Or By Sea

Flash Fiction Fridays: By Ram Or By Sea

One of the problems that I constantly run into in my writing journey is looking down the long road of novel writing and thinking, Eh, I’ll start tomorrow. It’s going to take forever to finish, so one more day won’t hurt. One day leads to another, then another, and before long, an entire year’s gone by and I have nothing to show for it other than blank pages and stacks of empty taco wrappers. (What, you mean you throw out your taco wrappers more than once a year? Now that’s ambitious.) One of the tools I’ve found to get the creative blood pumping and remind the muse that there’s more to life than tacos and anime marathons (those are awesome) is flash fiction.

And do you know what the best part of flash fiction is? It doesn’t take long to write and you’re done in a flash! (Get it? A flash? Eh, never mind.)

So, my plan is to periodically (every Friday if I’m industrious; less often if not) write and post a bit of flash fiction here for you to endure enjoy. And where will I find the constant stream of ideas necessary for such a monumentous (it’s a word now) undertaking of unpolished prose? The app Story Dice. Each time I sit down to write flash fiction, I’m going to pull up the app and write based on whatever dice come up. For this week’s piece, it gave me the image you see above. Sometimes the best way to get things done is Under Pressure.

Now I hear David Bowie and Freddy Mercury singing. Great song, Under Pressure, and talking about it lets me put off the actual writing for a few moments.

*bobs head and listens*

Oh, fine. Here we go:

By Ram Or By Sea

Menel spread his arms to better feel the caress of the winds against his skin. From his perch, he could see the entire valley spread below him. The distant village, tucked in the shadow of the opposite ridge, appeared as little more than a circle of toadstools rung clustered around a central pond.

His memory swam with stories of that pond and the homes surrounding it, stories of misspent youth, lazy afternoons that stretched into infinity, of lost loves and half-forgotten relations, of old friends long-gone. No one lived there now. The toadstools stood empty, silent guardians of a history that existed only within him, and he would carry them wherever the winds deemed to carry him.

The river of thought broke upon the rocks as the bleating of his companion dragged Menel back into the present. A reflexive smile that did not quite touch his heart stretched his lips, and he pulled his gaze away for the last time to focus on his friend.

“There, now,” he cooed to the battle ram as he scratched deep within the wool behind a black ear. “I did not go far.”

The ram bleated again, a long, low rumble as he turned his head into Menel’s hand. That cold smile warmed at the sound. Such a simple pleasure, a moment between friends who had seen more than either wished and still had so many miles to go. That his steed could still take joy in such a simple thing as a scratch, despite the long road in front of them, Menel could not help but share some small piece of it.

Animals are not so dumb as people think. There is always a lesson, if we take the time to listen.

He touched his forehead to the ram’s and raised a hand so he might scratch behind both ears at once. He shut his eyes and tried to lose himself in the scent of oiled armor mixed with the natural odor of wool, the prickling of the short black hairs of the ram’s face against his, and the sound of pleasure at the scratching, but he could still hear feel the village pulling at him.

It begged him to stay with words that had no sound. It did not want to be left behind, lost to new growth and, perhaps in time, new stories of new people who did not know the other had ever existed. He could see it as clearly in his mind, a portrait of the past that held so many years of joy, tears, and a thousand other emotions with and without names.

But it would only be a portrait, a single frame that did not reflect the decay, the loss, everything that had been left behind. A portrait he could take with him. He could close his eyes and gaze upon the past whenever he chose, but if they were to survive, he had to keep moving forward.

He would have another name, another life, and when those who knew it passed on at the end of their short years, he would do it all over again. They both would, as they had done since the first light of the first dawn kissed the earth and gave it life. And they would continue to do so until the final sunset, when they would finally be allowed to rest.

The portrait faded as Menel drew back and opened his eyes, meeting the doe-eyed gaze of his oldest friend. He did not glance back to the village. He tucked it away in his heart among the countless others he had known in his long years.

The ram bleated again, and no nodded. “Yes, old friend. It is time we moved on.”

He swung up onto the saddle and urged the ram forward. He picked his way along the mountainside, leaving that valley and its ring of toadstools behind them. Across the next horizon, they would find another home. New memories. Stories he had heard before, but were always new. Finally, he smiled. He always did love a new story.

So, what did you think? Please comment below and share with your friends. Thanks for reading!

Book Review: Take Off Your Pants! By Libbie Hawker

Book Review: Take Off Your Pants! by Libbie Hawker

Like many authors, I’ve worked my way through all manner of craft books in an attempt to streamline my process and make it easier to convince a reluctant muse to give up the story for whatever project I happen to be working on. From Million Dollar Outlines to On Writing to Writing the Breakout Novel and beyond, every one of them offered valuable insights on how to proceed, but none of them helped me convince that stubborn muse to loosen her grip. As I discuss in today’s book review, Take Off Your Pants! By Libbie Hawker may have done just that.

By The Power Of Greysk…Tone!

Like On Writing, Take Off Your Pants! speaks to the reader in a conversational tone that lets the education you’re receiving sneak up on you and lodge itself in your grey matter while you feel that you’re receiving an entertaining lecture from a favorite teacher. In fact, by the time you’ve learned about the three-legged outline and the importance of your character’s flaw, you feel ready to launch yourself into the sky, leaving a trail of rainbows and brilliant prose in your wake.

Of course, like any undertrained superhero who doesn’t actually know how to fly, you’re more likely to splat against a wall like Wile E. Coyote than you are to suddenly discover your inner Shakespeare. (Little-known fact: Shakespeare moonlighted as a superhero called The Tempest. No, really, look it up). But if you can keep reading and not rush off to fight crime write your masterpiece, that powerful sense of…um…empowerment…will help get you over that total lack of confidence responsible for word-paralysis among author-kind.

Something Old, Something New, Something Something, Something With Words

As I said a few inches above, I’ve gone through a lot of craft books over the years. If you’ve also read through the entire shelf on writing in the bookstore, there is going to be a lot of familiar ground that you will recognize as you make your way across the landscape of Hawker’s book. But you’ll also come across quite a bit of new snippets of information, golden acorns of writerly goodness that might make you shout, “Eureka!” if you were inclined to do such a thing.

Even though there is quite a bit of similar material as other books, the way Hawker breaks it down and presents it to the reader shaves off the intimidating edges and leaves with you plush, friendly instructions that you can snuggle with while you make up stories of mayhem and destruction. The presentation is excellent, and it brings everything together in a way that’s easy to understand and apply.

You Can Keep Your Pants On (Or Not)

I’m going to risk a brief sojourn into the DMZ between the Republic of Pantsers and the Plotter Kingdom to explain how Hawker addresses the never-ending battle between writers that has raged since two cavemen disagreed about how to tell the others about how they caught that totally awesome caribou they’re dragging back to the cave until they were both eaten by prehistoric wolves. At the risk of betraying my own allegiance to the Plotters, I have to say that Hawker bridged the divide with as much diplomacy as is possible.

While she does focus on a few aspects that she deems critical to a cohesive, successful story (a major flaw, a character arc trying to overcome it, seventeen bottles of wine, etc), she there is no absolute insistence that every little thing needs to be plotted to death ahead of time. Plenty of room is left for writers to enjoy their pants as much as they want. On the other hand, if you prefer to write sans-trousers, she outlines (get it?) a method to get everything down ahead of time so you can breeze through your first draft with all due speed.

Triangles. Lots of Triangles

This method is primarily based on the concept of plot being structured like an inverted triangle, with individual chapters and scenes broken down into smaller triangles that you stuff into the bigger ones like so many slices of literary pie. This is a great way of describing the theory of limiting options and driving the character towards the goal, but I don’t feel that enough time was spent on how to actually accomplish this.

While this doesn’t prevent it from still being an excellent book, it does mean that it’s not the One Outlining Book to rule them all, and you will still need to supplement with other books to get a good grasp on three-act structure, different plot shapes, and how best to lay out your actual plot once you have the story down. It’s not a huge criticism, but it bears noting.

Please, Miss, May I Have Some More?

At just about every step of the way, Hawker provides examples of the device she is describing. Most of these examples focus on Lolita, Charlotte’s Web, and her own book, Tidewater. These examples go a long way toward helping you understand how to apply what she’s talking about, but including a few more would have been very helpful, especially toward the end of the book when she gets into plotting and pacing.

Take Off Your Pants! is by no means the perfect outlining book. It takes a number of familiar concepts and presents them in a friendly, actionable way that empowers the writer and makes you feel like this whole writing thing is easy. While it could use some additional examples and an expanded section on the actual plotting portion, there is something in it for everyone, and it has become by far my favorite book on outlining. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the muse is smiling at me and playing with a cootie catcher. I think she wants to tell me a story.

We Are Go For Launch!

After several revisions, a bucket of elbow grease, and a particularly difficult delve into the dungeon of design, the new and improved TRGoodman.net is finally ready for prime time. I’m quite happy with how it turned out, and I hope to fill it with all sorts of interesting and entertaining content, from flash fiction to musings on the true meaning of peanut butter to all the new books and stories I hope to release.

So, what do you think of the new design compared to the old one? Better? Worse? Is there anything you’re looking forward to seeing on these pages in the future? Let me know in the comments below.