a mind is a terrible thing to ... hey, look at that rock!
i'll usually be walking down the street either from or to
work when an idea pops into my head - a scene, perhaps, or
even a line of dialogue, communication between characters.
and like a ditz, i usually forget it by the time i encounter
a computer or any sort of writing implement.
to that point i'm incredibly jealous of my bud throm, to
whom some extraordinary writing comes so naturally and
offhand. i remember him at my computer, checking out
x-files sites after sites and then stopping at some fanfic
site. 'jesus christ! how can people write such crap?' was
the comment i heard from him, as he clicked through link
after link, laughing hysterically at what he'd found at the
'you think you can do any better?' i asked.
'is that a challenge?'
'you know what they say about critics who can't' i
two weeks later, the first five chapters of 'dea ex
machina', all first draft, landed in my mailbox. i knew
he'd do something, as he never backed down from a challenge.
it was one of those ego things. i was prepared to dissect
it, to point out that 'it wasn't so easy, eh?' and i ended
up eating my words because, though parts of it were a little
heavy on the sturm und drang and littered with unnecessary
swear words and the occasional misspelling, i was stunned.
'dea' was full of thick, vibrant details, sights, scents,
fueled by an underpinning sense of anger and hopelessness.
it _was_ mulder, and it _was_ scully dealing with the
cancer, the inevitable end that threatened to consume them
frankly, i didn't think this kind of output was capable from
a guy whose main purpose in life was to climb every rock
face in the world. this was the self-proclaimed 'dumb jock'
who rode his motorcycle without a helmet, played and partied
regularly, and cycled through more women than your average
hair salon. on the other hand, i don't know of that many
dumb jocks whose regular reading includes pynchon and
i asked him where he picked up his writing, because it's so
freaking hard for me, and he simply shrugged, 'eh, you write
what you know. the rest you make up.'
sometimes you never know about a person until you read what
'dea ex machina' can be found at: