Happy 2019! A new year often calls for resolutions, and I’m giving them a shot this year. Several of my resolutions have to do with writing, of course. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:
I feel most of the resolutions are pretty self-explanatory. I’m seriously overweight, and 20 pounds seems doable in a year. I’m hard at work on book 5 and have a rough outline for book 6 ready, so I should be able to self-publish two books this year. Resolutions #3 and #6 are connected: if I can market my books more effectively, I can sell more books. Running a 5K is tied up with the weight loss. And finally, I want to get back to recording songs again. I recorded a couple last year that I was very happy with, and this year I’d like to get several more in the can.
So, those are my resolutions. What are yours?
It’s popular across the internet to bag on Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” as the worst Christmas song ever. It sounds like it was written in ten minutes on a dare with a Casio keyboard as the only instrument allowed. And it is, objectively, a terrible song. I myself have used it on multiple occasions to torture students.
But there are worse holiday songs out there. Oh, so much worse. I’d personally like to nominate “Little Drummer Boy” as the worst of the worst. It’s got it all: ridiculous repetition of the “pa-rum-pa-pum-pum” nonsense, a kid who thinks a woman who just gave birth needs to listen to a drum solo, and a slow, plodding tempo that leaves me wanting to pa-rum-pa-pum-punt the songwriter right into the Magi.
In fact, there’s only one version of the song I can stand: one done by Jars of Clay, the Contemporary Christian band famous for the song “Flood,” did as a charity single back in 1997.
The band sped things up a bit, turned the drums into a beat loop, and added some lovely folky acoustic instrumentation to the song. It’s still crap, but it’s listenable crap.
No, you haven’t posted here in, like, a month.
Okay, cards on the table, I fell off the radar for a bit there. It happens. I’m an introvert with social anxiety and depression who just, y’know, forgets that he has things like a website from time to time.
Anyway, I’m back! Yay! Mostly here to celebrate a milestone over at xeyeti.com, my daily webcomic website.
See, seven years ago, I posted a quick sketch I’d done with a goal for myself: draw something every day for a year. It quickly escalated into something else, and eventually into the comic that it is today. I went from hand-drawing everything to doing the sketches on an iPad to doing them on a Surface Pro. I’ve been doing this for longer than just about anything else in my life.
Next week, I’ll hit the 2000th image for the comic/sketch a day. Another big milestone. Maybe sometime next month I’ll finish up book 5? A man can dream.
I’ve talked before about how dumb I was as a young man (spoiler alert: real dumb). A prime example would be the following story:
In my first semester in college, I took a Biology class. It occurred right after my World History survey course and right before my Country and Line Dancing class (don’t ask). The class was pretty non-offensive, and it was taught by a lovely man named Dr. Doug Jeffries. He was short, bearded, and long-suffering, if only because he had morons like me in his classes. See, back then, I was pretty solidly Republican, with all the weird hang-ups that includes.
Including a revulsion to the Theory of Evolution.
So, Dr. Jeffries brings up evolution in class, and I immediately call him out on it. I am angry. I am feeling righteous. I’m all, “That ain’t in the Bible, yo, so it ain’t true.”
I don’t remember Dr. Jeffries’s exact words. I do remember his tone: weary and a little disappointed. He had more patience with me than I would have.
By the end of that semester, I was a very different person. I don’t think I ever got the chance to apologize for that outburst. I don’t think he would have expected or even necessarily wanted one. I do hope he didn’t spend the next few months hanging out with the other professors saying, “God, that Cottrell idiot. I have to teach him again on Monday.”
He passed over the weekend, I found out this morning. He was a good man, committed to teaching and the environment and his students. I hadn’t thought of that day in his class in years, but I remembered it this morning and cringed a bit.
God speed, Dr. Jeffries. Sorry I was an idiot.
Here at the school where I teach, the Slam Poetry/Literary Magazine Club has signs up asking the students to write three-sentence horror stories. I thought I’d try my hand at it.
Clarice folded her hands primly. Everything was ready. All that remained was for James to take a bite.
I mean, it kind of works, right? There’s a sense of dread there, a sense of anticipation. I think I can do better.
“There’s no such thing as monsters under the bed,” father said as he turned off the light.
“He must be right,” little Johnny said to himself.
“Yes, he must,” replied something.
Let’s try another one:
Charlene cackled. It was time. She lit the fire under the cauldron and waited.
She’d lived in fear for eleven years. Always looking over her shoulder. She should have done that today, too.
James’s hands shook, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. His victim already hung from the rack. It was just a matter now of turning the screws.
What do you think? Have a three-sentence horror story of your own? Share them in the comments or tweet them at me @XEYeti with the hashtag #3sentencehorrorstory.
The match was going fine until the demon luchadores showed up.
Big whoop. Who among us doesn’t have cloven hooves, hmm?