Old stories, associations

I’ve been writing for as long as I can recall. I just haven’t always been writing particularly well.

While googling about today I stumbled on an excerpt from a Stephen King story, as yet unpublished: “The Gingerbread Girl.” I have zero interest in the story, but the title suddenly sparked off memories of year 2 at Fadden Primary. I was just getting into R.L. Stine, and was planning a horror series of my own, all based around bad horror puns. The first title was “More Fun than a Hole in the Head,” being a story about a man who kills with a drill, the cover featuring a terrible sketch of a man screaming with a gaping wound opened in his forehead. My teacher called them disgusting and told my parents. It didn’t go down too well.
I can’t remember what the other story titles are, but one of them must have had something to do with gingerbread men. Why else would I have made the association?
I’ve been writing since I was four. I just wish to God I’d kept all those stories.

A strange image;

The restaurant is Chinatown chic, red lanterns standing sentinel at the entrance and a chinadoll waitress with her black bob cut straight standing behind the counter asking Lobe whether he has a reservation. He waves her off and steps over the rope, over to the buffet.
The man behind the buffet is one of the tech fashionista, buzzcut sprinkled with flecks of gold, mirror-finish goggles pulled up tight over his forehead. He wears a silk shirt hanging open to his waist, embroidered with dragons and lotus leaves. There is a slit running across his bellybutton, like an old surgical scar.
Lobe takes a plate. “Help yourself, sir,” the man says, and bows. As he bends over, the skin of his belly slit bends and folds, and Lobe has the slightest twinge of nausea as he catches a glimpse of what seemed like the mans guts.
No, not guts. Noodles. Egg noodles. The man is an android. In his stomach cavity is a swirling stir-fry of mushrooms, bok choy and ba mee. It’s like throwing your dinner into a washing machine. “Any chicken?” Lobe asks. The more he watches the tumbling, the more his own organs want to do the same.
The ‘droid reaches down, digs both hands into his stomach and stretches it wide open. The noodles whirl. “Take what you’d like, sir,” he says. “The serving tongs are by your left hand.”
Lobe runs for the toilet.

Chapter 6 done, halfway through Chap 7… shit.

Okay, I’m getting scared now.I’m very nearly done with my final chapter. Yeah, first draft only, I know. It’s still scary. A novel is a big thing to finish. What do I do when it’s all over? (besides start the next one).One of my teachers for an Industrial Design elective is a short story author, so I’m hoping she can give me some advice on the editing and publishing process. Gahd, now I need a new goal. Second draft finished by 2009?Also, Boilerboys should be going to print soon in the PAX Steampunk magazine. My first published (kinda) short story. I’m reigning in the anxiety by drinking a lot of tea.