At the beginning of November, 2016, I began a story. As with every story I had written so far, minus "Shadows in the Afternoon" which was set in its length due to form and "In A Meadow" which was constrained through the structure of the adaptation, I had no restraints upon what I did. I just wrote and thus the lengths "My Thoughts on What Happened to Timmy Carmichael", "I'll Always be With You, Boys", and "The Little Metal Man". I was not conceptualizing the stories in whole but instead just writing until things came to an end. It was sloppy and undisciplined.
In these early days of these Tales, as I was gathering ideas, one of those came as I drove home late one night. It was either from work or taking my daughter to spend the weekend at her mother's, but whatever the reason, I had pulled off on the final stretch home. Two miles from civilization up the winding mountain road I live, there is a turnoff that I used to often stop at and burn a cigarette while strolling around the empty, dirt lot there. It is here I would stop often, especially in dry weather, for my last cigarette before home. There was no moon that night.
There are mountain lions where I live. There are bears and bobcats and coyotes as well and I've seen all of these either driving home or, luckily only coyotes and bobcats, on my long forest walks. My best encounter with a coyote was as I was taking a break from chopping wood standing in under the shed's eave while a gentle rain fell. She was just trotting up without a care and apparently didn't see me as I stood there. When I said "good morning" as she neared within 20 yards, she stopped, turned and walked back to the ford, crossed the creek and resumed her journey. With a bobcat, it was on another walk and we each just sat down and watched each other... until I started desiring a better photo and began creeping near. Alas, other hikers were nearing and when I turned my head, the cat was gone and I was left to explain why I was crawling through the forest.
The lions though, yeah, I sometimes forget to carry a bayonet when I walk and I really shouldn't. Critter cams from neighbors up here feature them quite often and apparently one has made the old Walker Kiln a den at times. It was as I was standing in the pitch black of a deep forest, the stars the only light, that the idea leapt at me, dragged me back into the car and set upon me. This was the idea that got me 'cause, well, if a lion did strike at the moment the idea struck, my only defense would have been to fall back in my car (with window open) and scramble for the bayonet beneath the seat.
When I decided on "Anger" to write, I had nothing other than that. What resulted is something of a victory as well as a problem. In fact, there are a few private victories in this story as well as a few private failures. The first failure I'll mention is the length at 21,807 words. The victory associated is that it was finished in three months time. The story is slow and no matter how many times I go over it, I cannot find means to shorten it and the pacing, ultimately it works. It is a detailed deconstruction of a character though I fear there is no market for this. It is though a part of the legacy of the Bajazid and from the geography of this story others have taken form.
"Anger" draws to some degree, or quite a bit, on personal experience. While the experiences of this individual are not mine, they are those of others I know such as my brother and men I've known and worked with. For example, disappearing into the forest for a spell during the stresses of one's world falling apart is based on the experiences of at least two I know. The altercations and such he experiences are not mine, but ones who related their tales to me.
I make no excuses for this character, one whom I actually have no name for. Seriously, he is not named at all in his own story and I have never had reason to reference him, at least by name, in anything else. I honestly don't know who this guy is even though I know his whole life's story. But again, I make no excuses for him. No one is a saint and no one is a sinner in whole either way and the stresses that can weigh upon a man, those generally dismissed because men are supposed to be tough and just deal with it, alter a person. I hope I gave this individual whose name I may never know a story worthy, regardless of the horror that ultimately waits.
"Anger" was my 7th story and while it was begun in 2016, it was finished January 2017 so it sits as the first story of that year but it marks an end to the first chapter of my pretense at writing. It was while I was halfway through this piece that I paused one morning and pulled out "In A Meadow". As it was the first story of 2017, it represented a beginning, a commitment to that goal of writing at least one story a month. To achieve that, I knew I would have to radically change what I was doing, how and why.
That is when I saw a call for submissions from a publication called WeirdBook looking for stories about witches and holding firm at 7,000 words maximum length. That is when my writing changed from a simple pastime to amuse myself into a goal to complete, to assuage the growing chorus that demanded my attentions at every hour of the day.
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