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!