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Diego Green
Works at No.3 Productions
Attended University of Illinois at Chicago
Lives in DeMotte
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Diego Green

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So I wrote a thing...after a long time of not really writing things, at least nothing I wanted to share. But this is a thing that I'm sharing. 
Beyond the undulating pavement of the paved hill before her, Amalia saw the rise of a metal spire pulling free from the earth. It was the first sign of civilization she'd seen for some twenty miles along the two-lane highway apart from the scattered country houses situated between the vast rows ...
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I like the thing you wrote.
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Diego Green

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Writing has become a hobby. It's something I do in my days off, a form of unwinding, a fun activity to de-stress from the work week. And there's nothing wrong with that. Unless of course, one is serious about the pursuit of achieving authordom.
Now, this is not at all a bad thing, in general terms. I am extremely grateful for the job I have. It has acted as a life preserver in the sea that is the harsh reality of expensive American living.However, this generous, income-giving job has somewhat obscured what I have long believed to be my ...
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better than sitting round and watch TV 
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Diego Green

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The words of wisdom for this morning.
 
beautiful.
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I wanted to be a projectionist in a Soho cinema.
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Diego Green

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I've decided that I'm a fan of bass covers.
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My argument is apparently invalid...goodnight.
 
What's the big deal? This is how I ALWAYS enter the water.
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Diego Green

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Part One of my short horror story collection, Lamont.
Taking care where he stepped, Evan entered into the bush after Joe. And though he tried not to see the things over which he walked, every downward glance led the boy to identify a different creature. Rabbit, squirrel, possum, deer – the parts and pieces of these he had learned on hunting trips ...
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Nice start to the series.
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Have him in circles
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Diego Green

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Part III of my short horror series, Lamont. Enjoy and comment if you are so inclined to - all feedback is appreciated.


The house stood behind him, a lumbering monster, a dark shape against the black morning. Billy had to leave, had to run, though from what he couldn’t know. He ran. Billy ran through the weeds, through overgrown grass, through the line of man-planted trees to the disorganized collection of metal-gleaming shapes standing in the dirt. It was only then that he realized his keys, his means of escape, had fallen somewhere behind, lost in the house. Billy kept running.

He had been stabbed, that much he was sure of. But as Billy ran, he could hardly feel the pain or feel the hot run of blood from his belly to the inside of his leg. It was only when he clenched his fists that he could feel the drying caked-on feel of it covering his hands. Running until he couldn’t, until he could only jog, and jogging until he could only walk and then hobble, at last Billy made it down the dirt path and reached the hardness of the highway. Smelling the stank richness of the stagnant ditch water, Billy wondered how well the liquid and mud would catch his fall when he finally collapsed.
“It starts with a man, a proud man, proud farmer. Willem Laninga was his name, came to America on a boat from the magical, faraway land of Holland.” Cal continued, unhearing of the other boy, raising himself from a sit onto his knees, wide spreading arms and hands setting the imagined scene.
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:D 
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Diego Green

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Plot outlines and myself have never been the closet of friends but I'm fairly desperate and am willing to try anything that might improve my current lack of creative productivity. 
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Ouzo works like that as well
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Part Two of Lamont is alive and kicking. A somewhat familiar story for longtime readers of my blog but almost completely re-written from the ground up.


The night the new scratching started, I remember choking back a call for dad, forgetting I wasn’t twelve anymore, forgetting he wasn’t in that bed in the next room to be called for. So I could only listen – quiet noises, like a mouse maybe, I hoped not – until I noticed Charlene had left her bedside floor spot, her eyes glowing from faraway, from the place that would become her new nighttime spot. Then came the pain, pain at the bottom of my left foot, small itch at first then a burning, ripping sensation down the sole. I cried out.


Mother’s shadow appeared in the door, followed by her glaring face under the overhead fan bulb, turned instantly white and open-mouthed at the sight of my bedspread splattered dark orange-brown, my foot shining with still-fresh blood. Face stoned-up quick though – same way it is now, tears dried-up and staring with teeth clenching, skin so tight the lines on it disappear. And she grabbed up the dirtied sheets right out from under me, without looking at me – “clean yourself Elzbieta, we will talk to Father Moran about this in the morning” – and she was gone, lights vanished. The scratching and the chirpings returned, like the laughter of hoarse-throated blackbirds.
Skidding and scampering wake me up, my upwards movement make the room hiss, quickly dying out into a freakish quiet. Don't sleep more than four or five hours a night, can't be in this room for so long, not with them all running behind the walls, on the ceiling. See Charlene's eyes glowing out ...
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I may or may not be posting the next part of Lamont tomorrow. It all depends on how productive tomorrow actually ends up being.
Already, I've published and subsequently deleted several posts to this blog about my ongoing work, a short horror story collection under the working title of Lamont. And, in similar fashion, the stories themselves have been started, re-worked, scrapped, deleted, re-started, re-arranged, ...
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=) hope you can do it ...
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Looks a lot better than my breakfast this morning (same leftovers but all thrown in a skillet together without rhyme or reason).
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breakfast?? that be lunch or dinner for me .............
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I'm happy that you're still optimistic about doing what you want to do and being where you want to be. I know firsthand how hard it can be to keep a regular blog, but when you do keep it up, it really does help with accountability.

I am patiently awaiting my daily updates which I learned just now that I will be receiving...
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Have him in circles
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Work
Occupation
Writer
Employment
  • No.3 Productions
    Freelance Writer, 2012 - present
  • Sears, Roebuck and Company
    Sales Associate, 2006 - 2012
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Map of the places this user has livedMap of the places this user has livedMap of the places this user has lived
Currently
DeMotte
Previously
Chicago
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Wordsmith, Bibliophile, Railfan, Unlicensed Zombie Hunter
Introduction
I am a writer of fiction, first and foremost.  

When I was in high school, I had a creative writing teacher who went around the room, telling each of us students what category our writing styles best fit into.  I was pegged as a horror writer.  I shrugged it off, said it was a phase.  It has been many years since then and the phase is still going strong.

Always, though, do I strive for literary fiction even if it happens to fall into a genre.  Aside from the aforementioned horror (I have been working on my zombie apocalypse opus for nearly nine years now), I also enjoy writing space operas and stories built around character rather than plot.

Sometimes I write poetry though it's not very good.

Like any good writer, I greatly enjoy reading though I had fallen out of the practice and only recently have I begun, once again, to delve into the literary world on a regular basis.  And so, I am always on the lookout for new tales and works of prose and verse to consume.

Aside from all the word stuff, I love trains.  Love watching them, love riding them. I think for me, at least part of it is the romance of the journey - someday I would love to travel the U.S. and the world by train.  

And if I fail to cut it in the world of literature (and even if I make it, really), I would eagerly turn to a career on the rails.  Seriously, don't question my love for trains.

Cats are fine too.
Education
  • University of Illinois at Chicago
    English Creative Writing, 2008 - 2012
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