Saturday, June 25, 2011

... The Nerve ...

No, not THAT nerve...

Anyway, you know that this blog is for mostly writing. However, there's going to be times when I see the stupid things people do, and when I see those stupid people doing those stupid things, I'm going to rant about about it here. This might happen a lot, cause, well, people are stupid. I promise to try to keep this as rant-free as possible. But yes, an occasional rant will occur. This is one of those times.

So I'm walking my dog in the morning as usual with my friend Riley. It's a nice day, the sun was out, and the weather was perfect for a summer morning. So we're just walking and talking about what's been going on recently, when this fat ass lady walks by us. Now this lady is familiar, mind you, so I've seen her walking around the neighborhood before. So my friend and I move along to the side because, well, that's the polite thing to do. So our dogs act like dogs and go up and sniff her. They don't bite her nor do they harm her in any which way or form. This is when I got angry.

When our dogs go up to sniff her, she makes this huge huffing sound that sounded like a freaking walrus, rolls her eyes, and says, "Come on, man!" Mind you these are not huge dogs ( as I've said before, I have a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and my neighbor gas a Jack Russel Terrier), so it's not like they look like some crazed derangied wildebeests. They are these tiny cute dogs that you could cuddle forever. I don't know, maybe she had some right to be mad, but i just thought she needed to calm the hell down.

I could understand her dilemma if the dogs were big dogs. I really hate big dogs because they can be really mean and nasty. My poor dog received a torn ligament on his left leg because a bigger dog attacked him (needless to say, I kicked the other dog in the face; the owner got mad at me. The nerve ...). Now my dog needs surgery, but we can't afford it, so he has to deal with it. It's sad, because sometimes it gets really bad, and he can't even walk. This has led to my hatred of bigger dogs.

And for some reason that no one knows, people have huge dogs in my neighborhood! WHY, I ASK?!?! "Uhhh, they help protect against robbers..." NO THEY DON'T! It's been scientifically proven via testing that ANY dog INCLUDING police dogs will succumb to the delicious dog treat. Having a bigger dog = ruining your house. Every house I see in my neighborhood that houses a bigger dog has broken fences and it ruins the quality of our once beautiful home. Ugh, it makes me sick.

So that's pretty much my rant for today. Go have fun and heal all the little cute puppies in the world!


Thursday, June 23, 2011

"New Manuscript"

Hey Gang,

So now that I'm done with that bull shit, I can finally move on to what the purpose of this blog is; writing.

Shortly after I typed up that short, sweet, and boring intro, I remembered a project I was working on way back in the beginning of April. I never got far enough into the story to associate a name with it, so I nicknamed the project "New Manuscript". The funny thing is, I couldn't even explain to you what the story was about even if I tried. I never really planned for a story arc with this project, which is a big reason in my opinion why it failed. It seemed to lead to a dead end.

So I pulled up this long put-away project and took a simple glance at it to be completely disgusted. See for yourself:

Air filled my lungs like helium into a balloon.

My eyes slowly opened, examining my environment. I had no idea where I was; the large trees and densely-packed area of forest an alien landscape to my foreign body. It was night; wolves howled in the distance, calling my name. The surrounding trees were unfamiliar and strange, stretching far beyond my line of sight.

It was then I realized the crashed air plane around me. I couldn’t remember where I was going or with whom; I could only remember boarding the plane. My seat belt was still buckled, and I was parallel to the ground. I was up-side down, and my blood rushed to my head, which throbbed because of it. The eerie skeleton of the plane burned quietly, slowly turning to ash. I still couldn’t figure out where I was or why I was even on that damn plane, but I felt like I had to get out of there. I almost had the feeling that someone, or something, was watching me, waiting for death to sweep me away so it could sink its teeth into my flesh.

Old memories flew in my head, passing like swift ravens pecking at my dead brain. I still had the feeling that someone was watching me, waiting to strike. A chill ran furiously up and down my spine. What if Mable were on the plane? What if she didn’t make it out of the plane alive? I couldn’t remember if I boarded the plane with anyone other than myself, although I was quite sure I was here alone. There were no noises now, only silence. Silence occupancied by darkness.

It was time to get to work. I tried the belt buckle. It made a horrible noise, obviously hinting that it was jammed. If I were getting out alive, I’d need something sharp to cut the belt. I looked around for a knife, or even a piece of sharp metal. There was nothing. My only other option was to try to work my way out of the seat. Not too far ahead of me was a rope. It seemed odd that a rope would find itself dangling off the ruins of the plane, but I wasn’t going to question an escape if it meant getting out alive. I reached for the rope and tugged on it. It was taut.

If I was getting out of here, this was my chance. I pulled the rope harder. My legs were demolished from the crash, and squeezing them through the tight seat belt was truly unbearable. I had to go on, though. If Mable died at my fault, I’d never be able to live with myself. Better yet, I hoped she wasn’t even here with me.

I pulled on the rope harder, and let out a scream. Blood flowed down my legs, and I notice a gaping hole in my waste. A huge piece of glass disappeared into the gap, its edges sharp and threatening. With sever agony, I put a hand on the shard of glass and braced myself for the pain. I ripped I out, and pain danced around my hip like flames anxious to spread. I let out a scream, and the sound of vultures could be heard in the distance. Chucking the piece of glass aside, I grabbed the rope again and continued to pull.

It wasn’t long until I had pulled myself out and dropped to the ground. My head ached, my body was sore, and my feet were numb with blood loss. But I couldn’t sit there and fade away into nothing. There was nothing that could stop me from finding Mable. I would continue. I had to continue.

Just looking at this makes me want to run for a paper bag. Hell, I'm surprised my editor was willing to look at this. Anyway, that's the first page. Notice the obvious cliches such as, "...helium into a balloon," as well as the moods/ scenarios of the "distressed protagonist". It's very common for the main protagonist in a story to randomly wake up, barely alive, and start wondering about their loved ones. I must say, however, that I'm still very impressed with my work on figuring out an escape for the hero. I felt and still fell that I portrayed the scene well, including some gore as well as wits. Well ... maybe I could have come up with something better than a piece random rope (I know, VERY cliche!), but when I said "impressed", I meant more with the illustration rather than the actual escape.

More excerpt:

I got to my feet and started walking, the pain in my head buzzing. I walked out of the remaining shell of the plane, its dark body aglow with the mystical flames that never seemed to crackle or spread. It made me curious as to what exactly I was dealing with. I looked around, searching for someone, anyone, even a dead body to assure that I wasn’t alone. There was no one, dead or alive. I searched thoroughly through the wreckage for quite some time; as fast as my body could take me. My expedition of the massive mess ended at what was left of the pilot’s cabin.

If you’ve ever walked with across a far distance of land with a hemorrhaging gap of agony in your waist, you’d understand that Hell couldn’t burn worse. With every step I lost another few gallons of blood, and my vision began to fade. I felt light-headed, and I direly needed a First-Aid kit. I was hoping the pilot’s cabin would have something to help me out; usually in the movies they had an emergency kit handy.

As I climbed up the cabin, shadows danced across my eyes. I looked around for any sign of an emergency kit. I looked under the seats. There was nothing. I looked near the gages, and again, there was nothing. I cursed my bad luck, and started to leave the cabin when I noticed a tiny hatch on the wall near the entrance.

I limped over to the hatch, my sides and legs thoroughly soaked with sticky blood. I pulled on the handle of the latch. Jammed. I swore, my patience clearly worn thin. I looked around the room for something to open the hatch when something gleamed in the corner of my eye.

A crowbar bathed in blood was places on the cracked gauges of the plane. How has that gotten there? I was absolutely sure that wasn’t there when I’d just checked. I hobbled over to the crowbar and picked it up, the wet blood sticking to my hands. As I turned back to the hatch, a fierce and mighty rumble shook the cabin.

Wires fell out of the ceiling, electricity dangling from their damaged tips. They tangled together into a huge ball of plastic, copper, and electricity that guarded the hatch. My chance at survival was blocked, and I was doomed. There was no way my already broke body would be able to withstand the voltage of the terrifying ball of death. It’d fry my body into liquid Jell-O. The light from the electricity lit the little pilot’s cabin, and the floor became visible.

A trail of blood was clearly visible on the floor. But it was just a track of blood; there was something more. In fact, it wasn’t a trail at all. I realized that someone had written with blood on the floors, the huge and horrifying. I stepped back and fell, my face showing the true horror that rested inside me.

The blood spelled, “SACRIFICE” with an arrow pointing to the hatch. Whoever had written this clearly knew the wires would fall above the hatch. The amount of surprised that blossomed so furiously inside my body was tremendous. Someone wanted this plane to crash – they’d planned it!

But what choice did I have? It was die or a chance at survival, a chance at life, a chance to find Mable. My abductor was testing my bravery and endurance.

During this part of the story, I decided to make the crash more of a planed "game of survival" (very much like the Saw series). This hero (yeah, I never quite got to naming him; like I said, the project never really got far enough in development. Why don't we call him Hank?) has been dropped into this serial killer's web of darkness for some reason that's unknown. The murder has stolen Hank's wife Mable, and Hank must make some "sacrifices" in order to test exactly how far his love goes. Do I hear a Cliche rant starting?

Last bits of the story:

It was a test to gauge my passion for life and happiness. This was a test that I wouldn’t let myself fail. I boldly grabbed the crowbar which I had dropped when I fell and approached the hazardous hatch which emitted an eerie-blue light.

It was now or never. I brought the crowbar swiftly behind me, trying to gather all the momentum I could. Before I’d even given myself time to think about it, I swung the bar forward as fast as I could, aiming for the crevice where the hatch and the wall met. It was important that I wouldn’t let myself think about it; I know for a fact I wouldn’t have done it if I had. My journey would have ended right then and there. Sadly enough, this was just the beginning. The vibrations of the bar hitting the crevice rang through my hands.

The pain followed directly after.

It was possibly the least intelligent thing I’d ever done, thinking back on it afterward. I could have saved myself the suffering right then and there. But I was devoted. I was devoted to her. The pain of electrocution coursed through my veins like a raging tourist that wanted to see every corner of their destination. It paralyzed my muscles, and I was frozen in increasing pain that made me want to double over.

I heard her voice. It sounded so real. She told me to keep going. She wanted what I wanted, and I’d have to work for it. These words were like aloe to my morale; it burned to hear her voice so sad, but it gave me confidence. That goal could be reached, it was possible. But sacrifices were in order, prices that needed paying. And I would pay those prices.

I slowly pushed the crowbar forward with my remaining strength. The more I tried, the louder her voice became, sounding stronger and more confident. I was helping her in helping myself. After what seemed like forever, and when I didn’t think I could take anymore, the hatch opened. I flew backward, my body fried like French Fries that were left in boiling grease too long. In the hatch, I could see a bright red button, its shiny surface reflecting the light of the wires.

That pretty much finishes everything that was written. Again, this really made me throw up in my mouth when I read it over again, and then I thought, "What a great example to post on the new and shiny blog?" However, getting that feeling makes me happy. "Why the hell would being disgusted with your writing make you happy," you might ask me. Well, sure, it's frustrating when you write something but can't bring yourself to love it. Everyone gets that way. But it's also a sign that you're improving.

When you write something, look back on it, and see all the flaws, that shows your making progress. Sure, it's doesn't feel as good as I'm describing it, but that doesn't mean the sense of change and evolution isn't present. It's good to change and evolve, because our story-showing skills (that rant is a completely different one) change and evolve along with us. You should never look back on a story after a long period of time and love it just as much as you did when you were writing it, because that means you haven't changed.

See ya in the cafe,


About Me

Hey Gang,

So if you've somehow stumbled upon this site, I welcome you and urge you to look around! This is my new site where I can post different bits and pieces of my writing that I don't mind people "borrowing" so I can talk about what I was feeling when I wrote it and why I wrote it. I suppose, however, that it would be formal to introduce myself and tell you who I am.

My full name is Peter Anthony Venuti. I'm 16 years old (Birthday: May 18th, 1995) and I'm going into my Junior year in High School. I live with my bothersome sister and exhausted mother (my father's pretty much a careless jerk) as well as a loving Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Beau (ironically the name of my best friend). I love to play video games, mainly on my Xbox 360 and my PC. I discovered my passion for writing when I was 13 years old, and ever since I've been building my literary skills. I enjoy writing Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Romance (usually somehow intertwined).

If you haven't put the pieces together yet, the name of the blog is a spin-off of my name, P[eter] A[nthony] V[enuti]ed Destiny. I felt the word "Destiny" was the best way to go because of my place in a story. When a story unfolds in my crazy mind, I pave the destiny of my characters. As cruel or wicked as it may seem, they have no say in what's in store for them (at least, until they become close to me; then maybe they get a say in their destiny). Although it may be sad sometimes, I must leave my imprint and PAVe each character that comes along.

On this site I will try to post as frequently as possible, so check back every week or so. I also have a twitter (@PVenuti), so be sure to follow so you can check for updates on blog posts and random tweets. Also, I'd appreciate it if you could please spread the word. The more feedback I get, the better I can improve the site. Whether you're a hater, fan, or casual reader, I'll certainly enjoy reading up on how I can make this site better!

Thanks for tunin' in!

WIO (Write It Out)...