An enigma even to himself, The Eclectist attempts to be all things to all people, only to fail miserably. Trained in many trivial disciplines, the Eclectist wields the wisdom of the ancients like a fiery baton in a street juggling routine. To enter his secret sanctum is find no order -- only chaos. This is he, then: a stark silhouette cast across the many forms of media, a strike against genus and phylum, a vendetta against tedium. Bear witness to... The Eclectist!
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Posted By David Accampo on December 1, 2009
Just because I feed the need to share it: I wrote a novel entitled “Red Right Hand” during the month of November, as part of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.
I actually wrote very regularly and was more disciplined and productive in a sustained manner than I usually am.
Posted By David Accampo on November 21, 2009
My Life in Audio
This article was originally published on Murmur.com
In the summer of 1998, I moved to Los Angeles from the Northern California Bay Area. As a writer and recent college graduate, it would be a fair assumption that I moved to LA to pursue a Hollywood career. This would be inaccurate. In truth, I moved to Los Angeles because my girlfriend at the time was originally from the San Fernando Valley, and she wanted to be closer to her family again. I was a writer in need of an adventure. And, oh, I would write — but not screenplays. No, I was a fan of stories like Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust. I was a poet, dammit, not a crass commercial hack. Los Angeles would be the setting for my Great American Novel Which Observes LA from an Outsider’s Perspective. It was thus that I descended upon the city of angels with all the fervor of a budding anthropologist. The denizens of Hollywood would be my Gorillas in the Mist. (more…)
Posted By David Accampo on June 9, 2009
I had a very strange dream last night. In it, my girlfriend and I are walking along a very dark city street. There are no lights from the street. There is no moon in the sky. Everything consists of shapes of blue and black. We are returning from somewhere; I don’t know where. We come to my car. It is at the front of a small parking lot. While I can’t see much, I can see that something has happened to the car; it rests at a steep angle. We walk around the car and see that the tires are gone. The car has been raised to a forty-five degree angle. As we continue to walk around the car, I can see that the rear bumper has been torn halfway off the car. It’s been peeled back as though it was the lid of a tin can. (more…)
Posted By David Accampo on March 31, 2009
This is not a review of the film Watchmen. I’m a bit late on that account, and I’ve shared my thoughts on discussion threads and on Twitter, so my views are already published in one form or another.
But I want to talk about Watchmen, and how I think that – oddly enough – the film has found its perfect place in film history, exactly where it should be, twenty-odd years after it found its perfect place in comics history.
What the what–?
Let me explain:
The late 1980’s were a brilliant time for comics. I’m going to use 1986 as a benchmark, but exact publication times may be mis-ordered or slightly off in chronology. The point is this: ask anyone reading comics at the time about the year 1986 and they will light up. They will probably start to talk. Babble even. You may have to feign interest or politely ask them to shut up. Because 1986 was a boon, man.
Posted By David Accampo on January 26, 2009
I recently lost my blog, “Hey That’s Dave’s Blog” to a hack attack. It now resides in the web-equivalent of Davy Jones’ Locker with my previous blogs, including “Pointless” and “The Inevitable Column.” However, I’ve used this malicious attack on my innocent blog to — in the immortal words of Oscar Goldman — “make it better than it was before.”
To start, I’ve added a LOT of fiction, as you will see below. I hope to use this blog for a lot more flash fiction and writing exercises in the future. But, being as eclectic as I am, I’m sure the blog will find itself home to many machinations, reincarnations, and deviations.
For now, I do hope you enjoy the fiction here — it spans the past 10+ years of my writing career.
Posted By David Accampo on January 24, 2009
This short script was part of an anthology series of short films to be developed by Habit Forming Films. The theme was “Whiskey, Gun, Cigarette” and each script was required to contain those elements.
Sometimes a little violence is a good thing. (more…)
Posted By David Accampo on January 24, 2009
This short script was part of an anthology series of short films to be developed by Habit Forming Films. The theme was “Whiskey, Gun, Cigarette” and each script was required to contain those elements.
Billy stumbles across a strange man in a field and gets a lesson on the difference between good guys and bad guys. (more…)
Posted By David Accampo on January 24, 2009
This short script was part of an anthology series of short films to be developed by Habit Forming Films. The theme was “Whiskey, Gun, Cigarette” and each script was required to contain those elements.
Would you sell your soul to win the lottery?
Posted By David Accampo on January 24, 2009
This story was originally written as a short to complement a script concept entitled The Beautiful People. It was my first attempt at science fiction. I don’t know the original date of creation, but it would have been circa 2001.
By David Accampo
Today my name is Leopold Atari. My father, a bronze ambassador from Nigeria, carries the same wide cheek bones and square set jaw. My eyes will be my mother’s. She is Bao Jiaosheng, a Chinese diplomat who met my father at a political conference in Geneva. Her smooth, lighter complexion turns my skin into creamy coffee. They are strong, cultured parents. We drink tea in the balmy Paris afternoons and discuss political affairs. My father laughs and tousles my hair, the silky black mane I received from my mother. (more…)
Posted By David Accampo on January 24, 2009
This story originally saw print in Transfer #75, Spring 1998
By David Accampo
Leroy leaning on the black iron gate, Leroy owes me forty dollars. He’s thin as a lamppost, bent over, brown skin faded. Shit, I mean look at me. I’m black, white, everything, all mixed up, he tells me, thin arms outstretched, scant black hair curling up his forearms. Why did Leroy tell me that? When he asked me for ten dollars yesterday. Didn’t have any milk. No milk for the kids. His breath was sharp and hot, the metal tang of malt liquor. Hey, can I come in for a minute? I want to ask you something. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my check. Disability check only comes once a month. Leroy scratches the brown weave of his hair under his baseball cap. Once a month marijuana smoke drifts across the cement courtyard. Leroy’s blue eyes waver when he talks about his newborn baby in the hospital, Her…her heart can’t beat on its own, they got her hooked all up with tubes and wires and shit. But I asked the doctor, you know, ‘cause me and Debra smoke a little pot on occasion, but that’s okay, the doctor was saying that it ain’t ‘cause of that. Can I use your phone to call the hospital? We don’t got a phone right now.
In the courtyard, Pablo paints the door to the apartment next to mine. Bright blue. The police busted it open when they arrested the last tenants, a swarm of black-and-yellow jackets buzzing through. I heard the shouts through the paper-thin walls, heard the stomping boots, heard the door frame splinter. I turned the volume on the television down and listened to the voices, sometimes loud and raw, sometimes low and firm. Pablo’s shiny skin is striped in blue. You let Leroy into your place. I wouldn’t do that, man. He and Debra got a problem with the crack, if you know what I mean. Pablo likes me because I pay my rent, even though its always late. A fading shaft of daylight plunges down the center of the courtyard, down past the iron railing of the second floor, illuminating gray concrete, an overturned tricycle. I think he’s checking your place out, I think he’s casing it. Robert, in #16, got robbed when he was out of town. I think it might have been Leroy. I mean, I heard about the baby, but I never seen it. I didn’t even know she was pregnant, did you? The Washing Woman carries a wicker basket across the court. I’ve never learned her name, but she is always doing laundry, jeans and shirts and socks draped across the railing, drying in the column of sun. The chubby white girl in a plain yellow dress smacks a soccer ball against the mud-streaked walls until her mother cracks open her door. Get in here! Now, you little shit! If you don’t get in here right now, you’re going to be SO fucking dead! The gate creaks on its hinges as Milo walks in, home from work, his coveralls smeared with paint and primer and plaster and dirt. He hums a tune, jingles his keys, and opens his mailbox. Pablo says, Hey, and Milo tips his hat to us and climbs slowly up the stairs. (more…)