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Begin, and Begin Again

When I tell people that I love to write fiction, occasionally they ask me how I got started.  I think what interests most of them is how I first sold a story, but I started writing years before that ever happened, long before I ever got anything published.  The beginning, I think, isn't the interesting part of that story.  To me, since I've loved writing as long as I can remember, the noteworthy events led to realizing what about writing made me so happy that I embraced something terrifying: the prospect of releasing something I created to be judged by others.

There's this magical moment when I finish writing something, when I experience a sense of pride, looking at a completed piece of fiction or poem.  "This is the best work I've ever done," I tell myself. Phantasmal rose petals fall at my feet to the sound of tumultuous applause.  In reality, the sound is just lingering water in my ears after my shower.  Within days, sometimes minutes, I revisit the work and wonder how I could've been so wrong.  It's not even close to good, I realize, but it's got a beginning, a middle, and an end, which means I followed through and didn't give up on it.  Once edited, some of those things stuck in my mind as better than others, and I shared a scant few of them with friends. That was the first step, because those were the people who would generally be the most supportive of any readers.  But I knew, deep down, that showing my stories to my mom or good friends wasn't really much like overcoming real fear of rejection.  It was more like risking rejection of my suggestion for a place to eat or a movie to watch.

On to step 2: sharing my writing with other writers.  This first took shape in a writing group on Yahoo, about a dozen of us all writing speculative fiction.  Again, I played it too safe.  By mutual agreement, the group was a supportive environment, heavy with general praise and light on constructive criticism.  Everybody was nice, possibly too considerate and sympathetic to fears of rejection and hurt pride.  I had to read between the lines of the critiques I received, trying find hints of things disliked or general disinterest in the stories.  There weren't even any grammar Nazis to belittle my punctuation errors.  At that point, I realized that I wasn't really getting anywhere as a writer.  I needed to experience some growing pains, if I ever wanted to be able to see over the walls of my safe zone, the place where I wrote things that nobody would ever pay to read.

Somewhere around the dissolution of the writing group, I knew I had to take a more committed leap. My fear of rejection was still prevalent.  In the end, I made a kind of strategy to combat it. I stopped trying to write what I thought people would like to read and promised myself I would write what I loved.  No more pretentious attempts at literature, strictly genre fiction of the kinds I enjoyed reading. No more inflated language and attempts to sound enlightened, just my own voice, telling tales the way I would narrate a ghost story around the campfire.  If I was about to send fiction out to be rejected by publishers, I was going to send little pieces of myself.  I had to keep reminding myself that they wouldn't be rejecting me, just the way I wrote.  It can still be heartbreaking when it happens, at least initially before I hunker down to more editing.  Some pieces just need to be mourned and tucked away.

I'm better for the experience, rejections or not.  I feel that the true start of my writing career began when I made that promise to myself and took that leap to submit my pieces.  How did I get started writing?  That happened a long time ago.  How did I become a writer?  That's a tale in itself, one of heartbreak, growth, and carpal tunnel syndrome.  It's also kind of long, so make sure you use the bathroom and grab a snack before I get started.

Zombie Good, Zombie Bad, Zombie Meh

I've been craving zombie stories lately, maybe because I've been working on some zombie fiction of my own.  It seems like a genre where the products often are either spectacular or downright awful. Recently I partook of three different stories, a movie, a novel, and a TV show, with mixed results.

A movie called "Wyrmwood: Road of the Dead", I watched on Netflix, completely surprised me, even though it held a solid 4-star rating.  The rating  caught my attention, since it's so rare to see a zombie movie that receives such unanimous praise (and I've looked).  The quality of the movie's writing, actors, and production value wasn't the only surprise that made it especially enjoyable. There were a couple of notable twists to the typical zombie lore that invigorated the story and further endeared it to me.  What's more, I normally dislike the attempts to inject humor into zombie movies, the exceptions being Zombieland and Shaun of the Dead.  Wyrmwood's humor hit home without pushing the envelope and ruining the movie for me, though there were times when I felt there should be a bit more grief expressed at the passing of some characters.  As testament to how enamored I was with the movie, I placed it on my viewing queue AFTER I finished it, so I could easily find it to watch again.

I attempted to read the novel "Dead City", by Joe McKinney, for a second time, and though I read more of it than I had previously, I still couldn't be tempted to finish it.  I really wanted to like it, so I gave it a second chance, something I rarely do.  I couldn't remember what made me stop reading the first time. Sometimes I just find a book that really excites me after starting another, and I thought that might have been the case with Dead City, my first attempt only progressing to the third chapter or so. Unlike the humor in Wyrmwood, Dead City's seemed strained, like an strategically employed device that consistently fell short.  Even though there was an interesting twist to the zombie outbreak, the characters didn't develop that way I thought they should to justify expending more effort on it.  I think I pushed on past the point where some of the minor characters became annoyances, hoping a new plot twist or aspect of character growth would compel me to continue. Unfortunately, I felt only like I wasted too much of my time, hours I could have spent reading something better, or watching Wyrmwood again.

The first episode of Fear the Walking Dead premiered last night, and I intentionally avoided any of the previews and specials leading up to it, to maximize my anticipation and potential for surprises. Since The Walking Dead exceeded my expectations on so many levels, it might not be fair to compare the two.  The bar was set exceptionally high.  The Walking Dead hooked me from the very first episode, and Fear the Walking Dead failed to duplicate the feeling.  The premier started very slowly, but I expect it to pick up in the future episodes.  After all, the very premise is to present the descent from normal society into a zombie apocalypse, and the viewers need a benchmark to see how far and how quickly society falls into chaos.  A short preview of upcoming events promised to plummet the characters into appropriately horrible circumstances, even as an attempt is made to maintain order that we know will crumble before the onslaught of the ravenous dead.  I know it will bring me goosebumps, tears, and excitement in future episodes, but I expected a better opener in light of the excellence displayed by its predecessor.

Overall, my zombie-related distractions over the past few days have been well worth my time.  Even Dead City held some enjoyment.  Perhaps The Walking Dead has just elevated my standards too much.  I'd love to hear what you think in the comments section below.

When I Don't Feel Like Writing

Sometimes I don't feel like writing, even though it's how I love to spend my spare time.  That sounds contradictory, but there's a lot to it.  It's 11PM, and I'm brain-dead tired.  I've worked all day, helped with homework, cooked, cleaned, exercised, and prepared for the following day, which will begin before dawn.  I usually look back at my day and ask myself how many words I wrote, knowing the answer will be less than what I wanted to accomplish.  I wonder, for about 30 seconds, why I can't squeeze out a few more paragraphs before I finally sleep.  Then my alarm clock is buzzing its infernal song.

Since I've started actively pursuing a writing career, I've come in contact with communities of other writers.  A lot of them work and have family responsibilities, just like me.  The difference is that they seem to have finished multiple books, find time to promote their works, and still continue working on new projects.  When do they sleep?  Some likely don't.  Most power through their days and continue writing once they're back home from their jobs.  One has written a book about writing novels in 10-minute intervals each day.  (Note to self: buy that sucker.)

The struggle to find time to write prevented me from seriously writing anything for a long time. Once my son got older, I found more free time; however, I filled that free time with things other than writing: TV, video games, reading, napping.  The fight was over, and it felt great to just relax, catch up on sleep, and vegetate.  Writing was hard enough back when I had hours to do it and think about it in quiet solitude.  Scrambling to find a few minutes here and there, to jot some things down in a notebook, was not how I envisioned writing to be for me.  It made writing a chore, one more thing to try to fit into my day before sweet oblivion pulled me into my pillow.  I didn't look forward to the creative process, the fulfillment of my ideas, or even the grueling editing like I used to.

Then something happened.  It wasn't miraculous or inspiring.  It wasn't even an original idea.  I made myself write.  I started with my lunch break at work, realizing that I had nearly an hour of writing time if I brought lunch from home and could write while chewing.  I eased into it, writing whatever came to mind, sometimes not finishing anything.  I just wrote like scratching words on paper was going to diffuse a bomb before the end of my lunch hour.  It was desperate, frantic, exhilarating.  It became a craving every day, more necessary than my food on occasion.  I could type it when I got home, in the brain-dead evening hours, and in 15-minute intervals.  I could puzzle out difficult plot points during my commutes and commit them to memory until I could write them down.

Occasionally, like today, I've had a fairly quiet house to myself.  Today has been very productive on the writing front, but there have been days of free time when I haven't written a word.  Even though I knew I would kick myself when it was over for wasting a whole day, why couldn't I get any writing done?  Sometimes when I don't feel like writing, I really should just listen to that feeling.  It takes some introspection, to know if I'm being lazy or if I'm going to spin my wheels, without accomplishing anything other than frustration. Giving myself leave to watch a movie or waste a couple of hours on the game console can be productive for my writing.  It's energizing, and it can enable me to let go of my day job or other stresses, so my mind can stumble its way back into a creative mode again.

That desire to write isn't every really absent.  Sometimes it's just hidden amidst the clutter of other stuff in my mind.  Often it's waiting impatiently to be freed from the weight of distractions, by indulging in more stimulating activities, many that people find to be distractions themselves.  I really always want to write, even when I feel like I can't, and sometimes forcing the writing is counterproductive.

Bionic Overhaul

Some of the typical and most frustrating signs that I'm aging manifest themselves as achy joints and other pains.  Luckily most seem easily remedied by exercise and an occasional visit to a gifted chiropractor and healer.  Looking down the road, part of me wonders what the future will hold beyond knee replacement surgery and cortisone shots.  Cyberpunk is one my favorite sub-genres of science fiction, where man melds with machine and often becomes superhuman in the process, and I can't help envisioning myself sporting bionic limbs, taking the stairs like a kangaroo.   For those with limited exposure to the cyberpunk genre, I urge you to read the source materials to find some true treasures of futurist writing.

My first glimpse of the possibilities for mechanized enhancement came courtesy of The Six Million Dollar Man.  Today, Steve Austin's and Jamie Sommers' bionics would not be nearly as affordable (something like $60M for his and hers cybernetics).  Short of volunteering for experimental surgery, it's unlikely most of us will ever see such medical technology made publicly available in our lifetimes.  Since reality isn't somewhere I usually spend much of my free time, please indulge my imagination.

A spinal replacement would likely be my top choice.  I've had a bad back for years, and it's limited me on several major occasions in my life.  It also seems like a logical choice, though I'm ignoring the complexity and recovery time involved, hoping that the technology would also exist to make these minor inconveniences.  Replacing my spine would be a good start to further overhaul most of my joints and skeleton, not to mention I could easily end up taller just by eliminating unnatural curvature. Once I got started, I wouldn't want to stop until I could enjoy new, pain-free shoulders, knees, and elbows.  I'd spend my first month post-recovery on the tennis court and the the first winter skiing.

Some of my favorite cyberpunk fiction involves software that can be run in one's brain, knowledge immediately accessible:  language fluency, computer expertise, and interfaces with the nervous system to allow me to play music like a virtuoso or perform stunts like Jackie Chan.  I could say goodbye to my GPS, since it's incapable of staying suctioned to my windshield anyway, and access all of the same data with a thought.

My vision upgrades could allow me to see across the light spectrum.  I promise to use my X-ray vision like a complete gentleman.  Having eyes that could function like a microscope, binoculars, and light-gathering goggles could allow me to perceive the world around me to the very edge of my abilities to comprehend it.  Augmented senses of taste and smell would allow me to truly appreciate all of the world's marvelous cuisine and beverages beyond my currently stunted palate's abilities. Surely there would be times when I would need to switch off these senses entirely, too.

Finally, breakthroughs to allow me to defy age-related mental deterioration would make aging far more exciting and less dreadful.  Adding memory like a new hard drive on a computer, accessing names and other information like light-speed database searches; how might these things provide a quality of life for my aging self that I can only dream of?

What if youth were no longer wasted on the young?  What if you could replace those bothersome knees with state-of-the-art joints to let you take the stairs three at a time?  What if we could enjoy active lives as long as we wanted to live them?  Like any technology, cybernetic body parts could be used for evil just as much as good.  In fact, that's usually what makes great conflict in cyberpunk fiction, but I hope we get to see an equally awesome revolution in the quality of people's futures as well.

Notes From the Road

I recently returned from a trip back home to Upstate NY.  I try to go every summer, taking my wife and son along to see my relatives and friends.  Sometimes the timing allows us to attend a reunion of my mother's side of the family, but we unfortunately missed it this year.  Instead I was lucky enough to attend my 25th (gasp!) high school reunion, and it was a blast to catch up with people I hadn't seen since graduation.  Some came from as far as California and Georgia, so I felt a little ashamed that it was the first reunion I had ever attended.  It was also flattering to hear a couple of people comment about some of my blog entries.  I sincerely encouraged a couple of classmates to start blogging, and I hope they decide to try it.

We drove up from NC in a rented Hyundai Santa Fe Sport.  If you can believe my son's preferences, it wasn't as nice as the Chevy Tahoe we rented last year, an unplanned upgrade when our intended vehicle didn't make it to the rental agency in time for our departure.  My son's rating system seems skewed in favor of larger vehicles with lots of electronic gizmos.  I liked the Santa Fe's better gas mileage, and it had sufficient room for our luggage and assortment of snacks and travel amusements. Granted there were only three of us.  When we added my sister's two kids, seating got a little cramped.  The seats were comfy enough, but I was too short to see over the steering wheel without a boost.  Luckily I sat on a pillow to avoid butt-thritis over the course of our 12-hour ride.

Driving around my old stomping grounds, memories popped into my head.  The river through town was a favorite spot of fishing and canoeing with my father.  My parents both competed in at least one canoe regatta that I remembered, too.  I passed some houses where I remembered sleepovers with friends, sites of favorite restaurants now long closed, and familiar farms with overgrown fields and houses obviously populated only in summer.  I even passed by a place where I once nervously stole a kiss from a high school crush.  She took it back with interest as I recall.

We used an application on our phones called "Waze" to locate construction and other delays on our route.  It proved valuable in helping us make good time, even if we did end up on some detours that induced carsickness in my son.  Some of those roads certainly wouldn't have been navigable in winter with snow to slick them, but they were fine with some added caution for potholes and deer.  One of those critters stood in the middle of the road as we approached and took his sweet time leaving. We spotted another alongside the highway in VA.  I wish there was a way to teach them to cross roads safely, without endangering anybody or themselves.  I find it funny that so many hunters go home empty-handed during deer season, when the varmints seem to be everywhere.  They must know to hide when hunting season comes around.  If they're smart enough to do that, you'd think they could cross the street safely.

Sheetz continues to be one of my favorite places to fuel up our vehicle and ourselves.  Their gas prices are usually very competitive, and they have an abundance of tasty, freshly cooked fare to offer. Some of it is even relatively healthy.  In addition, they have the standard convenient mart stuff for those in a hurry: snacks, sodas, and fresh coffee. It's possible to get sick of eating that type of food, but with the variety they boast it would be difficult for me to tire of it if I weren't watching my weight.

If you're a Facebook friend of mine, look for some photos of scenery from my walks in the country. I'll miss that fresh air, and the cooler temperatures were appreciated by the whole family.  My son actually complained one morning of being cold, and I asked him to try to remember that feeling when we returned to NC.

Following My Dream Like a Responsible Adult

I was straddling the fence on whether to write about the topic of following one's passion.  To some people, this is a guiding principle.  To others, it's a bunch of touch-feely malarkey of epic proportions.  To me, passion is a two-edged sword.  It can be what inspires me to give my utmost to a project.  It can also make me beat my head against the wall when I hit a roadblock that seems impassable.  In the end, I straddle that fence, and try to take the best passion has to offer me and leave behind what remains.

I've loved writing fiction since I was in middle school.  Creating worlds, monsters, and adventures has always been something that excites me.  Sometimes it keeps me up at night, thinking about the backstory of a character or the characteristics of an alien species.  Writing and selling novels has always been a dream of mine, where other people dream of being rock stars.  I love to hear or read stories of people who have made their dreams reality, beating the odds by hard work and dedication. I think we all do, picturing ourselves in the person's shoes and wondering what it would be like to realize such success.  Reality is the other, some might say heavier, side of the coin.  It can be disappointing to see years of our lives pass by with our dreams still out of reach.

Mike Rowe, of "Dirty Jobs" fame, has an interesting take on following one's passions and why he hates hearing it.  Here's a link to it.  I have to agree with a lot of what he says, even if I felt my spirit crushed a bit while reading it.  Reality, dreams or not, dictates our circumstances.  It can seem cruel and unjust, but that doesn't change the way things are.  When I've told people that I want to write novels for a living, typically I've gotten the advice that I shouldn't quit my day job.  It's hard to make a living doing that, I often hear.  No argument there.

But here's my beef with these practical arguments against following passions:  it's how people start down the path to greatness.  Dreams don't make up all the bricks in the road, but they keep people striving and determined and enthusiastically working hard.  The likelihood of failure is directly proportional to how large one's dreams are, and at some point all of these people have to face that reality.  And sometimes they quit, but they give it their best shots.  That's what I really want to do for my dream of selling my fiction.  I want to wring every drop of creativity out of my brain, edit ruthlessly, and fail until I succeed.  I don't want to spend the last days of my life regretting that I didn't try hard enough to realize my dream.

I still have my day job.  In fact, I went back to college to get a degree in something I knew would get me a better job, even though I knew that occupation would have nothing to do with my passions and dreams for writing.  Why?  Bills, health insurance, and looking forward to a family were all part of the decision.  Do I regret it?  No.  Do I wish I had more time to spend pursuing my dream? Absolutely.  I know that if I hadn't gone back to school, I would be struggling to make ends meet.  I might have two jobs, leaving me even less time to write than I have now.  I don't think it would be right to have to depend on the generosity of others to support my dream, whether living in my mom's spare bedroom or living off government assistance.  If it's really a dream of mine, I will make the time I need to reach it, and I will be more proud of myself for accomplishing it without abandoning my real life responsibilities.

So Mike Rowe is right, in a sense.  I have to live in the real world, and that means my dream must often come second.  But I won't give up on it as long as I have the strength to type in my fingers and the brainpower to come up with stories to tell.  "Take your passion with you," he says in the video at the above link.  I never leave home without it.

IMHO: Mini-Reviews of Ant-Man, Sense8, and The Strain

I always intend to write reviews of movies or TV programs I find especially fun or engrossing.  Often someone reviews these properties long before I have a chance, so I don't bother writing my own opinions for fear of simply echoing earlier publications.  I frequently talk with friends about shows and movies they recommend, and I realized that the opinions of people I know carry far more weight with me than reviews by strangers. So perhaps if you've started to trust my judgement by reading some of my earlier posts, the following mini-reviews will be useful to you.  Please feel free to comment and let me know if you agree or if I've steered you wrong.

Ant-Man was a movie I eagerly awaited.  I love a protagonist who is a scientist first and a hero second, perhaps moved to action by a strong sense of ethical responsibility and compassion.  What I got was not what I expected, but it was still enjoyable.  I liked Paul Rudd as the reluctant hero, even if he tends to play very similar characters in many of his roles.  The story was fun, and there was plenty of humor delivered by Rudd and miniaturization gags.  There was a tie-in with the Avengers that will no doubt pay off in the future of the Marvel universe, and if you've enjoyed earlier Marvel movies I bet you'll like this one, too.  It's nowhere nearly as satisfying as Guardians of the Galaxy, but I liked it better than either of the Iron Man sequels.

Sense8 shaped up to be a compelling and exciting series once the pace accelerated in the later episodes.  I mentioned in an earlier blog entry (Making Sense of Sense8) that I was undecided about finishing the series.  I'm glad I watched it to completion now.  As all of the characters received more development and tension built around the twisted goals of the villains, both major and minor, it became a real nail-biter.  I always know a show is remarkable when it occupies my thoughts days after finishing it.  Sense8 still finds its way into my imagination, and I hope it gets at least one more "season" on Netflix.

The Strain, now in its second season, was perhaps the show I missed most during its hiatus. Guillermo del Toro's imagination is behind it, and it's evident in the way the show makes my skin crawl even as I'm glued to the screen.  The Strain made me care about vampire fiction again after some disappointing experiences with the genre, and I'm very grateful FX decided to produce it.  The characters are complex as individuals and in their interactions, the creatures terrifying, and the action brutal and tense.  The waters are muddied a bit around the heroes, and that makes me like them even more. They have weaknesses, and the stress of events on most of them is explored, sometimes to the detriment of their relationships.

From time to time, I would like to dedicate an entire blog entry to reviewing a movie or show I truly love.  It's more likely that I will stick to the above format to allow me to convey my impressions without risking spoilers.  When I find a longer review that I like, I'll make sure to post a link.  For starters, if you haven't already read it, there's a great review of Ant-Man here.

Taking Rejection Constructively

You can't be a published writer if you're afraid of rejection because rejection is inevitable.  You can still be a writer, scratching or typing away with no intentions of revealing your secret love to anyone, but you're very unlikely to have your first or second (or tenth) submission of a piece published without it being rejected by someone.  For some people, this fear is paralyzing, as it was for me over many years of writing.  Learning to swallow it was not an overnight victory.  It took years of almost-submitting a few stories before I finally took the leap, and it's only minutely easier every time I submit something now.  Sometimes thinking of future regret you'll experience can have great impact on the choices you make in the present.  I knew I had to try, and it still took heaps of encouragement from friends and family along with a desire to set a good example for my son to apply to his own goals.

I've read a fair amount about the constructive aspects of rejection, how it desensitizes one to the process.  I've found, so far anyway, that rejection stings about the same every time.  The rationalization only occurs later, and it can be made easier by the accompaniment of honestly constructive criticism.  I always welcome suggestions for improvement, though sometimes it takes me a day or two to really appreciate them.  I don't know too many writers who want to continue churning out lackluster prose, but we're normally too emotionally attached to our work to view it objectively, at least until someone we trust offers an opinion.

Many articles I've read on the subject like to point out the number of rejections that were received by famous and prolific authors.  On one hand, this is a salve for the ego.  Then I wonder how many rejections I might have to receive, comparing my writing to those masterful wordsmiths.  Certainly every reader's preferences are different, but how many submissions must be made until there's a statistical probability one will cross the desk (or monitor) of a publisher who will love it?  I think the standard answer to that is "as many as it takes".

Recently I read an article that encouraged widening the pool of possible critics, completely at odds with my youthful philosophy of keeping my writing safely private.  It makes sense that a wider audience, one encouraged to comment and critique, would only open myself to more rejections.  But I also stand to glean far more helpful criticism and perhaps thicken my skin to negativity.  I'll get calluses on my ego until eventually my sensitivity no longer affects my decisions to reach higher and higher for my goals.  Better yet, I hope I'll be more likely to weaken my attachment to my fiction, so I can edit more objectively.  In turn, this may lead to fewer rejections as my finished drafts improve.

Would you like to give me a hand by offering some criticism of my blog entries?  Please leave me some comments.  No need to be gentle.  Give me some tough love.  I have a story that needs your brutally honest criticism here:  An End to Hiding.  For those of you who've already given me some helpful feedback, you have my heartfelt appreciation.

A Peek at My Latest Submission

I recently submitted an excerpt from a fantasy tale at Inkitt.com.  Here's the link to the complete entry, told in three parts:  An End to Hiding

This is part of what I hope to be a complete novel someday.  I've taken a break from the fantasy genre for a while, but I still enjoy it and want to return to it at some point.  I have a general plot outline in place for the novel, but there's still much work to do.  The submission is for Inkitt's current fantasy story contest, so if you like the story please be sure to click the heart icon to recommend it. The winner will be the top-recommended story.

Hafley dared not wait to confirm Martinson’s fate.  Greta curled herself into a ball on the ground, trying to protect her head and belly from further abuse.  Rage swelled in him, threatening to cast reason further aside.  Already soldiers recovered from the initial shock of his attack and their overconfidence in Martinson.  He had lost the advantage of surprise, and he knew he could never beat all of the fiends.

He fled into the woods, leaving the hoarse shouts of his enemies behind.  He was less encumbered than all of them and planned to outdistance them as quickly as possible.  He hoped the brush and roots would further slow them.

He heard a deeper barking than that of the hound he had killed.  He feared that the dogs were the larger fighting breed Martinson favored for use in the pits.  If he could stay out of sight and move quietly, they might not be able to track him.  If they did find him, they would surely kill him.  They were accustomed to fighting bears, and Hafley did not allow himself to think he stood a chance against them.

The barking grew louder, and he abandoned all hope of stealth.  He increased his speed against the wishes of his aching muscles and pounding heart.  The sword pulled heavily at his arm, urging him to drop it.  Hafley dared not abandon his only defense, even after nearly impaling himself when a root snatched at his boot. 

Something was wrong.  Ahead he heard the report of rushing water.  The river, still swollen with the rain from the night before, should have been well behind him.  Instead he headed toward it.  He cursed himself, and then he realized that the river could help him lose both dogs and men.  In their armor, they would never risk drowning in the quick current.  The dogs could surely swim, but they might balk at the sight and sound of the rapids.  If he merely let the currents carry him, he might even keep hold of his borrowed blade.

His pulse pounded in his head as he struggled to maintain his pace.  He risked a glance over his shoulder, only to see the two dogs closing.  They were giant mastiffs.  Each must have nearly outweighed him.  They were poor endurance runners, yet they crashed through the brush as if Hafley were their last meal.

He stumbled over a root and lost his sword in his panic to break his fall.  His hands slipped in mud as he hit the sloping ground.  He slid, face first toward the embankment.  Muddy, matted hair fell into his eyes.  The dogs were so close that he could hear their labored breathing even above his own.  He fell.

It took him a split second to brace himself for the clutch of the chilly water.  It took even less time for the pain to register as his body broke upon the rocks.

When he could breathe, he wished he had not.  Some unseen blade stabbed him with each breath.  His left arm would not obey him.  He ground his teeth as he made his legs push his body toward the river.  He preferred drowning to capture, but there was still fight in him.  Thoughts of Greta spurred him toward the currents.

The frigid water inflamed his every scrape and gash.  The remnants of his clothes dragged him down to slam into every rock.  Voices were only noise, words unrecognizable over the frothing current.  A new pain erupted through his shoulder, and he spun briefly enough to see his attackers.

Gazing downward, the arrow shaft and point protruded obscenely from his chest.  The archer on the bank some thirty yards upstream already pulled an arrow to his cheek.  Only then did he realize he was being swiftly carried away.  He tried in vain to orient himself with feet downstream and head protected, but the current ordered and his body obeyed.  He failed to see the rock, and then he failed to see anything.

I hope you enjoyed that peek at my story.  Here's the link to the full  submission:

An End to Hiding

Thanks for reading!

My Primer for Yankees Relocating to the South

In my early years of living in NC as a transplant from NY, I encountered my share of embarrassments, language barriers, and dietary conundrums.  For some of my new found friends, these were priceless amusements.  It was even greater fun for those northerners that had arrived before me and successfully adapted to life south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Eventually I had my share of laughs at the expense of newly relocated folks, too.  Only later did it occur to me that laughing at these people was wrong.  I was guilty of something akin to hazing. I decided instead to write down some advice for people to make their adjustments easier.

Firstly, some notes about language.  The dialect you hear in the South is in fact English.  At first, you will struggle.  Prepare yourself with some viewings of Forrest Gump and Steel Magnolias.  A note to guys: it's OK if Steel Magnolias makes you cry.  It's supposed to.  Once you think you've gotten the hang of the lingo, there's nothing better than immersing yourself in the culture.  You might feel more comfortable if you just listen at first, but southern folks are generally nice and will want to chat with you.  They would also rather you confess to having a hard time understanding them than faking it.  It will just be a matter of time before "y'all" and "might could" come out of your mouth.  Don't fight it. That will only make you look uppity.

Don't get drawn into an argument about bar-b-q.  It's not an argument to be won, but rather an opportunity to try a lot of different recipes.  You will be forced to have coleslaw with your bar-b-q. It's affectionately known as "slaw" here.  If it disgusts you, try to scrape it off your plate when nobody's looking.  Have a second helping of the bar-b-q and pretend you don't have room for the slaw if somebody asks.  If you venture an opinion on the bar-b-q and anybody finds out that you're a Yankee, your opinion will be dismissed as if you're an alien.  Try not to take it personally.

Snow is a mysterious and awesome meteorological phenomenon in the South (unless you live in the mountains).  While pretty when it falls, panic will ensue if it starts to stick to the ground.  You may have grown up shoveling it and driving in it, but this will not prepare you for the Snowpocalypse. You may be stranded in your home with no more than several inches of snow on the road. You will also not be able to find a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, or a dozen eggs within driving distance once the flakes appear.  Just stay in your home until it melts.  It could be days before your road is plowed, if it's plowed at all.  If freezing rain is in the forecast, a generator will be your best friend.  Trees will come down, power will go out.  It might seem like an unnecessary purchase, given that some years inclement weather never appears, but remember that it may also come in handy during hurricane season.  That's no joke.

People will show up at your door unannounced.  Those are probably your neighbors and not just those that live next to you.  Don't be alarmed.  They might bring you food, or a gift, or just want to see how you're doing and invite you over for bar-b-q.  This is the fabled Southern Hospitality.  It will be expected that you show some now that you live here, too.  You will find that it can lead to friendships and the knowing of everybody's business.  People will still come to your door trying to sell you stuff, but don't assume that's the reason your doorbell was rung.  You might miss out on some pie and some fun conversation if you ignore it.

Sweet tea is the only kind of iced tea.  I don't mean that you can't get unsweetened iced tea; I just mean that your waiter will act like you slapped him if your order it.  There is so much sugar in it that the crystals fail to dissolve, and that's normal.  Squeeze some lemon in it if you're afraid it might be too sweet.  As much lemon as you want will be brought to you with a smile, but don't expect one if you're drinking that Yankee tea.  It's a dead giveaway that you're "not from around here".

That's by no means an exhaustive list, but it should be a good start for any of you considering relocation.  I've been here for nearly 20 years and never contemplated returning north.  I might still have to employ the "too full for the slaw" excuse, but I feel like I belong here now.  Good luck to y'all on your move.

Defying Age Science Fiction Style

As I get older, fatter, balder, and generally dilapidated-er, it's probably natural that I reflect on science fiction's answers to aging.  By the 21st Century, I was sure people in some of the more technologically advanced countries would be extending youth into the triple digits, enjoying active lives up until the end.  Some novels I've enjoyed used drugs or gene therapy for their longevity solutions.  Others employed cloning.  One of my favorites at the moment is digital consciousness transference, described in the Takeshi Kovacs novels by Richard K. Morgan.

Having read the novels out of order, it took me a bit to wrap my mind around the concept.  In short, the process involves a piece of implanted hardware, called a cortical stack, that a person receives at birth, allowing one's consciousness to be recorded.  At one's death, the preserved memories and personality traits stored in the device can wind up in a variety of places, some not so nice.  Ideally the device is implanted into a clone of the person's choosing, so the physical body, called a "sleeve", can be genetically designed to the person's specifications.

Morgan makes this concept even more interesting by attaching price tags to this type of operation. Sometimes bodies of convicted criminals are sold to host a deceased person's stack.  Sometimes someone's consciousness can only exist using a cheaper option, living in a sophisticated but confined and computerized reality.  Other times, such is often the case with for Takeshi Kovacs, a person's skills are in such demand that they are placed into a superhuman body designed for a specific purpose, like a genetically enhanced and cybernetically augmented James Bond.

This process is so common in Kovacs' universe that it's taken for granted by wealthy characters the way I go to the pharmacy drive-thru.  For others, the re-sleeving process represents their life savings, even the savings of multiple generations.  Morgan is able to establish this as an additional type of economic stratification in his societies, where the truly wealthy enjoy near immortality, living lives in attractive, healthy bodies for hundreds of years.  The super-elite even have clones immediately available and a backup system for their cortical stacks should something, or someone, happen to destroy them.

All kinds of ethical, logistical, and theological issues arise around this technology, and Morgan doesn't shirk his responsibility as an author to expose readers to the problems that develop. Consciousness can be broadcast at faster-than-light speeds, allowing one to be loaded into a body on another planet.  Human colonization of other worlds has allowed for the population increase digital consciousness would cause.  Religious objections require worshipers never receive the stacks and live only the limits of their natural lifetimes.  Some stacks are taken from the recently dead and sold once the skills of the deceased are identified or by the pound if buyers feel lucky.  In any case, shuttling between bodies can and does have adverse psychological effects from time to time.

It's doubtful that anything like this is just around the corner, but in a couple of decades maybe I can get on a waiting list for a young, athletic body with a great head of hair.  Good-bye retirement savings, hello extended writing career!

From the Mouths of Babes

Every once in a while, my son has a genuine moment of Zen wisdom.  Often I'm slow to appreciate those nuggets.  Sometimes it takes years.  Once when driving Spud (not his real name) home from daycare, I stopped at a light and noted his swiveling head.

"Do you know where you are?"  I thought I would see if he recognized anything along our daily route home.

"Daddy, I'm here," he said.

I started to name landmarks and estimate distances from the house and school.  Then I realized it for a profound moment of clarity on his part.  Buckaroo Banzai couldn't have said it better.

A few years later, we were driving to NY to see my family.  We had picked up Spud after school, and we planned to stop for the night in southern Pennsylvania.  The anticipation of a night spent in a motel room threatened to keep him from napping in the car.  Eventually the Dramamine kicked in and then snoring from the back seat, his head cocked at an angle that couldn't be comfortable.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, having endured hours of infamous PA road construction delays, we were beat.  Spud's enthusiasm energized us a bit.  My wife, Shmoopy (not her real name), had reserved a suite with a hot tub. Thoughts of soaking my aching back, the jets gently massaging out the knots, made me almost as excited as Spud.  We promised him he could try it before bed, and he could hardly stop talking about steam and bubbles.

There was nobody at the hotel desk, but I could hear talking from a room walled off from the counter. The motel was a recognizable chain, but I noticed a sign declaring that one to be independently managed.  The sign was foreshadowing.  Eventually somebody heard us talking and tore herself away from her giggling companion to welcome us.  There followed a monotone briefing on pool hours, check-out time, and the free continental breakfast, and we were on our way to the hot tub and blissful slumber.

We wheeled, wrestled, and juggled our luggage along the sidewalk to our room.  I noticed a crumbling concrete staircase, complete with bright yellow cautionary tape.  The over-chlorinated pool made my eyes water and nostrils tingle.  It was conveniently located close to our door and populated by a raucous bunch of people ignoring the posted closing time.  I comforted myself with the knowledge that the sound of hot tub jets would soon drown out their antics.

The odors from the pool were quickly replaced by the smell of cigarette smoke when we entered the non-smoking room.  I called the front desk to request a different room, but nobody answered.  We decided that maybe we were wrong, since we didn't see any ash trays in the room.  Maybe it was drifting in through a window or vent from outside.  Then we spotted the pile of ash in the corner of the room.  At least Spud would be sleeping in the second bedroom.

We opened the door to his room and found no bed.  There were, however, very good instructions for unfolding the couch.  Oh, well.  Spud could sleep just about anywhere once he was tired enough.  We dropped our things.  Shmoopy tried to cheer us by filling the hot tub at the edge of our bedroom.  The jets didn't work.  At least there was hot water, so Spud got to take a bath in a giant tub. We made bubbles for him with the hotel shampoo, and soon he was off to bed.

The next morning, I went to take a shower and noticed a pile of curly hair near the drain.  I wondered if the shower had been cleaned after the last guests had stayed in the room.  Obviously the ashes hadn't been vacuumed from the carpet.  I thought the sheets had been clean.  If they hadn't, it was too late.  I began to itch with just the thought of it, so I wiped up the hair with some toilet paper and took my shower with flip-flops on my feet.

The doors to the breakfast area were locked when we arrived.  We waited 15 minutes past the posted time for breakfast, and then I went to the front desk.  There was a different woman on duty, and she unlocked the door and began heating up water for tea.  There were packages of cereal, some granola bars, and the coffee wasn't yet made.  We were advised that it would probably take twenty minutes or so until that would be remedied.  We left, checked out, and went to McDonald's.

With every small disappointment, I felt bad for Spud.  I had stayed in some crappy motels in the past, but the online reviews of that one promised better accommodations.  I had been completely unprepared for the mess we encountered, and surely Spud had anticipated a veritable Magic Kingdom of hot tubs, huge beds, and fresh waffles.

"That hotel was cool, Dad."  That's what he said to me later that day.  Shmoopy and I were stunned. Hadn't he seen the ashes, busted hot tub, and hirsute shower drain?  Sure.  He'd experienced the exact same things we had, but he didn't get upset.  He just enjoyed being on vacation with his family.

Lesson learned, wise Spud.

Mother, Mother Ocean

I was lucky enough to spend Independence Day with family and friends at the beach this year. Despite thunderstorms that rolled through in the afternoon and early evening, we trekked out to the sand to watch fireworks on a distant pier.  Sunset is my favorite time to be on the beach, since I'm pasty of complexion.  I'm not so much a fan of the beach as I am awed and mesmerized by the ocean. As the light diminished, I watched the waves retreating until I could at last only hear them.  The smell of the brine still lingered in my nostrils as we rode back to the house.

The next day we spent most of the afternoon on the beach.  The kids ran around, dug holes, and fled from waves.  Sharks forced the sullen teen to leave her surfboard at home.  I had taken a book to read, but I never opened it even though it's been a tremendous read so far.  I watched the waves for hours, watched the colors shift green, blue, gray.  I watched the rip tides suck sand out to sea, watched the breakers pound the beach, and gulls skim the water where fish broke the surface.  I looked out to the horizon and imagined myself aboard a boat with nothing but water on all sides as far as I could see.

For the most part, the surf was calm and picturesque, a sharp contrast to the storms the previous day. I've been at sea when the waters have been angry, and I was elated to reach shore safely. There's nothing like the ocean to make one feel small, weak, and completely at the mercy of nature. Everyone I know who has spent any time in or on the ocean has memorable stories of close calls, times when they thought for sure they would drown.  Yet they still swim, boat, and surf.  It draws them back time and time again, more respectful of her mercurial power every time they witness it.  For me, it's enough to stand on the shore and let the tide tug at my legs, feeling that might and the appreciation for dry land.

It the novel I'm outlining, the aliens love Earth's oceans.  They live in the sea and in many ways are indistinguishable from it.  Its power is theirs.  They command the water cycle, the storms, and the lightning.  They thrive in the benthic pressure and are just as comfortable in the midst of storm clouds.  To most, their nature is as unknowable as mist and unpredictable as a hurricane.  Despite this, there is something about them that is essentially human, like the water in all of us, like the blood so close in its makeup to sea water.

I will miss the sound and smell of the surf, and I'll think about it often as I write my book.  My awe will no doubt appear on my characters' faces.  They will have their own stories of close calls before the book is done, and they will still be drawn to the ocean after experiencing them.

Worst Superhero Ever

If you're a fan of superhero media, you've probably wondered what it would be like to have extraordinary superhuman abilities of your own.  If you're a geek like I am, you've undoubtedly conversed at length on the subject with like-minded friends.  Maybe there's a hero with whom you particularly identify, one who inspires you as an example of selfless bravery, a righteous deliverer of justice.

For my money, the best superhero fiction doesn't stop when the capes come off.  I love to see the impacts of super powers on the heroes' lives.  For some of the characters, the negatives are trivial and easily overcome.  My favorites are the heroes whose lives are messy because they choose to use their powers, even when it makes them targets of animosity.  In no small part, it's that decision, despite the complications and even suffering it causes, that makes them heroes.  It's the reason this type of fiction still appeals to me 30 years after I started reading it.  I see it when I watch Batman don the persona of Bruce Wayne, while his need to dish out justice burns behind his smiling facade.  I see it when I flip the pages showing Spiderman agonize  over keeping his identity a secret from his friends and family. I see it when I watch extroverted Nightcrawler try to disguise his demonic appearance, so he can experience the simple joy of walking among other people, people who would fear or even attack him if they could see his pointy ears and tail.

Sometimes I read or watch this type of fiction and imagine myself in these same situations.  How must it feel to be shunned by the very people you risk your life to protect?  What must it be like to be hunted by the authorities even though you catch the bad guys too powerful for them to apprehend?  If I could teleport myself away on a whim, what inner reserve of nobility would I need to stick around people who vilified me?  Quickly I come to the conclusion that I'd be the worst superhero ever.

There's no way I could maintain a dual identity.  I have enough trouble switching among father, employee, writer, and husband.  I space out thinking about what I'm writing when I should be doing other things.  And I get caught doing it all the time.  If I were Spiderman, I would show up to work in my spandex.  I could pretend I thought it was Halloween only a couple of times before I got fired or committed.  Work all day and fight crime by night?  Uh, no.  It's hard enough to find time to blog and get on the treadmill for an hour before I fall asleep.  I can't imagine patrolling the city for hooligans after a full day of work.  Unless I could sleep at work, I just couldn't do it.  Even if I had a super power, I would be too tired to use it.  Aaron Hamilton, part-time crime fighter when there's nothing good on TV.

The Daredevil series on Netflix did an excellent job of showing the physical punishment he received even when he walked away victorious from his scuffles with criminals.  The obsessive determination he employed to fight crime night after night, after each narrow escape of death, left me questioning my own resolve in much easier situations.  I heroically drove a car without air conditioning for two summer months.  Once I mowed the lawn when I didn't feel well.  That's about the limit of my perseverance in the face of adversity.  Even with superpowers, I have a feeling I would skip a lot of nights patrolling the city if I felt a cold coming on.

I expect my heroes to be better than I am, and I hope the world never tips on the brink of destruction with only me to save it.  I guess the only way to know for sure if I would suit up to save humanity is if I were the recipient of some kind of superhuman ability.  Pretty unlikely that will happen, I think, but you never know.  For everyone's benefit, I hope some nobler guy or gal gets bitten by the radioactive spider.

Making Sense of Sense8 (No Spoilers)

I noticed "Sense8" available to watch on Netflix a while ago, but I hadn't heard the buzz around it. Honestly, I don't hear a lot of buzz in general these days and normally rely on like-minded friends to fill me in about what they've been watching.  Then I usually add stuff to my Netflix queue and it piles up there, collecting digital dust until I have some time off from work.  As soon as I heard the Wachowski siblings of Matrix fame were involved, I knew I would find time to check it out.  Once the treadmill finished beeping at me to let me know I was up to speed, I pressed play and was mesmerized for the entire first episode.

Had it been a more convenient time, I might have watched half of the 12 episodes in one sitting like my wife did.  She devoured the series in several days, praising it and encouraging me to watch the rest.  I watched another episode, likewise while sweating in place on the torture belt of the treadmill. Afterward I hesitated to talk to her about it.  Obviously I wasn't as enamored with it as she felt.  I got the concept. I loved the diverse and very human characters.  The locations were beautifully shot, the dialogue excellently written, and the potential for my new favorite show in the world was just beyond my grasp.  And it stayed there, as I waited for the pace to quicken, for the magical moment to happen when the hook of the show, connecting all of the characters together, would explode into being.  I knew that the action would start and not let up for at least a few more episodes.  And it didn't.

I wanted to be compelled to watch the show far past my bedtime, like I was with Lost.  There were so many tidbits in Lost that I needed explained.  I spent most of each show in the first couple of seasons completely confused, and I loved every minute.  In Sense8, I know what's going on, for the most part. The viewer is given the knowledge of the strange experiences happening to the characters, but it's been painful to me that the characters haven't figured out what's going on.  I see the reason behind it, and I'm thankful that I'm getting a chance to know the characters well before the action surrounding the phenomenon really takes off.  But I'm not hooked.  I could walk away at any time after seeing 25 percent of the series, and I don't imagine I would think about the show with more than a passing curiosity over the coming weeks or months.

The pace did pick up in the third episode.  The characters started actively reaching out to each other, rather than being disoriented and afraid.  They've gotten past the feeling that they're insane or hallucinating and have begun what I hope will begin some really nerve-wracking episodes.  Sounds like I'll be watching the rest of the series, doesn't it?  I likely will, and I'll probably love it by the time I've finished.  I just wish I felt the least bit eager to do it.

Drawing Inspiration from Glen Cook's Black Company

I was 15 and animatedly recounting the "Apprentice Adept" series to a friend, when he thrust a paperback at me as his response.  The cover depicted a masked figure holding a dagger.  Said dagger's business end rested embedded in a table carved with arcane symbols.  It was "The Black Company" by Glen Cook, and it forever influenced my reading preferences and the way I would write in the fantasy genre.

The Black Company mixed fantasy with military realism, depicting the life of a mercenary band and eschewing romanticism.  Ironically many of the novels in the series were narrated by the company's physician, who grudgingly admitted to a romantic streak when recounting the history of his world and his martial brotherhood.  Doubling as the company's historian, he chronicled their deeds, including losses of brothers-in-arms and insights into the world's locales and cultures.

Cook created characters that were memorable for their contrasting personalities and even more so for their failings.  Most were less than admirable, if not criminal, but they had formed a close family of misfits with whom I found no difficulty sympathizing.  They were men who had long ago come to terms with hard realities, chief among them that nobody else would have them except their fellow soldiers. They didn't fight for honor or nation, only hard currency and each other.

I had never considered the price of magical power until I read what Cook's characters experienced, especially the feared "Lady" and "Ten Who Were Taken", gifted sorcerers compelled to serve the Lady and her husband.  Some bore horrible deformities, others were insane, and even those who appeared less so were scarred in ways not easily discerned.  The corrupting influence of magical power was clearly evident in the greatest wizards who took every opportunity to sabotage each other's plans.  To mere mortals, like the narrator, it was at once terrifying and captivating to witness the results of the magic unleashed upon the world.

The novels dispelled all of my preconceptions about heroes, since he frequently portrayed the characters as disappointingly human.  Sure, they were capable of decency and honor, but those things often turned out to be low priorities when the lives of their brothers or fortunes were in the balance. Those who paid with their lives were mourned.  Then life went on, and the survivors seldom wished they had traded places with their deceased brethren.

The novels spanned decades within the over-arcing tale, and that allowed for some remarkable character transformations.  Age took a toll on some.  One central character even grew from childhood fostered among the mercenaries, and Cook artfully steered her from a scared child to a gifted commander.

I was lucky in many ways to discover Cook's novels at that age.  My brain and imagination were still malleable during those formative years.  He dispelled my preconceptions about the fantasy genre before I knew I'd formed them, and I'll be forever grateful.

Father's Day

I have a ton of great memories of my dad.  Growing up, he was my friend, but there was never any ambiguity about his role as a parent.  It was comforting because I always knew where I stood.  I was always clear on his expectations of me as a person, student, and a future adult. He was there to teach me about responsibility, priorities, integrity, and accountability.  He set an example for me by leading his life the way he wanted me to live mine, and I couldn't have had a better role model.  Of course, one of the things I loved most about my dad was that he loved to have fun and believed it was a just reward for working hard.

Dad loved the outdoors.  From a young age, I accompanied him to fishing holes all up and down the river and streams that ran through my home town.  When I got big enough to help carry the canoe, we drifted downstream, casting our bait into promising pools along the river.  He told me about similar hours fishing when he was a boy, same river but miles away from where I grew up. Later I would see black and white photos of him in cut-off shorts as a boy, pole in hand, and that same smile on his face that spoke of his eagerness to bring home trout.

We shared a love of tennis, too, and I can remember weekends when we rose early to arrive at the courts before they got crowded.  Sometimes we left early enough that dew still sparkled on the nets. We would have the courts to ourselves, at least for a little while, long enough for us to be sweaty and hungry for breakfast when we got home.  Sometimes we had to hurry to shower in time for church, and we left the house with the snap in our steps that early morning exercise still brings me, when I can manage it before a cup of coffee.

It was somewhere in my early teens when we became rabid roller coaster enthusiasts.  Dad loved a road trip, eagerly plotting routes with his Rand McNally road atlas, something he would request for Christmas every year.  To him, getting lost always seemed like part of the adventure, a challenge to overcome with a keen sense of direction and the ability to instinctively smell a short-cut.  The drives were filled with classic tunes from the time when he drank vanilla Cokes at the soda shop, and I knew the catchiest tracks on the cassette tapes from hours of listening.  As I grew older, I even earned the right to play some of my hair metal, though we always seemed to compromise with Credence Clearwater Revival.

Dad and I had our differences.  He was always a practical guy who seemed grounded in the tangible and logical.  When I discovered science fiction, fantasy, and horror novels, spending more and more time with my face in books, I can never remember him belittling time spent with my imagination. When I started writing my own stories about fantastical adventure and nightmarish creatures, it was something that we didn't share but something that he never discouraged.  Of all the memories I have of my father, it was this unconditional support that I remember most fondly, the encouragement and reminder that hard work can be applied to anything with remarkable results.  It's something I try my best to show my son.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  We miss you. 

The Magic of the Muppets

Like most kids, I was treated to many episodes of Sesame Street and loved all the characters.  There was also some learning involved, but I don't think I realized it at the time.  I loved the way the characters interacted with children and adults, just other people in the neighborhood learning alongside the kids on the show and me at home.  Inevitably I got "too old" for Sesame Street, but there was that void that couldn't be filled by The Electric Company or Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Enter the "most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetational" show ever created.

My whole family watched, though it was the biggest hit with me, my mom, and my younger sister. I had no idea who most of the guests even were.  Years later I would see Sylvester Stallone, Steve Martin, or James Coburn and say:  "Hey, it's that guy from the Muppet Show!"  The Muppets were real to me, and they seemed even more lifelike when I watched famous adults interact with them like they were people.  I anxiously awaited the recurring sketches, like "Pigs in Space" and "Animal Hospital". What would Nurse Piggy say to make everyone laugh?  How would Dr. Strangepork's scientific knowledge save the crew?  The fact that Kermit was a completely frazzled theater manager really sold it, too, as a place you could just stumble into downtown with the guest's name on the marquis out front.  Even better was the way that Kermit and most of the cast were completely aware of the Muppet Theater's place in the entertainment world.  It kept me sympathetic with the characters, watching them try their best to amuse a small, sometimes hostile, audience because they loved to create and perform. The musical numbers were some of most memorable parts of the show.  Who could forget Alice Cooper performing "School's Out"?  What about the drum duel between Animal and Buddy Rich?

There have been many movies made over the years featuring the Muppets.  Aside from A Muppet Christmas Carol, I wasn't a huge fan of them.  They never seemed to capture the magic of the regular show, and though I liked them, they just couldn't compete.  I still have a soft spot for the first movie though.  I even surprised my mom on my wedding day, by selecting "Rainbow Connection" for our traditional dance at the reception.

Probably my favorite Muppet spin-off, and Christmas special, is "Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas". To this day I catch myself singing "Ain't No Hole in the Washtub" in the car.  Emmet, along with his friends and mother, enters a talent contest in the movie.  At first, it's a way to try to win enough money to buy Christmas presents, but it becomes much more.  It's about sacrifice, generosity, love, and family.  It portrays poor folks trying to make a living, always a glimmer of hope just around the bend for a better life.  Most importantly to me, it was about people, in the forms of otters and other critters, using their talents together to change their lives.

Finally, if it weren't for The Muppet Show, I might not have listened to all of the hype about Farscape, produced and populated with fantastic creatures by The Jim Henson Company.  It's given me hours of "wow" over the years.  My son decided early that The Muppet Show was "for little kids". So far, I haven't been able to convince him otherwise.  Maybe it's just too rooted in my own childhood and he couldn't develop the appreciation for it that I did when he watched it on DVD.  He is at least enjoying Farscape a great deal.  Maybe he'll enjoy The Muppet Show as an adult someday, like I do now.  Needless to say, I'm psyched for its return on ABC, even if I have to watch it by myself.

The Taste of Forbidden Love

It's inconceivable that there was a time when I couldn't picture you in my mind.  The day I first saw you seems so far removed from all those preceding it, like another life.  I knew I had to have you, could have you.  That was my whole reason for being there, for such an encounter.  Only at that moment did I realize my expectations had, for once, been truly inadequate in preparing me for reality. I also knew I shouldn't approach you.  There was, unspoken between us, a warning that went unheeded.  You promised me only obsession and, very possibly, regret.  I also knew that I would embrace you with abandon.  In that place, where destiny had brought us together, I could partake of you with no intrusion from the outside world.

The first time my lips touched you, my senses erupted, my heart ached for the years I'd lived without you.  It was as I feared.  My desire for you could never be satisfied, but I could drive myself mad in the attempt, plunge recklessly down the path that might well lead to my undoing.  Relinquishing myself to the moment, that perfect moment, when we first existed only together, I could stave off the eventual guilt and sorrow of our inevitable parting.

Hours, even days apart, the time tortured me.  Sometimes I allowed myself to think that we were better off.  Kept at a distance, it seemed I might unshackle my heart and soul from you.  Eventually a day would come when I could not drive you from my thoughts, try as I might.  As if you waited solely for me, you were there when I arrived.  Amid the swirling activity and noise, the light seemed to cling to you, the sound muted around us.  I longed for every second with you to mirror our first moments together.  I feared familiarity might break the spell, send me drifting never to return.  How wrong I was.

I never anticipated just how damaging our relationship would become.  The guilt was mine alone to endure, but it nagged constantly at my conscience.  I knew my obsession with you took a toll on me, body and soul.  Why was I so weak?  Justifications for my love leaped easily to my lips.  I craved you, and fruitless attempts at logic and reason fell before my scything emotions.  Even when I admitted to myself that you were not mine alone, I wanted you.

It was a night like countless others.  Even now I can't identify its fundamental difference.  Had I found some well of inner strength?  Had my desire for you finally waned, as it had for others over time?  I knew when I saw you that our romance would soon be over.  Perhaps I would think of you in days to come with fond memories, or perhaps anger at my own frailty would poison my recollections of the joy you brought me.  You tasted just as sweet, but somehow I felt the emptiness of startlingly brief elation.  I knew it could only mean farewell.

Sadness prevailed, obscuring everything else at our parting.  No promises hung in the air, no expectations, even as the taste of you lingered on my tongue and threatened to send me running back to you.  In my car, the dome light briefly revealed a final testament to our parting.  A crumb of you, glazed devils-food doughnut, graced my shirt.  I hesitated a moment before plucking the last of you from my chest and flicking you out my window.  I saw through the shop window, that many others enjoyed you, with coffee of course.  The question still arises in my mind today.  Had I savored that last taste of you, instead of casting you into the night, would I have ever known freedom?  I think not. There would have been heartburn either way.

Telling People I'm a Writer

I think of myself as a writer, but it's mostly because it's the only job I've ever really wanted.  Now that I'm officially paying taxes on royalties, it seems like I've earned the right to tell people that's what I am.  Really I've been a writer for a very long time, and I'm just admitting it now.  It's not like I've ever been embarrassed to say it, more like I've recently decided that I'm OK with whatever a person's reaction happens to be.  I don't intentionally try to make people feel uncomfortable, but sometimes I can see it on a person's face as they struggle to think of a reply.  Sometimes it feels like they pity my delusion or they instantly feel guilty.  They realize they're going to have to tell me they've never heard of me or read anything I've written.  I could say the same thing to writers who are A LOT more famous than I am, so I don't mind.  If you want to tell me that my fiction doesn't appeal to you, no problem.  Maybe someday I'll write something that does.

Writing, especially genre writing like I do, used to carry a far greater stigma than it does today.  With the popularity of science fiction, fantasy, and horror movies, most people realize that they've already enjoyed something similar to what I write.  In fact, most of them know that a fair number of cinematic goodies have been adapted from books.  I've found much more support in my writing endeavors than I originally thought I would.  So far nobody has told me any of the things I used to hear when I was writing as a teen, labeling it as something for kids or something to do when I retire from my day job.  Much deserved thanks go to everybody who has realized that it's a labor of love, like lots of other things, and requires a tremendous amount of time and effort.

Probably the best thing about calling myself a writer is that nobody asks me to fix their computer. Any time I've ever said that I work in technical support, I've cringed inside with an unparalleled intensity.  I like helping people when I can, but most people these days are savvy enough to figure out technical problems themselves, with a little help from Google.  If they're willing to ask somebody they've just met for help, they have encountered something scarier than I've ever written about. When I've said that I write, nobody has ever asked me to compose them a poem or tell them a story.  It's kind of disappointing, really, because I'm much better at that than I am at fixing computers. My advice on a flaky PC is usually:  "Have you had your kid try to fix it?"  My kid charges $50 per hour, and I'm glad to pay it.  When he gets older, I'll get to tell him he should've saved it all up to buy his own car, but I'll rent mine to him for $55 per hour.

Seriously the best thing about telling people I'm a writer is that it's true.  I'm proud of myself for persevering after the times I've thought about giving up on it.  There's no better feeling than struggling to accomplish something and then achieving it.  Then you get to set bigger goals for yourself, fail, and try again.  Whatever it is you're dreaming of doing, keep struggling and tell other people about it.  Better yet, write about it on the Internet, so everybody can remind you about it if you give up.  (That's partially why I started this blog.)  You deserve to be admired for your hard work. You may be surprised at how encouraging other people can be when they see your determination, and it will help power your escalator upward.

Technophobe

Working in the Information Technology field and liking technology do not always go together.  I've been employed in IT in various roles since 2002, having previously worked in much more enjoyable but poorer paying jobs.  In truth, I never really embraced technology as more than a means to different ends.  I would never go back to using a typewriter after my first experience with AppleWorks.  When I first experienced the Internet over my dial-up connection, I couldn't believe I had survived without it.  It always seems like I cling to some obsolete, or at least antiquated, method of doing things until I finally cave and adopt a smart-thingy or I-something-or-other.

I wrote long-hand far past the point when I could have been using a computer.  I just liked the process of scratching away with a pen, furiously scribbling away my mistakes, and making notes in the margins of my notebooks.  I still have some of them, where stories were started and finished on a computer, or they were left unfinished on pages dotted with coffee stains.  For a long time, I didn't have a computer for financial reasons.  I could use one at the library where I worked, so sometimes I would stay late after my shift and bang out what I had written in my notebook.  Spellcheck was a great convenience, and copying and pasting seemed like miracles, I had to grudgingly admit.  I hardly ever start anything on my computer even now, but it's usually because my writing time is relegated to my lunch breaks at work, where I don't have access to a computer for personal use.  Though my tablet would allow me a very portable way to write digitally, I usually leave it at home where it's safe and secure.

Smartphones seemed like something dumb for me to have.  I resisted owning a cell phone for years, and I finally justified purchasing one in case of emergencies.  The salespeople wanted to dazzle me with the features available on the expensive models, and I insisted that I just needed a phone capable of being a phone.  I didn't need a camera because I lived in the city and hardly ever saw anything I needed to capture for later enjoyment.  I didn't understand the need to text instead of calling someone. When eventually I got the chance to get a smart phone, I thought of it as a distraction machine, always beeping at me to check my email, Facebook updates, Twitter feed, whatever.  Oh, I can play games, which is great for somebody like me who could technically be labeled as a recovering video game addict.

Now that I'm trying to get a writing career off the ground, I find myself increasingly dependent on all of the things I tried to avoid for years.  And I like most of them.  I like keeping in touch with people via Facebook that I haven't physically visited or phoned in decades.  It's probably the reason I haven't attended any of my high school reunions, now that I live 600 miles away from my alma mater.  I like the community of writers I seem to have fallen into on Twitter, many of whom share the same type of aspirations and frustrations that I do and would otherwise never have met me.  I've practically filled my phone with pictures of my pets and my kid, and I haven't contemplated buying a camera in years. Mostly, I owe my budding writing career to the Internet and digital publishing, and neither of those things existed when I first dreamed of seeing my stories published.

So Technology, it seems like I owe you a big apology for all of the nasty, curmudgeonly things I've said about you over the years.  You're not so bad when you work and when you're used as a force for good.  I appreciate the conveniences you've given me and the opportunity to reach out to people all over the world with my writing.  I'm sorry.  I was wrong.  Now my admission will live in the Cloud forever, in case I ever start yelling about you again.

Thanks to all of you for reading this on your computers, phones, tablets, and other things I probably haven't heard of yet but will grudgingly buy in the next couple of years.

True Detective, Truly Outstanding

I don't usually indulge in true crime stories in any medium.  There's a reason I don't watch the news, and it's because it stresses me out.  Human beings seem to have an unlimited capacity for brutality, greed, and perversion that is just too horrifying for me as a fan of horror.  The pain is too real, too immersive and maddening, when I know it's real.  I compulsively watched the first season of "True Detective" on HBO anyway, and I can't say enough good things about it.

The cast intrigued me enough to watch the first episode.  I've been a fan of Woody Harrelson since "Cheers", and though he's been in his share of disappointing movies, I've only enjoyed his work as he's gotten older.  His comic and dramatic talents lend well to his character, Marty Hart, as we see him develop through decades of police work, including flashbacks to his early career.  Likewise Matthew McConaughey excels in his portrayal of Hart's partner, Rust Cohle.  McConaughey has enjoyed a resurgence of his acting career that is well deserved, forgiving an occasional car commercial, and tidbits of Cohle's backstory definitely contributed to my devouring of the 8-episode series.

The investigation of focus in the series is heart-wrenching as much as it's horrifying.  Though difficult to watch at times, the toll it takes on Hart, Cohle and the people close to them is just as important as the investigation itself.  It speaks to the dedication, obsession even, of the detectives involved.  This treatment makes it easier to understand why they can never be free of the case until it's solved.  Too many cop dramas I've watched don't seem to establish the reason for this type of determined investigation beyond a simple "Type A" personality in one of the characters, usually the "loose-cannon" type who must be reigned in by his partner.  Hart and Cohle seemed like real human beings as much as they were policemen, something that makes me eagerly await meeting new characters in the second season of the show.

There's plenty of suspense, even in seeing how the characters react to each other without the threat of criminals.  I enjoyed also enjoyed the portrayal of dead ends in the investigation, something discussed in the behind-the-scenes tidbits that I waited for at the end of every episode. These proved valuable, not just for the occasional piece of the puzzle I missed in the episodes, but also because they led me to appreciate the painstaking writing and camera work that made each hour so memorable.

If you haven't seen "True Detective", I urge you to watch it.  There are so many great moments, that you could easily get sucked into the show even if you're not normally a fan of detective fiction.  I didn't expect it to appreciate it the way that I have, as just phenomenal story-telling.  Luckily the debut of the second season is only a couple of weeks away.

Max Is Totally Mental

I saw "Mad Max: Fury Road" over the weekend, and I was fully prepared to write a proper review, but Nonlocal Science Fiction has already published an excellent one here.  Much of the review shares my opinions of the movie, and I didn't want to risk redundancy; however, I couldn't miss the opportunity to talk about my favorite science fiction sub-genre.  My enthusiasm for the post-apocalyptic setting probably has a lot to do with my enjoyment of the horror genre.  Nuclear war was one of the scariest threats I could imagine when I was young and the Cold War Superpowers were constantly butting heads.  Unlike the monsters of horror movies I enjoyed, you can't drive a stake through its heart or find a relic to return it to the Netherworld.  When I finally saw "The Road Warrior" as a teen, I instantly fell in love with the idea that a nomadic anti-hero could survive in the wasteland by his wits, will, and his V-8 Interceptor (vrooooommm!).  He might even do some good here and there, when it would conveniently provide some petrol, anyway.

Through all of the explosions, car chases, and gun fights, I felt that the real star of Fury Road was the environment.  Everywhere seemed to be bleak desert, periodically interrupted by a toxic swamp or a pitiful conglomeration of desperate survivors.  In a world like that, living is the real horror.  Radiation sickness, roving gangs, storms of cataclysmic proportion, and even the governing factions left me wondering why the people even bothered to cling to their meager existences.  A lovely day was one where a bug could be captured and eaten.

Hope seemed to be the one thing people had in common, but they yearned for different things.  Most hoped that they would simply survive another day without dying of hunger or thirst, and the man controlling the water was practically worshiped as a god.  Some hoped to die spectacularly in a turbo-charged ball of flaming wreckage, before radiation poisoning could slowly claim them.  Others fought tooth and nail to die for something noble and meaningful.  One man seemed to struggle beyond the limits of human tolerance, simply because cheating death prolonged his own anguish, something he felt he deserved.

Max dragged plenty of demons around with him, and though Tom Hardy's role seemed slight, I thought he portrayed it perfectly.  Time and time again, I wondered what it would take for Max to decide he had struggled enough, that it would just be easier to lie down and die.  Some people can't stop fighting, and they are the survivors, the inheritors of the blasted wasteland and all of its treasures made of sand.  To me, that's what these types of movies are about:  men and women who will never give up.  The real focus is Imperator Furiosa, played by Charlize Theron, who finds a kindred spirit with Max's stubborn need to survive.  At times, each seems to struggle to understand the other's purpose for struggling against inevitable death.  It is a struggle that begs to be watched and is efficiently explained through action and spare dialogue.

My unbridled enthusiasm for Fury Road thankfully seems to be shared by many other movie viewers. I can only hope this means we will see more of Max Rockatansky and his continued struggle to outpace his enemies and his demons.

Mushy Stuff

I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm working on a novel.  Progress is slow, but I'm still committed to it, enthusiastic about it, and finding time to work on it.  It's a science fiction novel because it's set in a future earth occupied by aliens, but I hope it's received as a novel about friends, family, love, and transformation.  I'm not sure I would call it a young adult novel, but the protagonist is a girl on the brink of high school graduation.  Her future seems written out in front of her until a seemingly random encounter with a young man begins to unravel the predictable fabric of her plans.

From time to time, I've wondered if I can pull off a romance between these two characters that is believable and genuine, fragile yet inescapable.  It seems like a fine line between what I want to achieve and something that makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit.  I don't read romance fiction, but somehow this idea came to me, and I really want to tell this story, kissing and all.  It nagged at me that this might be a stumbling block.  It's not something I can pull out of an outline, and I'm not about to interview a bunch of teenage girls on the subject.  That would officially make me a creepy old man.  Then I remembered a summer from a long time ago and was surprised at how vivid some of the memories remained.

When I was 16, I went on a canoe trip through interconnected lakes in the Adirondack Mountains.  It started at a camp, not so different from the 4-H camp I attended when just a sprout.  Being that most of the canoe trippers were older teens, we were separated from the bulk of the other campers.  We were to stay the night and leave early the next morning for a few days of paddling between lakes and nights camping along shore.  The older campers, Counselors-In-Training, were allowed into an area we had claimed, playing pool and talking with us before dinner.  That was where I met Kathy (not her real name).

Kathy's smile was the first thing I noticed, because it was pointed at me a good deal of the time, before I figured out that she wanted me to come talk to her.  This was all new territory for me.  Her long hair was curled, and her bangs were piled high with mousse in front of a banana clip.  She wore acid-wash blue jeans with a wide, white pleather belt that hung from her hips and served no function, other than to be shiny.  Her dark brown eyes half closed when she laughed at whatever her friend was saying to her.  Then she would look over toward me and smile.

I felt uncharacteristically brave at that point, as I checked to make sure my feathered hair was in place.  Pretty girls normally left my spine feeling squishy and my throat full of tangled yarn, but I was only going to be there for one night before I left.  Certainly I could suffer a little embarrassment for that long if I were wrong about her intentions.  I didn't know any of those people and would never see them again after that week.

Kathy turned out to be very sweet and fun to talk to.  Before I knew it, we had run out of time.  The dinner bell rang, younger campers filed into the dining hall.  Kathy had to go do Counselor-In-Training things.  I ate with my small group of outsiders, taking some abuse for being so shy around Kathy.  I didn't have any excuses besides not knowing anything about girls, but I wasn't about to confess that.

The canoe trip was a tremendous amount of fun, complete with thunder storms huddled in a lean-to, bear noises that turned out to be a raccoon, the ever-present smell of Skin So Soft (mosquito repellent extraordinaire), and much more that was actually fun.  By the end, I was tired and ready to head home with stories to tell my family.

Back at the camp, we helped stow the gear from the trip and then had a couple of hours to kill before parents started to arrive.  To my surprise, Kathy turned up and spent most of it with me.  She looked even prettier than I remembered from 5 days before, practically a lifetime ago from my teenage point of view.  Suddenly I wasn't ready to go home quite yet.  Everyone from my canoeing group seemed to be watching us like hawks.  I felt very self-conscious.  More, I felt this heaviness in the air between us, and it was just anticipation that my poor, inexperienced self hadn't recognized.

A honk drew my attention to a line of cars.  My father waved over the top of the car.  I'm sure he was eager to get going, since I remembered how long the drive had taken.  I shouldered my backpack and asked Kathy to walk with me to the car.  It wasn't until I climbed in and closed the door that I realized I had truly run out of time.  I lunged through the open window and kissed her.  My first kiss, Kathy of the Adirondacks.  With my eyes closed and our lips locked, I could still see her face as though she was watching me kiss someone else, smiling, eyes beaming.

My dad cleared his throat, reminding me that I had lost all track of time.  No telling how much had passed from the moment the kiss began until it ended, but it was apparently too long for my dad's taste.  Dad pulled the car toward the exit.  I gave Kathy a final wave as we turned out onto the road and then craned my neck to watch her until she disappeared behind a hill.

All of that nervousness, excitement, awkwardness, and joy should find its place in my book.  If I start to worry about how I'm portraying my characters as they fumble through their romance, I'll look back on those hours at camp and find some detail that will fall into place straight from that experience. Love is not for the faint of heart, but sometimes the faint of heart find courage when they need it.

Hold the Garlic

From an early age, I liked monster movies.  I can remember watching some black-and-white classics, starring the greats of the era.  Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Jr., and Bela Lugosi were some I remember.  My favorite was Christopher Lee's Dracula, one of the reasons I was so psyched to see him cast as Sauruman in the Lord of the Rings and Count Dooku in Star Wars.  Vampires in particular seemed to occupy my imagination for many years afterward, only to slacken off a bit after my college years until True Blood brought me back to them.  Really, I just watched it because my wife was watching it.  Ok, I'm lying.  I hung in there until the second-to-last season, mainly because the show had a lot of what I like about vampires, for the first several seasons anyway, and skipped much of what I don't like about vampire fiction.  I appreciate the sensuality of the vampire mystique, but it's not the selling point for me.  I'm more a fan of the complications of immortality, the moral dilemmas behind their snacking habits, and what basically boils down to superhuman predators disguised as humans.  By and large, the books I've read have been superior to all the movies and TV shows I've seen.  Here are some of my favorites.

The first vampire novel I ever read that flew in the face of the movies I enjoyed during childhood was "Salem's Lot" by Stephen King.  I did enjoy the movie, but the book is far superior.  The small-town setting provided a level of familiarity among the characters that caused all kinds of tensions.  There was no way people could avoid confronting the fact that something awful plagued the village, as people they had known for years seemed to disappear.  Characters my age were missing, only to reappear to friends who had attended their funerals.  One of the heroes was a kid like me, who read books and watched monster movies and let his imagination get the best of him.  He and an out-of-town writer made a horrible team of vampire hunters, but that was part of the magic of the story. They were desperate to save the town and the important people in their lives, and there was nobody else to do it.

"Vampire$", by John Steakley, was eventually made into a movie, starring James Woods as the leader of a secret band of vampire hunters working for the Catholic Church.  I liked the movie, mainly due to Woods' fine portrayal of the main character, but the book was even better.  It's a gritty, high-velocity thriller, and the vampires aren't portrayed as age-weary romantics.  They're hunters with a plan to take back their rightful place as head of the food chain.  Their main opposition is all too human, fragile despite their best toys and tactics, and not completely up to the task.  It makes for a great read, as the ragtag band comes up against the worst of their fears in a winner-take-all battle for humanity.

Probably my favorite vampire novel of all time is "Necroscope" by Brian Lumley.  It's really much more of a Cold War spy novel than anything, but vampires were the main draw for me.  The novel involves two competing psychic espionage agencies, setting up the main characters from each faction to face off.  The influence of the vampire is interwoven artfully, with peeks into his history as well as his current ambitions.  The novel is followed by a whole series full of compelling characters, both human and vampire, some of whom seem far more evil than any undead parasite.  There's no arguing the originality of Lumley's vampire lore, again deviating from some of the classics and the popular successors to this genre.

Writing about these books makes me want to read them all over again, even though I've read each of them multiple times.  I guess it's time for me to find some new vampire fiction, so if you have any recommendations, please let me know.  Thanks for reading, and I look forward to hearing what you've been reading in the comments here, on Facebook, or Goodreads.