Wednesday, November 21, 2012

a blog about not blogging

I was reading an interview today. It made me stop and think. An answer said something about "being a writer before being a blogger." I guess it can mean several things.

I came on here (blogger) because I was serious about writing.

I wanted to publish my writing on here and that is it. Things changed. I was influenced. I've tried to blog but I don't even like reading people's blogs, so why write them? They're personal and are kind of invading. They're an extension of a Facebook status.

I don't want this to be that.
I don't want my site to be a "whoring" device for self-gain. I honestly don't. I am eager to find other writers. I want to give to the writing community as much as I want criticism.
I do not want to waste your time with my stupid published "to-do" lists. I'm no one important. Why do you care?
I do not want to tell people how to live their lives.
I do not want to tell people how many Jesus points I have tallied in the past month with my great and awesome deeds. I feel like I unintentionally did this several times and I am sorry. It is ugly even when I did it with honest intentions.

I do not want to be an overtly Christian blogger. If I stopped relating with non-Christians I am completely useless. We all are.

I will never shy away from sharing my faith. I will proudly talk about my God at all times. What I mean is: how do you think we sound when we go around telling people to read our "JESUS IS AWESOME, HE IS JUST SO MARVELOUS" blog posts? No one wants to read that. No one. I don't, and I feel exactly the way you do about God. How do you think someone who doesn't have the same beliefs think? We're supposed to put just the right amount of salt, Christian, not the whole fucking Island. Who are you writing to? Who is your audience? Is it God? Why must it be public then? Are you writing to one-up your little bible study friends? Or is it to impress your pastor?

This is my final "blog" post.
Everything I publish on here will be purely creative fiction.
I want to start finding other fiction writers and create a community.
This is going to be fun.
*I am not trying to stop you from blogging. I have to admit, some of you are pretty damn good at it. I am just making this decision for my site. I want you to be a badass and not care actually. Write what you want. Whatever makes you happy, I guess.*

Saturday, November 17, 2012

move along

I deactivated that thing about 50 times this year and about 10 times this week because I got a new laptop that automatically signed on to the messenger app.

I changed the password to adafdfadfa or adfadfdasfda not sure which one.

I don't know the password to my email so it's lost forever.

People addicted to it make me depressed.
For a while, I felt bad for students on it on campus.I don't know why people have to have the 411 on everything about everyone. Why are we so interested?

I think I used to appreaciate the updates but damn, just stop. I don't want to know all your shit. I don't. I don't. I don't.

Stop being so damn metiche.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Book Review

Alicia Gaspar De Alba : Desert Blood

Linda Hucheons in A Poetics of Postmodernism, describes the term metafiction as the”process of re-writing history through a work of fiction in a way that has not been previously recorded.” Alicia Gaspar De Alba uses the metafiction technique for many reasons which create a different effect than a simple and boring historic document. One way De Alba uses the metafiction technique is by using a third person limited omniscient narration, which gives the reader insight to some thoughts of the people in Desert Blood and completely raw scenes of murders, torment, torture and rape in the book, both (thoughts and scenes) are unique to the real-life murders in Ciudad Juarez. At the start of chapter forty, the reader gets exclusive insight to Irene’s thoughts,  “Irene could not remember how she’d gotten back to the red room. At some point, she must have fainted. She could still hear the howling and didn’t know if it was coyotes or the girl. Her stomach cramped, and she rolled sideways to vomit. There was already a pool of it on the floor, the smell and color of rust. She realized she was on top of the cot, not under it. She was naked.” The effects of this narration does to the reader are spectacular, it really is an art all in itself. First, you become attached to the characters by knowing their personality, their fears, their human flaws. Everything that occurs throughout the book is strategically put in place by De Alba. Writing this type of narration is probably the toughest. I’m glad a lot of students in the class appreciated it. The overwhelming affects of this narration however can sometimes be a bit too much for the reader because people don’t go around their daily lives knowing the thoughts of every single person they encounter. Desert Blood is considered to be written in limited omniscient narration because the reader does not know every character’s thoughts, but if De Alba limited us even more, perhaps it would be easier to swallow. Another reason why the book might have been overwhelming was because it was loaded with themes and controversial issues like: sexuality, adultery, racism, feminism, death, family etc. it is very similar to what Anzaldua does in Borderlands. It’s loaded which is good for some but too much for others. There are a few chapters in Desert Blood that could be cut off and be used on their own like chapter seventeen could be a really successful short story because of its depth, it covers a lot less themes… again, easier to swallow.

Sunday, November 11, 2012


I'm gonna make this real short.

You know how a lot of us need time to digest things? I like my own time. I do some pretty stupid things and nothing would make me happier than some time away from myself but I deal with myself because I have to.

Maybe it's not so good to run away from things. I mean, if you want to get married someday. We have to learnat some point how to become one and sort things out.

Not like I'm going to listen to myself... I'm only writing this because I think it makes sense and it's the first time I thought about it.

Philippians 2.1-2 Christ encourages you, and his love comforts you. God’s Spirit unites you, and you are concerned for others. Now make me completely happy! Live in harmony by showing love for each other. Be united in what you think, as if you were only one person. 


Friday, November 9, 2012


I don't want anyone to take this blog post lightly.

I am having a midlife crisis. :(

I don't think I want to be a writer anymore. I hate deadlines. I hate being forced to write.

I'm done with school.
No MFA program.

4 Philosophy classes in the spring and then its over.


I will enjoy writing / literature on my time.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012


It had been a long time since I agreed with Jesus. It was Big Joe's throw up we had to clean after tryouts. We were all pissed at Joe because he was the reason why we were all sore and had dark purple toes. Coach had been making us guard him all week, which meant trying to stay standing when he ran at us yelling “JUGGERNAUT!” as we watched his lame layups from the sticky dark yellow hardwood floor.

“What’d you say?” Sanchez looked down at Jesus. “Get up.”

Jesus tightened his jaw, jumped up and looked right at Coach. “Why’d you call him first?”

We all looked at each other waiting to see how Coach would react. “No one’s ever done that,” Mark whispered.

Coach kept a straight face “Two monster laps. Go.” Jesus made his way to the gymnasium’s red doors. The gym was quieter than the old haunted Saint Mary’s church when he punched the door open.  

“Old guys, come on up. Eduardo, Miguel and Ryan, you all made it. Join your teammate.”
Ryan was smiling, Joe looked angry, and Eduardo kept looking at the floor. My hands were sweating.
“Five new guys. Hope you guys are ready to battle.” They took off sprinting, behind Jesus.

Two weeks later.

It was seven in the morning and Yolanda was already mopping spilled chocolate milk on the cafeteria floor.

“Are you gonna eat that?”

Ryan glanced at Joe and slid his aluminum-foiled taco to him and got up.

“Hell yeah, third taco!”

Eduardo and I followed Ryan and took our white foam trays over to the trashcan.

“WAIT FOR ME!” Joe said.

We exited the cafeteria and straight to the locker rooms. The rest of team was there. Jesus was there too.

“Guys, come over here,” Mark said. He was already wearing his knee pads. None of us wore them for eight a.m. shoot-around because Sanchez didn’t want them to go missing.

We walked into the coach’s lobby, the room with all of Sanchez’s “Coach of the Year” trophies. The brown cloth sofas were cut open and misplaced. The walls were tagged; the brown African cat the art teacher painted during the summer was now roaring at black spray-painted dicks.

“You know who did that?” Mark said. “Just in case you don’t know, Ryan, it was the Lions. Lucky for you, it is the freshmen’s job to get even. The rest of us have to wait for game day to have our fun.”

“Only the freshmen?” I said.

 “Do you not understand, Miguelito? Nomas freshmen. That means you. You know what, only you four. Jesus probably does this on his spare time anyway.”

“Way to go, bro,” Ryan said.  

            “How did… What?”

            “I hope you know how to pick locks and pick them fast, dude, cause when my dad coached there a while back and he took a long ass time locking up,” Eduardo said. 

            “Chingao. My brother was a master at that shit. Too bad he’s locked up in Reynosa.” I said.

            While the four of us talked about breaking in and planned what we were going to do to the Lions, Sanchez walked in with his Whataburger coffee in his hands.

“I see y’all have seen my lobby.” He took a sip from his coffee, and glared at us. “Either that or ya’ll have been too busy playing with each other to change into your shorts.”

Joe, Eduardo and I hesitantly walked away to our lockers.

“Are you just going to stand there, G.T.?”

“Uh, no, no, no, Sir,” Ryan said.

Coach started to make his way to the gym. “One minute or monster laps.”

            When we went into the gym Coach and his assistants had the team seated on the floor along with the Junior Varsity team.

            “This is Rivalry week. The thug tagging that happened over the weekend is a part of it when you’re dealing with a classless school like the Lions. Let me warn every one of you who is thinking about retaliating. You don’t know what you’re in for. Not only with them but that is not Caracal basketball. We are going to wait and get even on our home floor this Friday night.”

            I was pumped when Coach said that. I was ready for a physical game on Friday but when we were exiting the locker-room to go to second period, Mark held us back and said, “Get even.”


In eighth period Big Joe, Ryan and I were in Widow Eloise’s photography class trying to exchange ideas about destroying their locker-room.

“Back in Michigan, we had some sort of rivalry with a school and they put a dead cat in the vents! That’ll take care of breaking in and it might even look like an accident,” Ryan said.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to look like an accident.” I said.

“Right, but I do like the idea of shoving several tacuaches in their vents and I know how to whip up a damn good stink bomb. They fucked with Coach’s shit and disrespected us at our house. Do you know anyone who knows how to break locks?”

“Nope,” said Ryan.

“Jesus has been breaking into places since elementary. Him and my brother did that shit all the time.”

            “Can you ask him?”

            “No, dude, how about you ask him?” I said

            “Because he says “fucking lard” every time we’re at practice,” Joe said. We both looked at Ryan.

            “No way that asshole calls me gringo all the time.”

            “Ryan, what is aperture?” the teacher asked.

            “The aperture on the camera? It’s the meter that marks how worn out the camera is.”



            Afterschool we met up with Eduardo. “Are we going?” he said. 

            “Man, I don’t know. What time should we go?” I said.

            “Probably after ten,” Ryan said.

            “Dude, janitors are there till three a.m.”

            “Let’s go at five a.m. I’ll ask my sister for her car,” Ryan said.

            “Five sounds good,” Joe said.


            I was walking towards the dumpster lots at school when I saw Yolanda walking with the rolling trashcans. Jesus was throwing bags into the garbage.

            “Punishment isn’t over?” I said.

            “Nombre wey, I’m just helping Yoli before ma’ picks me up.”

            “That’s cool,” I said.

            “Hey, mijo, you forgot about me already, huh?”

“Sorry Yolanda. I’ve had a lot of homework,” I said. I had volunteered the first couple of weeks of school but, man, the soreness from basketball doesn’t even compare to the soreness from those weeks.

“I’m only kidding. I just miss seeing your smile at the end of the days,” she said.

“Yoli, don’t worry I’ll be here,” Jesus said.

“I’m sorry, Yolanda,” I said.

“It’s ok, mijo. You take care.”

“Take it easy Yolanda.”  

“Homework? No way Sanchez will allow anyone to fail us.”

“Well, about Sanchez,” I said. “I know he forbid us to go to the Lions before game day but Mark said we have to get even.”

“Mark? Vato, that wey has been here for like six years. He’s on his way out, why listen to him?”

“I have to. I’m a freshman. That’s our job.”

“I’m a freshman, I’m not going.” He said as he turned on the manguera to wash out the milk on the lot. 

“Forget it man. I’ll catch you later.”

            “What were you thinking of doing?”

            “We need help breaking in. When we break in, we’re planning on throwing in some stink bombs Joe’s been making.”

            “Orale. Good luck.”

            “We’ll be there at five a.m. just in case you want to join us.”


            It was four thirty when Ryan and Eduardo drove in to my house in a white Taurus. I got on and drove to H-E-B to pick Joe up.

            “Que uvo,” I said.

            “What?” Joe said when we stopped.

            “Fuck that smells like shit,” Ryan said.

            Joe got on and carried the mud bombs on top of the car.

            “Where are we putting my babies?” Joe said.

            “I brought my mom’s gardening knives,” Eduardo said. “They’ll cut through anything.”


“The gate isn’t locked!” Eduardo said.

He jumped onto the car and Ryan sped to the gymnasium.

“Give me my backpack, I made us some masks,” Ryan said.

“Shut up, wey,” I said.

We were running towards the back of the gym, when someone comes out through the side doors, running with a plastic bag full of rattling bottles.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

It was Jesus.


I need help with flow.


Too many characters? How do I cut them out?