tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331406422024-02-08T09:34:57.615-08:00Hello Reader!The Legend of a Work in ProgressThe Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-59764705839320636172012-08-13T22:54:00.001-07:002012-08-13T22:55:18.532-07:00ParentsHello Reader! Since I'm writing about teenagers, and I am currently wading my way through those awkward years between adolescence and adulthood where everyone expects me to know what I'm doing as if I'm an adult and then laughs at me when I talk about what I want to do as if I'm a teenager, I figured it would be a great idea to talk about one of the central issues that come up in YA fiction: parents. And our relationships with them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fPm8jQiRF48/UCnhNNC1XXI/AAAAAAAAAz4/j7uK4zoTbWg/s1600/Golden_Child_CP32325342.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fPm8jQiRF48/UCnhNNC1XXI/AAAAAAAAAz4/j7uK4zoTbWg/s400/Golden_Child_CP32325342.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With that name, how do you think his momma treated him?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
YA fiction either puts the parents and adults in the backseat as buffoons, untouchable gods, or condescending asshats. The teenagers at the center of the story either rebel, or rebel, or rebel against these authority figures because...well, what else do teenagers do but complain, break the law and cry about their crush not giving them a Valentine's Day Gram. To put it lightly, this is all very cliche and awfully silly.<br />
<br />
Going to school with a ludicrous variety of kids, I've seen the gamut of parenting styles. You've got the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zT9CHFauTgY">uber hippies</a> who sneak pot for their children, and you've got the <a href="http://i0.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/094/562/tumblr_lfal9iCbYE1qgrb7go1_400.jpg?1318992465">Asian tiger-moms</a> who stuff napkins into their purses every time they visit a restaurant. You've got super successful kids who never once in their life did anything wrong or got yelled at or got into trouble with teachers, either because they were sheltered beyond belief - or they were simply just good, motivated, hard-working kids. On the other hand, there are kids who are constantly in trouble with their parents, butting heads and getting into conflict, taking their frustrations out on their bodies with vengeful tattoos and awkward piercings, yet still get better grades than you ever will and are wildly successful. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MPsEO2zXVu0/UCnh_zzjtRI/AAAAAAAAA0A/p9rdJ2tMWxk/s1600/degrassi_the_next_generation_ca-show.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MPsEO2zXVu0/UCnh_zzjtRI/AAAAAAAAA0A/p9rdJ2tMWxk/s400/degrassi_the_next_generation_ca-show.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OMG I hated the Muslim guy's arc...why do we always have to impregnate someone to be "relatable"???</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When did Degrassi ever address those kids? Stereotypes are really easy to write about. Could be because the majority of the characterization work is already done for you, but it's also because authors are in a naturally lazy profession. You're sitting at home, either with pen & paper or on a laptop, writing down words and stringing together paragraphs into a story. There's no heavy lifting involved unless you're fond of using <a href="http://www.midstateprint.com/pencil09c.jpg">absurdly giant pencils,</a> there's no sweating from back-breaking manual labor unless you enjoy moving around <a href="http://normanweaver.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/reducethepapermountain_c794.jpg">reams and reams of scratch paper</a>, and there's certainly very little dirty work involved unless you have a penchant for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-n_yxJqYi0">ripping apart your felt tip pens and pouring the ink all over your face</a> every time writer's block comes knocking.<br />
<br />
No, that's still not right. Stereotypes sell. Yes, that's better. When you read interviews with agents and publishers, they want the next new thing. To better handle the uncertainty of the public's fickle tastes, they want what's already worked beforehand. This is completely understandable. It's also lulled writers into complacency. Especially when it comes to parent-teenager relationships.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4hcg0uj3240/UCnk2OAjWXI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/YcpnYPYXIFs/s1600/naughty-memes-dumbledore-dgaf.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4hcg0uj3240/UCnk2OAjWXI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/YcpnYPYXIFs/s400/naughty-memes-dumbledore-dgaf.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really need to learn how to put .gifs on here...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I don't blame any one television show or novel *cough* Degrassi *cough* *cough*. I blame authors who can't think of new ways to get things done. I'm not saying I'm some <a href="http://orthodoxbeacon.com/uploads/harry-icon-480.jpg">writing messiah</a> with a innovative writing style that will blow people away - although if someone ever says that about me I'll grin so wide you can see my wisdom teeth. All I'm saying is that I'm noticing a problem, and when I walk through Barnes & Noble I don't see anyone trying to fix it. <br />
<br />
All you ever see are bumbling buffoons of parents. Honestly, the best parent-kid relationships I've seen in YA fiction are in Harry Potter. Everyone rags on J.K. Rowling for not being a literary genius, and yes her writing isn't top notch Charles Dickens fare. But her relationships, the characters' interactions with each other, these are miraculous. With very little literary prowess, she manages to blow us away with real feelings and emotions and everything in between those two synonyms. The relationship between Ron and his mother is fraught with overbearing love and wisdom oft-ignored. Molly Weasley is not a bumbling fool, but neither is Ron a brazen idiot. Dumbledore is basically Harry's grandpa, and he's always looked to as a source of wisdom and confidence - he is not an authority figure to brush up against rudely and without any motivation other than to move the plot along.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xadwIOx0QU4/UCnjwJLQccI/AAAAAAAAA0I/ckoKGJTlD2A/s1600/Mufasa-Dead.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xadwIOx0QU4/UCnjwJLQccI/AAAAAAAAA0I/ckoKGJTlD2A/s400/Mufasa-Dead.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TOO SOON! TOO SOON! *sobs in the corner*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
You'd expect YA fiction to take a page from the wildly successful J.K. Rowling and her awesome character relationships. Instead, they decide to settle on this general, very narrow tidbit of wisdom: there will never be another Harry Potter so why try? They'd much rather go for the small game like the Hunger Games (Lord almighty why does Katniss' mom suck that bad?) or Twilight (Bella's dad is like a teenage boy who decided that having a mustache makes him a man). These relationships suck, and the parents exist as filler - they had to pop out of something right? Disney really knows what's up though. They avoid all of these problems altogether and just kill the parents right from the get-go. Brilliant people, Disney. Just brilliant.<br />
<br />
But then again, what do I know? I'm no best-seller. Here's an excerpt between Sheba, Briok's mom, and her son. This takes place at the grave of Briok's father. It's the first time he's visiting it, since he was in a coma when his father was officially buried. His mother takes him, and tries to console him after he learns that he is half-human and the last Magna Beast.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
After several minutes without
moving Sheba took pulled Briok away and looked him in the eyes. “Do you know why I think you can handle
this?” She smiled and turned to
rest her back against the statue.
“Proteus told me what you did, that night. At that café, when you decided to disobey me and your
father.” She pulled him close to
her. “Briok, you jumped in front
of a bullet. You didn’t know that
you were the Magna Beast, you didn’t know that you would probably heal.” Briok continued to look away from her,
but signs of life began to show.
He was fiddling with the grass, pulling at it in tufts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
wasn’t thinking when I did it,” he finally spoke. “And you’re my mom, you’re supposed to believe in me.” He pulled his head up, “You're supposed to say all these great things about how amazing I am and support me.” </div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> “Briok,
you know your mother,” she stopped his hands from pulling at the grass,</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“If you
do something wrong, I’m not afraid to tell you. If you weren’t so wonderful, I</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">would tell you.” She laughed, “You risked your
life. You should be proud. More
than</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">that, Briok you proved that you’re a man.
I’m proud to have you as my son.
You don’t</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">listen to</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">me, but I’m still proud.” She hugged him.
Despite his dour mood, he returned her </span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">hug,</span> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">burying his head in her
shoulder</span></blockquote>
<br />
Like always, let me know what you think. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-77776831356416253222012-08-06T13:59:00.000-07:002012-08-06T13:59:10.939-07:00Learning to Let GoHello Reader! As I'm drafting query letters for agents and really analyzing the meat of my novel, I frequently come upon an unavoidable fact. My novel has very little believable science fiction. A lot of the technology I employ isn't <a href="http://io9.com/5931073/10-futuristic-technologies-that-will-never-exist">nearly as well researched</a> as something like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyperion_Cantos">Hyperion series</a>, my alien species fall into the <a href="http://io9.com/5784971/how-to-create-a-scientifically-plausible-alien-life-form">two arms, two legs trope</a> of most genre fiction, and while I love the superpowers my main characters have there's <a href="http://io9.com/5811512/the-most-wonderfully-asinine-superhero-origin-stories">little concrete explanation for them</a>. I rock back and forth from fantasy and sci-fi, often in the same sentence, while expecting my readers to manage the tonal shifts. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/x7VS-zlURFM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Because of this glaring weakness too ingrained in the story to truly rectify, I focus on its strength: character relationships. Now I'm not saying that the novel has good character relationships, I'm not that boastful. You can be the judge of that. I'm just saying that relative to other aspects of the novel (like the sci-fi tech and fantasy elements) it's a much stronger element. These relationships, between teenagers just starting their adolescence, are of course fraught with angst and melodrama. But they're also informed by my life.<br />
<br />
When you're a teenager, every problem in the world seems like the apocalypse. You feel alone in trying to stop this immense silent doom that no one else understands. Sure some of you may not have felt that, and good for you. La dee da. But either way, the whole teenager thing provides good drama to write about. There's nothing like the raw emotions of a fourteen year old to propel a plot. The problem with me using this aspect of my life, my adolescence, to inform the adolescent relationships in my novel, is that I don't know much about my adolescence.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cPYIUihtbGE/UCAqQ9x6eUI/AAAAAAAAAzM/Icems3l2OwI/s1600/EPIC_675170_981488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cPYIUihtbGE/UCAqQ9x6eUI/AAAAAAAAAzM/Icems3l2OwI/s320/EPIC_675170_981488.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, this is my rage face. Beware.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's not fair to say that I had it stolen from me. It was very much a two-way street. But for five years I was best friends with someone who, at the end of the friendship, revealed that a lot of important things that had happened between us was a lie. A lot of those important things involved my relationships with other people. A lot of those important things involved how I thought I was perceived by others. A lot of those important things involved how I perceived myself.<br />
<br />
I can't begin to tell you how fucked up I was because of it, because I don't know the extent of the damage. I have no idea how far those lies actually spread. But lord did it make me angry. A sort of wrath overcame me, a debilitating rage that I couldn't control. I know when it comes on too, but it's like a drug. I always felt better after I roared at someone. More than once I've alienated and freaked people out by screaming at them like this. People who care about me and like me. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uWp2w9fAwsM/UCArKzsvVWI/AAAAAAAAAzU/4oaC9gYXhbU/s1600/9193490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uWp2w9fAwsM/UCArKzsvVWI/AAAAAAAAAzU/4oaC9gYXhbU/s320/9193490.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I TOTALLY DO THIS!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But who really does like and care about you? That's the takeaway I got from those five years. It's all ephemeral, these feelings and warm-hearted grins people give you. It can go away in an instant, because if you're not careful you'll let yourself get caught in a trap of trust and vulnerability built on lies and social niceties. Betrayal is around every corner, a wraith ready to prey upon all the good feelings you desperately want to hold onto.<br />
<br />
Of course, that's all of my vengeful bitterness talking. None of that is a healthy way to live. But the kind of clarity I have about the issue now only happened when that best friend came back into my life. And told me that all of the lies revealed to me, all of the exposed deceit, all of the torturous arguments that turned me into a blithering lunatic, were fake. That it was all done to let go of me, because this best friend didn't see any other way to cut off the unhealthy relationship. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1Y73sPHKxw"> DRAMA.</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YXEcTa3eBYc/UCArwxAo_gI/AAAAAAAAAzc/5CqKP9gj0vU/s1600/crossroads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YXEcTa3eBYc/UCArwxAo_gI/AAAAAAAAAzc/5CqKP9gj0vU/s320/crossroads.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beware crossroads demons...they like to kiss.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When something this jarring happens, you can go one of two ways. Either you believe the person, thereby changing everything you've ingrained in yourself for years, or you can disbelieve a person and restart the same arguments you thought you had put to rest years ago when you refused to speak with the person ever again. Believe, and change yourself, or disbelieve and get wrapped up in all that shit all over again.<br />
<br />
I did neither. I chose not to care. I chose to accept the notion that I may never know the truth about that part of my life, and just be okay with it. There's a point where you just get exhausted by hate. And it's at that point, when there's nowhere left to go, that you just build your own damn street to drive on. It's that kind of lucidity I want to bring to Briok and his relationships. Ultimately, Briok's tale is a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bildungsroman">bildungsroman</a> - a coming of age tale. But a lot of syfy coming of age tales involve blatantly supernatural confrontations with evil. It's really cool to read, and I'm guilty of lapping them up just as much as the next person. But they aren't real, or relatable. They're just cool.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--2K9c70GtOc/UCAssuO9CQI/AAAAAAAAAzk/3xSci5XHsTc/s1600/it.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--2K9c70GtOc/UCAssuO9CQI/AAAAAAAAAzk/3xSci5XHsTc/s320/it.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pedo clown monster came from Stephen King's mind. Ya. Swallow THAT.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What if there was a sci-fi/fantasy hero who dealt with evil not just on a supernatural scale, but on a very personal one too? What if the true villains of this character's story weren't the evil aliens who want to kill him, but the untrustworthy friends who push him further and further towards bitterness and cynicism. You and I, we aren't defined by our confrontations with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxHceszmcoY">Gollum</a>, or <a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lfsja6o6WC1qg4ojzo1_400.jpg">the Dark Lord</a>, or the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K783SDTBKmg">happy-go-lucky best pals</a> we can sometimes cross paths with. We're defined by how we deal with bad things happening to us, and whether or not we came out of those situations whole. No matter the genre, our shitty relationships with people (and yes, our great ones too) should be reflected in literature. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hearts_in_Atlantis">And not in the creepy, pseudo-pedophile way Stephen King does it</a>. Here's the weekly excerpt:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you mean what am I talking about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a great idea!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Briok sat in his seat, gawking at Proteus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For his part, Proteus had a crooked grin
plastered to his face in an attempt to convince Briok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Water?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve been playing football and violin all my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What makes you think I’m going to suddenly
change everything and do Water?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re not going to be changing everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve got the body for it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, what else are you going to do with
your free time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young prince
lessons?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Proteus turned to Carma, who
was busy flirting with Evron Tennyson from afar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Proteus rolled his eyes in disgust, “Will you stop
eye-raping him and help me out here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She turned around scowling, “What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t want to play, leave him
alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, I don’t see why he
shouldn’t keep doing violin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re
really good at it Briok.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
</blockquote>
Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-73631789917694936102012-07-30T09:20:00.000-07:002012-07-30T09:20:09.290-07:00A Whole New WOOOORLDHello Reader! Welcome to the first of multiple blogposts on world-building. What is world-building? Click that link and you'll find out. But a quick and dirty summary of the concept, is that sometimes in Syfy literature you've got such fantastical concepts that they wouldn't fit into the already present world around us. So you have to build a whole new world around your concepts, justifying them, explaining them, giving them context so that the reader can feel immersed in your story. And so you don't look like a damned fool for putting proton cannons in the 18th century. Even if it's a really cool idea that the Revolutionary War was fought with laser guns.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47FKZyaMwpI/UBayhWx15iI/AAAAAAAAAxM/sXfuqli6Bbc/s1600/George-Washington-Shooting-Zombies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="236" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47FKZyaMwpI/UBayhWx15iI/AAAAAAAAAxM/sXfuqli6Bbc/s400/George-Washington-Shooting-Zombies.jpg" title="George Washington" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Washington vs Zombies, a movie I'd pay to see.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What's the essence of world-building? In fantasy, there are certain rules to world-building that you can't really break. Science and technology are scarce. Men must have beards. If they don't, they're either smarmy weasels or elves. And swords have to be ubiquitous. If you can, name them. In science fiction, you've also got a set of rules. Don't go outside the realm of science, otherwise you'll look really foolish. You don't have to include aliens, but if you don't have them, have something scarier to take their place. And set your story in the future, please. <br />
<br />
These rules aren't followed all of the time, but if you pay attention you'll see them in full effect in almost every single Syfy story. Why? Who knows. They'are archaic and extremely limiting. I took a Screenplay class my last quarter in school, and it was very enlightening for several reasons. But it was also extremely restrictive. When going over my plot and my story - for that class I decided to adapt my novel into a screenplay - the TA of the class decided that I could not have the world that I had built. It would simply be impossible to sell to an audience, much less producers who would be buying my work.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CMAotW0V7cc/UBay4RbNrEI/AAAAAAAAAxU/WaV3NJVh6Dw/s1600/6a00e54edc5c688833013485ed205a970c-800wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="293" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CMAotW0V7cc/UBay4RbNrEI/AAAAAAAAAxU/WaV3NJVh6Dw/s400/6a00e54edc5c688833013485ed205a970c-800wi.jpg" title="world-building" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes I want to punch Syfy authors in the face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the year 3096, on Earth, you would expect a post-apocalyptic society that's torn apart by perpetual struggles for resources and plagued by disease. Or a utopian civilization hellbent on keeping a lid on just how screwed up everything's become. Neither idea is very appealing for a story, and not just because both are excruciatingly cliche. They are also really unrealistic. How many times did people like Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, and Aldous Huxley warn us of our impending doom? And it didn't happen. Look at the Cold War. Everyday, Americans were told that they could be blown off the face of the planet. And it didn't happen. Because it works, and it sells, Syfy authors give very little credit to humanity.<br />
<br />
But look at us. We've survived plagues, we've survived genocides, we've survived famine and wars and bloodshed and nuclear crises. We are a hardy bunch, worse than cockroaches and more resilient than we expect. So what if we did end up in a apocalyptic war against invading aliens who have superior technology, strength and numbers to us. And instead of being utterly destroyed, we end up in a détente. The aliens, their plans and reasoning unknown to us, get a portion of humanity's land and in exchange they lay off the whole command and conquer bit. So now, instead of a really droll and overdone plot about humanity <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkWxJE06_mE">FIGHTING BACK</a>, you can have something far more nuanced and interesting: humanity struggling with peace.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/FEJEPxAQ-O0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
I've basically revealed the bare bones of the world in my novel. The wrathful Howlas invaded Earth around 2020, inciting a war that was only eventually stopped by the Decadent - the frightening use of a dozen well-placed H-bombs near the planets atmosphere, setting off a chain reaction that decimated the Howlas' forces. Over the course of the next one thousand or so years, the Howlas and humanity's allies (Nymphs, and sometimes the Hyths) would clash with each other. Halfway through that period, the Mags enter the fray, coming out of hiding to fight their ancient enemies the Howlas. It all ends in the Fourth World War when the Howlas, the Mags, Humans and Nymphs all come to a stalemate. From there on out it's an uneasy peace for 26 years, which is where the novel starts.<br />
<br />
Now that's a world I'm interested in, and not just because I wrote it. Seriously. How does society function, when you've got a thousand years worth of cross-species intermingling going on? Where do the basic functions of society like money, culture, holiday celebrations, education go from there? How is segregation dealt with? How is language dealt with?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PfyaZ_KI8OY/UBa0AUIqiBI/AAAAAAAAAxc/4dXryR5A9e0/s1600/ut32010052716484692.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PfyaZ_KI8OY/UBa0AUIqiBI/AAAAAAAAAxc/4dXryR5A9e0/s400/ut32010052716484692.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can humans and aliens fall in love? Without the gross implications of alien sex?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />I guess a really immediate way to relate to this kind of world is to look at Mass Effect. Yes, the video game does have some elements of the whole "aliens are way better than humans and we're all just shitty shitheads who can't do shit", but overall it's a great portrayal of a society that has fully integrated - to the best of its ability - humans and aliens. They have wars and they have drinks together. They don't all speak the same languages, but they've all got the same problems - more or less. So keep that in mind when you read the bit of world-building I try for here. Let me know what you think in the comments!<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Residents of The Cliffs gathered
along the enormous stone staircases and balconies, children flitting in and out
of open apartment doors chasing each other with water pistols and handfuls of
sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each apartment was connected to
the other through a complex web of tunnels that had been blasted into the
stone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Navigating them could take a
lifetime, since very little technology was integrated into the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Laughter
filled the air, one of the few times that the atmosphere was ever festive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cliffs had been designed long ago as a
welfare city for Atlantia, but the project had never been quite
successful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A din of music and various
quartets vying for a simple coin or two to pay rent or worse mixed in with the
general hustle and bustle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cars upon
cars kept pulling up to the sandy sidewalks, dropping off families as the
driver went off, looking for a half-decent spot to park, some of them yelling
into cell phones, others yelling at the dog to stay in the car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Branching off from the Speedway
that ran throughout the country, a road led straight into a gorge bound by two
cliff faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Etched into these monoliths
were apartments and shops, an entire cityscape bustling with life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cliffs, as the gorge was called, opened
up onto a gorgeous harbor that was normally filled with small ships, rafts and
surfers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
today, the sandy shoreline was bursting with families rowdy teenagers who had
come to see the Annual Water Exhibition held between Atlantia Upper School and
its vicious rival Magna Boulevard Magnate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The atmosphere was ferocious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was always warm in the Cliffs, as if the harbor was a trap for heat from the
sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This seemed to elevate the tension
that was already high between the rival teams, with even their mascots – a
shark for Atlantia and a lion for Magna Boulevard – coming to blows.</div>
</blockquote>
Is the length too long? I'm trying out this new thing where I end each blogpost with an excerpt. Let me know in the comments! Until Next Time Then!The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-81630514534167264712012-07-23T21:35:00.000-07:002012-07-23T21:35:11.544-07:00Darth Vader is Your DaddyHello Reader! As many of you have also done, I watched The Dark Knight Rises (TDKR) this past Friday. No, it isn't better than The Dark Knight (TDK). And that has nothing to do with the merits of the stories themselves. It has everything to do with the fact that Bane wasn't as good as the Joker.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AcoVQrC_ph0/UAxRkGyeYOI/AAAAAAAAAv0/8OLOLKcvUHc/s1600/void(0).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AcoVQrC_ph0/UAxRkGyeYOI/AAAAAAAAAv0/8OLOLKcvUHc/s400/void(0).jpeg" title="The Joker" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Get it? He's a dog that's chasing cars, so he sticks his head out of the window.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now it's impossible to resurrect Heath Ledger's performance, and not because his acting prowess is untouchable. It's just too hard to change everyone's minds about the caliber of his acting. We've developed this sort of mythic idea about his performance, and Tom Hardy as Bane is just not capable of tearing down four years worth of mythmaking. That being said, Bane is well-acted and Tom Hardy can emote with his eyes better than a lot of actors can with their whole face.<br />
<br />
But Bane is still a one-note villain. It's a really, really good note. But he doesn't develop at all. He starts off as this legend, and ends up as...well, that would be spoiling it. Suffice to say, that his motivations never change throughout the movie. All that changes are his origins. Which isn't really developing a character, so much as fleshing him out. And no, that doesn't count as a character arc.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/DLvIFRNbqOs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
The Joker had a character arc. He began as a mad-man who was filling the mob's power vacuum, and transformed into a very literal agent of chaos. Goals at the beginning of the film like robbing the mob, getting rid of Batman, morphed into a singular vendetta against everything that Batman personified. He began with a yearning to kill the Bat, and instead ended up with a yearning to spiritually break him. That's a wonderful antagonist, and a powerful character arc. It speaks to the themes of the movie as a whole, and to a wider message.<br />
<br />
Basically, the lesson from TDK is that your movie, your story is only as good as your villain. That's why people remember Star Wars for Darth Vader and not just Luke Skywalker. People remember the Godfather, because the hero became the villain. When the villains themselves have an arc, when they change and grow, that's what really draws people in. Gollum from LOTR is a riveting character because he changes and grows and learns. His personality doesn't so much progress as regress, but that's still an arc.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PPTe-pZXVJ8/UAxSRM2pTAI/AAAAAAAAAv8/vz76YivZ6g8/s1600/darth-vader-008.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PPTe-pZXVJ8/UAxSRM2pTAI/AAAAAAAAAv8/vz76YivZ6g8/s400/darth-vader-008.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What were all those buttons for anyways?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm not saying that one-note villains automatically make a movie bad. The Lion King had Scar, and is considered a modern classic. A lot of Disney movies are classics and they have one-note villains. The Dark Knight Rises is an incredible film, a true achievement, and Bane is very one-note. But for a film to be transcendant - of its genre, of Hollywood rules, of pop culture - then you have to have a villain who grows. I truly believe that Star Wars, the Godfather, The Dark Knight, LOTR occupy their respective roles in our collective culture only because their villains grew and changed. <br />
<br />
What does this have to do with my novel? I think it's kind of obvious. I want to create a villain that grows and changes. If I talked about it, that would be spoiling the whole effect though, wouldn't it? So how about a tease? Check out this short segment and let me know what you think. Yes, the character Tory Cross is the villain of the novel. And yes, both of the characters here are Howlas, those bi-pedal wolves I talked about in my last <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2012/07/whats-your-novel-about.html">post</a>.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I know someone from Howard’s
family came here last night,” Tory sat down on a barstool, his huge frame crushing
its cushion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Who?”
Jack asked innocently, as he turned on a spigot from the wall nearest him. Steaming hot coffee poured
out as Jack held a pot underneath.
He walked back to Tory, took one of the largest mugs and poured coffee for him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Crim. Howard Crim, Jack. My mentor? My rabbi? The
one who brought me up from the streets, and is now deciding to stab me in the
back.” Tory reached to his hip and
unclipped his gun. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Jack
backed away immediately, his hands up in the air. “Tory! What are
you doing? Put your gun away, I won’t tolerate this in my shop!”</div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"> Tory’s
eyes flashed upwards, writhing flames of anger licking at his temples. “Today is not the day to lie to me, Jack.” He lazily brought out his gun from its
holster.
“I’m a little groggy. I
might not kill you quickly.”</span></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QtgZEkkM8yQ/UAxS9tZoCzI/AAAAAAAAAwE/bikOKe5MBBk/s1600/THE-DARK-KNIGHT-RISES1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QtgZEkkM8yQ/UAxS9tZoCzI/AAAAAAAAAwE/bikOKe5MBBk/s400/THE-DARK-KNIGHT-RISES1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now I want to watch the movie again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's not much, but then again why would you want to read an entire chapter here on a blog? Hit up the comments section with any critiques. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-34488097053104169462012-07-16T13:32:00.002-07:002012-07-16T13:33:18.465-07:00What's Your Novel About?Hello Reader! Every time I tell someone that I'm writing a novel, their very first question is "What's your novel about?" And while this is a completely logical question to ask someone like me, a 21 year-old know-it-all with a hard science degree, it is also unsettlingly annoying.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ISghO12AexQ/UAR5hwLAtsI/AAAAAAAAAuo/JdloXNp2wvo/s1600/creepy-willy-wonka-meme-generator-using-a-meme-to-make-a-point-you-must-be-so-cool-2656c2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ISghO12AexQ/UAR5hwLAtsI/AAAAAAAAAuo/JdloXNp2wvo/s400/creepy-willy-wonka-meme-generator-using-a-meme-to-make-a-point-you-must-be-so-cool-2656c2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They look just like this guy!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I say unsettlingly because every person that asks me that question looks to me with this half-condescending, half-curious stare of pseudo-interest. It's honestly very uncomfortable. I usually stutter and spurt out a few trite words about the novel being science fiction, about a boy who learns that his father dies, etc. And I never get the reaction every author hopes for, the indelible, "Oh my God, that's so interesting!"<br />
<br />
Of course, the real reason why I'm so uncomfortable with the question may be that I can't explain the damn thing in one sentence. This is a definite detriment to any and all of my attempts to market the novel. I really need to get that down.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--MIviiQFty4/UAR58cICciI/AAAAAAAAAuw/xMV80_wwVFY/s1600/cza1270l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="327" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--MIviiQFty4/UAR58cICciI/AAAAAAAAAuw/xMV80_wwVFY/s400/cza1270l.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud parents can sometimes translate into embarrassed teenagers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But my own inequities do not negate the uncomfortable nature of explaining my novel to someone. Especially when my novel includes magic powers, yellow, furry cat like aliens fighting a holy war against aliens who look like bi-pedal wolves, and tons of teenage angst. All surrounded by really angry, ultra-violent gangsters (who just so happen to be some of those bi-pedal wolves) who are embroiled in class warfare against other, fellow bi-pedal wolves. <br />
<br />
It's sort of like trying to sell your kid. You know what I mean. What exactly would your parents say about you? I know my parents would stumble over my litany of extra-curriculars. Heck, in the beginning of my collegiate career my major shifted from biology to chemistry and back on a weekly basis with them. My point is that it's not easy to dilute into one sentence something that you put a lot of care and time into - more than nine years worth in my case.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nCYzdfFeN2g/UAR6WbQ30KI/AAAAAAAAAu4/vN0COIlcy08/s1600/epln520l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="361" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nCYzdfFeN2g/UAR6WbQ30KI/AAAAAAAAAu4/vN0COIlcy08/s400/epln520l.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oof, my worst fear realized.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm not sure if my discomfort is shared by everyone. It probably isn't shared by some of the true greats, or people who have "made it" as authors. But since I refuse to be a whiny bitch, here's a crack at diluting The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae into one sentence:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A kid is given enormous powers and responsibilities but gets in over his head trying to use them to discover the origins of the laser gun, and why the group of gangsters who have been attacking him possess the new technology.</blockquote>
It's way more complicated than that one, somewhat run-on sentence lets on, but who am I to refuse agents and publishers what they want? Let me know what you think. Until Next Time Then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-73354876521932043422012-01-28T14:10:00.000-08:002012-01-28T14:10:42.111-08:00Hierarchy of RaceHello Reader! The title of the blog post sounds like something you'd see from my other blog right? And you know, it probably would be a good topic to discuss there too. But for now, I feel like it's super relevant to the "legend of a work in progress". It's probably one of the most important considerations I made in creating my characters and shaping the species (be it Human or alien) they come from. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UdWhQWbEt2A/TyRw9yqjVGI/AAAAAAAAAas/xz07EmvtGBI/s1600/104363.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UdWhQWbEt2A/TyRw9yqjVGI/AAAAAAAAAas/xz07EmvtGBI/s400/104363.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's stupid how gorgeous he is, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
In case you don't know what the Hierarchy of Race is, here's a link to Professor <a href="http://us.history.wisc.edu/hist102/readings/Hunt_HierarchyOfRace.pdf">Michael Hunt's paper</a>. He teaches at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill and has written a book about how racial ideologies have shaped US foreign policy. To sum up what he says though, there's a very real race hierarchy in people's minds that informs them in their day-to-day interactions. This guy is black, thus he is less than an asian, who is less than a white. And so on and so forth. While this may not be true for everyone, and I would argue that for the majority of people it is not true, it's apparently a really big part of US foreign policy and you can't deny the fact that it's a huge part of the American legacy.<br />
<br />
And it's also a huge part of science fiction and fantasy. Look back on a lot of the classics in either genre. You'll see a definite partitioning of races based solely on the fact that they are who they are. Yes, in Lord of the Rings the Quenya fought a war with the Noldorin and they certainly don't shy away from marrying into the race of humans. And in science fiction once in a while you see aliens turning on each other politically like Estraven's struggle against his native Karhide in Ursula K. Le Guin's Left Hand of Darkness. But the vast majority of science fiction and fantasy (syfy) novels have a set number, kind, and relationship for the races that populate their books and authors do not deviate from these set standards. Orcs are always stupid, trolls are even worse, and elves are badass gorgeous people. Humanity is either in charge of a system of worlds and corrupted, or fighting against an organized system of worlds and pure.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3nH7JBJBaVU/TyRxYzg4G2I/AAAAAAAAAa0/SaJxcJWmW0M/s1600/tumblr_ly1stiDYij1r3njezo1_500.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3nH7JBJBaVU/TyRxYzg4G2I/AAAAAAAAAa0/SaJxcJWmW0M/s400/tumblr_ly1stiDYij1r3njezo1_500.jpeg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor kid...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Sure, you can hide behind the idea that these are tropes, motifs, structures that have worked before and can totally work again. I agree that they're fun, but I also posit that they are outdated. I'm tired of reading about the same old relationships, I'm tired of reading about the human protagonist saving the aliens because their weirdo ways saved him/her, I'm really freaking tired of reading about the same political, societal relationships between the perennially creepy species and the always beautiful ones. It's kind of ridiculous how stagnant things have become.<br />
<br />
Syfy was meant to be a world of endless possibilities, where the problems and issues of the real world can be explored and extrapolated on a dramatic scale. Interesting interpretations should abound, not ossified hierarchies that don't even exist. Why can't the Elves be hoodlums and the Orcs be the dignified ones? Where does it say that every future society has to be a dystopia ruled by despotic aliens/humans? Everything is the same same same. Ugh.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uj63DvL8CpY/TyRxk7HTWeI/AAAAAAAAAa8/58l8aumKOCk/s1600/stephen-king.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uj63DvL8CpY/TyRxk7HTWeI/AAAAAAAAAa8/58l8aumKOCk/s400/stephen-king.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Funny face, lulz</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Why is it that after a war between aliens and humans, the political and societal effects aren't explored? Don't you think that aliens would intermingle with humans? That humans would influence aliens, that after millennia some of them might even adopt our religious systems? Why is it a fact that the religions of today die out in the future? After two millennia we still have Christianity, what's another two? Often I feel that the attachment to these tropes, especially concerning how aliens or fantasy races are developed and interact with each other, is built off of laziness.<br />
<br />
Laziness, however, is a lazy answer. More probable is the idea that the whole genre of syfy is losing its focus. People are beleaguered with spectacle and awe, an empty miracle of technology that will only hold a person's eyes without ever touching their soul. And the easiest way to deliver this spectacle is to not push the envelope, to leave the bells and whistles of syfy be. There's no challenge for the audience, and none for the creative mind. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Gnh80bNsUY/TyRyT4azvlI/AAAAAAAAAbE/MOEK3yL76qo/s1600/moore_360.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Gnh80bNsUY/TyRyT4azvlI/AAAAAAAAAbE/MOEK3yL76qo/s400/moore_360.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such a badass, so good at world building</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But it's a lot less fun. Maybe, after all of this complaining, I should throw out there what I'd like to do with my races. Maybe. I find it to be self-serving, a "Gotcha!" moment that is rooted in arrogance. I do not think that I have achieved whatever level of creativity is needed to abolish the old stereotypes. I only ardently wish that the work I am doing now is seen in that light. I want to shake things up, I want to break barriers. The Howlas aren't a single, mindless race of beings. There are Howlas who hate other Howlas, who are Christian and Jewish, who love humans and hate themselves. Humanity is not weak but burdened, under the thumb of no alien species and in detente with all of them. Argh, I'm digressing. <br />
<br />
Either way, I think syfy needs to change. Orcs shouldn't always be stupid and ugly, aliens shouldn't always be war-mongering. It'd be nice if authors and filmmakers and showrunners could have some creativity, and even more so it would be nice if they respected the audience. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-12720486982769186622012-01-18T01:22:00.000-08:002012-01-18T01:28:19.059-08:00An Update to an Earlier PostHello Reader! So I've posted a few excerpts from the novel here online, and I was looking through them earlier today with nostalgia. I found one in particular that was very, melodramatic? Ya, that's a good word for it. A lot of my writing from earlier drafts of the novel was pretty melodramatic I'd say. I've toned it down a lot, and tried very hard to impress upon the reader that there's actual humor in my world. So while I've rewritten this specific scene, I've kept it somber. I wanted to...well, that would be cheating if I told you what I wanted to do. Let's see what you think of it! Post up on the comments (I know some of you are very vocal) what you thought of the piece, and if you have the time, please compare it to the <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2009/08/some-downtime.html">previous version of the scene!</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QlTCzO7HfQ4/TxaQm7Eh6HI/AAAAAAAAAZw/18jYtDE8Pcc/s1600/authors.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="324" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QlTCzO7HfQ4/TxaQm7Eh6HI/AAAAAAAAAZw/18jYtDE8Pcc/s400/authors.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey! That's me!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
So to give some context, Briok's father was murdered and at his funeral Briok was attacked by the Howlian mafia. They were after him because he had witnessed a crime they committed, one against a government official and of course the criminal underworld hates loose ends. In the end, Briok escaped them but wasn't able to properly attend his father's funeral. In this scene, he's visiting the grave with his mother a day or so after the attempted kidnapping.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> It was early morning Monday, the first day of school for Atlantian children. Briok’s swollen red eyes were boring into his father’s grave. “Briok? Briok, it’s time to leave,” Sheba Cwartel gently touched her son’s shoulder. Time was showing its heavy toll on his weary face. His brow was creased, his eyes full of both contempt and sorrow. His hair was unnaturally dull in color.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba tried pulling her son up, but he pushed her off, still staring at his father’s grave. Straightening her black coat, she looked at her watch. It was nearly noon, and they had spent several hours at the grave already. Her wary eyes scanned the surrounding area, dark sunglasses hiding her own pain.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The Burial Mound was at the top of a hill in Atlantia sitting on the edge of Atlantis’ craggy coastline. Waves rolled back and forth against the slope where six Atlantian monarchs, Magna Beasts all, lay dead - dispatched at the hands of the Howlas. The grass grew green atop the buried coffins, and the flowers had bloomed beautifully. But a pall persisted. A constant wind blew across the dewy grass, ever-present clouds clapped together from time to time, and the quiet never lifted. Each gave the Burial Mound an exquisitely sad character.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba turned her gaze to the stone eyes of her husband, his likeness erected in beautiful marble over his grave. He was holding a sword in one hand, an olive branch in the other, and his face was looking into the distance as it always did. She barely contained the gasp of pain that escaped her lips. Looking away, she caught sight of her son silently repeating something to himself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> He was reading the tombstone with such intensity, his eyes burning into it, </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">“<i>Only among the aisles of the cathedral, only as we gaze upon their silent figures sleeping on their tombs, some faint conceptions float before us of what these men were when they were alive. – J.A. Froude”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “That was your father’s favorite quote.” She crouched down to Briok’s level, “He lived his life by that quote. He wanted very much to mean something.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Briok quivered. Sheba tried to tame his hair, giving up after a few tries. “Your ambition is not the only thing he gave you. You have his ridiculous hair,” she ruffled it gently, “you keep everything to yourself, just like him. You even inherited his beautiful smile.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Briok seemed to have sunken into an even deeper depression with this litany. “I even inherited his curse.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Not one inch of her flinched, but Sheba’s silence spoke volumes of a mother’s fury for her child. “Briok,” her voice was caught in her throat, “It doesn’t have to be a curse. You aren’t going through this alone, I promise you. Whatever Amar does with you, I will be here.” She pulled him closer, “You are my son. You are not cursed. And even if you are, I didn’t raise you to give up, now did I? You can be the greatest one to have ever lived. You can be the best, better than any of them!” When Briok’s eyes did not meet hers, Sheba gently took his head and pushed it in her direction. “Where’s my happy Briok? Where’s the strong man that I raised?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I can’t, Mom,” he pushed her away, slumping to the ground, and burying his head beneath his arms. Sheba could do nothing but sit next to him, silently cradling her grieving son. He wasn’t even crying. He was hiding. From pain. From burden.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> After several minutes without moving Sheba took control. Slowly, with effort bridled, she helped Briok rise and the pair left the memories behind. They drove away in silence, seeking only the company of their own minds. When they had both finally arrived at the Villa, Briok hurriedly removed his shoes and threw them into his cubby in the garage. Forcing the door open, Briok dragged his feet up the stairs to his room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The Villa, a cozy abode in a quaint neighborhood, was the de facto home of the royal family. Of course, the anonymity of its inhabitants was of utmost importance. The Villa was flanked by homes filled to a bursting point with guards who were on call every minute of every day. Behind its sprawling backyard, almost an acre in size, the Villa had a small army hidden in the building that posed as a community center for the neighborhood. And the street in front of the idyllic home was patrolled constantly by rotating squads of Atlantian guards, driving by sleeplessly in their inconspicuous vehicles.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba walked straight to the kitchen, closing the overwrought wooden door to the garage behind her. Her heels clicked against the wood-tile floor, decorated with ornate rugs from all over the world. The kitchen was a spacious area, with granite countertops and a large, impressive island in its center. Sheba took to the television in the adjoining living room, a unique contraption built for all the necessities of a home but also equipped with the daily reports and news that only queens were privy to.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> In one swift motion Sheba turned on the TV set, flipped to her briefings, and began cooking. Her hand touched the top of the island twice, her eyes poring over the reports on the TV screen, saying “Next,” every time she was done reading about a report. Four panels lit up on the countertop, each with concentric circles. The panels were surrounded by a larger, black box that had four dials at its bottom. Sheba’s hand trailed to one of these dials and set it on high. She then took a pot out from the cupboard, filled it with water, and set it atop the stove. “Get out of your clothes and take off that silly bandage the doctor put on you!” Sheba yelled.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Throwing all of her skill into it, Sheba made a ludicrously large meal for her son. Pasta was the quickest menu item, with a heavy addition of pesto to satisfy Briok’s ravenous teenage stomach. Sheba waited for the noodles by slicing chicken, absent-mindedly moving the knife up and down. Decades of practice with her father had left her terrifyingly competent, to the point where much of the work had become cathartic.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Briok never partook in cooking with his mother, most of the time being shooed out of it for fear he may accidentally blow something up. Sitting down in the dining room just outside, Briok waited patiently while Sheba worked tirelessly. With not a single sign of fatigue, Sheba plated her feast and put it to Briok’s mat. But all that time waiting had distracted him from his hunger.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> All the normally appreciative Briok could do was stare at the gold chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Its intricate design held ten bright lights in them, three of which had gone out. “I should change the lights huh?” Briok asked, his tone deadpan.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “You need to eat your food first,” Sheba spun her fork in the middle of her plate, but she too had seemed to lose her appetite. Briok nodded and began poking at his food again. The random clanking and clattering of forks went on, until Briok finished his third cup of water. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I need to go to the bathroom,” he didn’t bother with asking for permission to leave the table. He ran up the stairs and slammed the door. Sheba merely stared at her plate, her hands frozen. She could hear the pipes groan a little, and the wood beneath his feet creak as he stepped into his room. Sheba wiped her mouth and rose from her chair. She walked to the stairs, taking a grip of the polished wood rails to steady herself. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> When she arrived in Briok’s room she found him sitting at his desk, fiddling with a ring. “Where did you find that?” she asked as she stepped towards his bed. The walls around him were painted in two shades of blue, a light shade on the top half of the walls and a much darker shade taking the bottom. Molding divided the two, running the length of the room and into Briok’s sparsely decorated door.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba sat on Briok’s bed, ruffling the white sheets. It was nearly half the size of the room, dwarfed only by the desk nestled between two windows. One could see into the distant mountains to the north, the other looked down upon the radiant backyard and the multiple fruit trees Briok and his father had planted together. Briok sat here, between the two windows, ignoring his mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Briok, I need you to talk.” Sheba turned his chair around and made him face her. His brilliant green eyes flashed at her, his gaunt face and furrowed brow an almost exact copy of his father’s face when he felt sorrow. Sheba could barely breathe. She grabbed the ring from Briok, who cried out in anger.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Give it back!” he reached for it, but Sheba held it back. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Do you know who gave this to your father?” Sheba asked. Briok immediately calmed down.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “No,” he replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “My father,” Sheba held it up in front of her, letting the light from the ceiling reflect off it. “Before your father left Nizam with me, my father gave him this ring. It’s made from lythe steel, only mined on Nizam. It can’t be melted once purified, and it never loses its shine.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Why did Abar give that to Dad?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Well, your Abar was a proud man. When my brothers died, he was broken.” Sheba brought her hands down to her lap, as she began her story. “I was the only one left by the time your father came and asked for my hand. Your Abar wanted me to marry a Nizami, someone who had worked in the mines just like him. But what could he say to the King of Atlantis? So,” Sheba smirked and lifted the ring up to Briok’s eye-level, “he gave your father this ring as a promise. To take care of me the same way a man from Nizam would.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Briok stiffened, “Did you want to leave with Dad?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba nodded, “Nizam wasn’t the best place in the world. I’m not sure if it was because it was a colony, or if it was just the kind of people that had settled there. But I did want to get away. And your father was such a powerful, charismatic man.” Sheba looked up into Briok’s green eyes. His were like a doe’s, wide-eyed and hopeful. “Your father’s eyes pierced me. The first time I met him, well you know, we were in college here. I was shaking, his eyes were so intense.” Sheba smiled, caressing her son’s face. “You’re the spitting image of him in everyway, but your eyes are different. There’s more hope.” Sheba smiled, her eyes grim. Briok leaned in and took his mother’s hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Mama, are you okay?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba nodded quickly, “Of course. Here,” she took the ring and put it on Briok’s finger, “Your Abar made this himself. It’s an heirloom, something we pass down from father to son, over and over.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I’m not getting married Mom,” a faint hint of a smile peeked past the curtain of fatigue and loss. Briok massaged the ring now resting on his finger. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “It’s not just for that,” Sheba also smiled, “It’s a token of trust. That whoever wears this ring will be a man, not a boy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Briok’s fist clenched tight. “Mom, what happened to all those times you told me not to be like him. To be a better man than him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Sheba laughed, a disconcerting noise that made Briok flinch. He didn’t think what he said was funny, “What did I say?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Nothing. You’re right, I do want you to be a better man than him. But not everyone’s perfect, and not everyone’s evil Briok. Your father had many good things in him. He was brave, he was charming, he knew how to talk to anyone and everyone.” Sheba’s eyes were in another place, recounting on their own a fond memory of her husband. “He would walk into a room and without even speaking, just by looking at people, he could make you feel as if you were his best friend for ages. I want you to have those things Briok, those things that made him great. And everything that made him less than perfect, you do the opposite.” Sheba touched the ring on Briok’s finger, it’s silver warmed by the heat of his hands. “This is also a reminder of everything good about your father. Your Abar trusted him with me, and now I’m trusting you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “With what?” Briok’s voice was quiet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “To be a man, no matter what happens to us. Now come on, let’s eat.” Briok was about to fight back, questions almost escaping his lips. But Sheba pressed a single finger to his lips, tried taming his unruly black hair, then walked out of the room. Briok sat there, his hand rubbing the ring idly while his mind floated to the legacy of his father.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Seeing that he was glued to his seat, Sheba carried a large tray with his dinner to Briok’s room, setting it down quietly next to him. Stroking his untamed hair, she whispered to him that she was going to the Palace to take care of some ambassadors. “Tomorrow I’ll be gone to the Senate building. Promise I’ll be back before dinner. Eat your soup, and get some rest.” When Briok did not reply, Sheba gently squeezed his shoulders, “You can’t forget that you are still alive, Briok. You still have things to do. You’re fourteen years old, you are not a child. When I come back, I want to see you cleaned up and in bed. You of all people need the rest.” Exiting the room, she turned on the lights. Sundown was settling itself in, the deep shades of dusk spreading their fingers across the nighttime sky.</div></blockquote>Hopefully this suits your fancy! I hope it's at least better than the previous version, I definitely think it is! Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-51816750903984075402011-12-20T02:00:00.000-08:002011-12-20T02:11:02.471-08:00I'm Writing a Novel, and Editing is a BitchHello Reader! I'm blogging here again, ready to take on the world and all of its challenges. I left for a long time so I could dig in and really get my <a href="http://www.philosophyunhinged.blogspot.com/">other blog</a> going, the one about Muslims and me being one of them. If you're an avid reader of that one, I hope you'll enjoy this one! <br />
<br />
To begin with, I should probably tell everyone the novel's title. It's called The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae. The novel is set on the island country of Atlantis, where Prince Briok Cwartel is born into an era of uneasy peace. With an absent father and a mother possessed of an iron-will, Briok grows up to become petulant, brave and ambitious. On the day of his father's funeral Briok is taken aside by Amar, his father's most trusted advisor, and told that he is the last Magna Beast, the final heir to the throne of the alien Mags.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MiVbigcmo-g/TvBd6eKqy0I/AAAAAAAAAXw/WGeMR1S8CSI/s1600/atlantis.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MiVbigcmo-g/TvBd6eKqy0I/AAAAAAAAAXw/WGeMR1S8CSI/s400/atlantis.jpeg" width="400" /></a>From the broken and barren planet Meliosa, the Mags and Howlas had let their holy war spill onto the surface of the Earth, terrorizing humanity and killing millions. Now in a detente the Mags and the Howlas, with their king the Howlamega, find themselves patiently circling each other, waiting for the moment to strike. With the help of Amar, Briok must take advantage of this lull in the bloodshed to learn the art of war. But his journey does not take him far from home, forcing him into a liminal space between history homework and sword handling lessons - often in the same weekend. It is here where Briok meets eight friends who change him, and whose lives are changed by him.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2KaPh9disvQ/TvBe5Ig1h9I/AAAAAAAAAX4/d7FynxwnUtE/s1600/alg_pacino-godfather.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2KaPh9disvQ/TvBe5Ig1h9I/AAAAAAAAAX4/d7FynxwnUtE/s400/alg_pacino-godfather.jpeg" width="400" /></a>Meanwhile, in the dark alleys and seedy bars of Atlantis the mafia underworld is in turmoil. Tory Cross, largest mob boss in Eastern Atlantis, has begun a war against his former mentor that is dividing the country and costing hundreds of lives. Accusing his mentor of being a slave to the whims of the Howlamega, Tory seeks to create a new class of Howlas, separated from the politics and religions of the old culture. But directly in the path of his fury lies Briok Cwartel, whose status as Prince of Atlantis makes him a prime target for all parties. In the end, Amar must take drastic measures to protect Briok's life and possibly destroy the lives of Briok's friends in the process.<br />
<br />
Hopefully that's mildly interesting to you. As for writing samples, you can check some out <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/p/links-to-all-of-excerpts.html">here</a>. Let me know what you think! Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-79237655328082928282011-05-17T00:38:00.000-07:002011-05-17T00:52:25.803-07:00A Lovely TumultHello Reader! How are you? Good? I hope so stranger! It's been too long since I've seen any of you, talked with you, wrote at you. I miss complaining about my lack of progress, my ineptitude at plotting and the absolute drudgery that is school. Now I've already mentioned that I was taking a four-week writing workshop course that has really helped me step forward in my writing. I've never been so halfway inspired by anything.<br />
<br />
The reason why I say halfway inspired is actually the theme of this post. The woman who taught the workshop was called <a href="http://www.vjwaks.com/">VJ Waks</a> and she's self-published two novels - Tau 4 and Hammerspace. She's quite the forceful lady, very self-assured and capable, without a shred of doubt about anything. It's incredible to see this, but it's also troubling. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p2Tz1DDOegM/TdIoC80UBAI/AAAAAAAAAKk/gf0fk-7xZA4/s1600/Demotivational-pictures-product_Placement.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p2Tz1DDOegM/TdIoC80UBAI/AAAAAAAAAKk/gf0fk-7xZA4/s400/Demotivational-pictures-product_Placement.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I guess they know their audience?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>She knows she's a good writer. She believes it whole-heartedly, in fact she speaks about her talent frequently. During the workshop, not very many - no, I correct myself - zero works from other authors were used by her as an example of good writing. What did she use? Her own novels. I get product placement, and I get the easiness of just picking up your own book, whose contents you know like the back of your hand, and using it to give examples of good writing. But there's a terrible amount of pride involved, no?<br />
<br />
I hope she wasn't completely a creature of hubris, because she is very much like me. Ms. Waks began as a neuroscience major, eventually getting her master's degree in Neurobiology. WHAT? I know right? How eerie that her journey mirrors the potential path I would like to follow. Her novels are science fiction, the genre I'll probably be put in should I publish. She gave up her neuroscience career to write, and she loves it now. She thoroughly enjoys her life.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xlun9dv1LeE/TdIoSE-4k8I/AAAAAAAAAKo/62qBUk_zH4k/s1600/melv.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xlun9dv1LeE/TdIoSE-4k8I/AAAAAAAAAKo/62qBUk_zH4k/s400/melv.jpeg" width="323" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This guy wrote Moby Dick. No one knew that when he was alive.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But she self-published. Why? I don't know. To be honest, I don't care. Because what troubles me is that I have no clue what makes her different from me. So what, I'm writing science fiction. So what I've got a story, sprawling as it is, about a young man troubled and struggling. SO WHAT. At the end of the day, there's nothing that makes me different from her. She's not "struggling" by any means, and when you read reviews of her work there's no denying that she's got quality writing skills. She's only got <a href="http://www.amazon.com/TAU-4-V-J-Waks/product-reviews/1434333930/ref=cm_cr_dp_all_summary?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=bySubmissionDateDescending">one non-five star rating</a>! Then again, for two books she's got a grand total of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hammerspace-V-J-Waks/product-reviews/1452078564/ref=cm_cr_dp_all_summary?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=bySubmissionDateDescending">14 reviews</a>.<br />
<br />
Why isn't someone this good, with this kind of talent, more popular? Because all she's got is herself? Well then why didn't an agent take her on? What didn't they see? Marketability? This begs the question of whether or not I'm writing for money. Which makes me pause. Because I'm not really sure what I'm writing for.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-csWEo2TCaFc/TdIpHLQ5ZlI/AAAAAAAAAKs/Juq_bafOC5k/s1600/i-love-coloring.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-csWEo2TCaFc/TdIpHLQ5ZlI/AAAAAAAAAKs/Juq_bafOC5k/s400/i-love-coloring.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I feel like this kid a lot of the time. 'Cept not for coloring.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I've never really articulated the reason. I just write. It's just in me and I just want it out. I want to stop imagining these things as my life, these characters and battles and passions, I want them excised from my mind. On paper, on my computer, whatever. I'm not writing for high art, but then again popularity is something I dearly seek. Neither am I writing for money, but a sustainable job is another thing I crave. How can I achieve these things if someone far better than me can't make it without resorting to taking odd jobs writing for companies, family members, lawyers etc.<br />
<br />
Obscurity is what I fear, and what I'm writing against. God damn it, I don't want to fade into obscurity. I don't want to end up has some has-been science fiction writer teaching workshops with only two or three people attending in some tucked away part of a university with an all-html website with nothing but 14 reviews to my name. I'm making no progress in this blogpost so instead of a satisfactory denouement, I'll leave you with these last few desperate words. Obscurity terrifies me. And the business of my life keeps pulling me into that black hole of fear and doubt. <br />
<br />
So I guess the workshop did great things for my book, but few good things for my ego. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-70910740880989188962011-04-13T01:44:00.000-07:002011-04-13T01:45:28.784-07:00What I Saw in the BlackHello Reader! Yes, I know, I haven't posted in a while. I'm well aware of that. I took some time off to find my bearings and get my life straight. It isn't quite adjusted yet, in fact it's barely gotten better. But that little smidgen of relief is all I really needed in the first place. After all my problems aren't that big.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xbiKhc1M1kI/TaVhTUDZEAI/AAAAAAAAAKU/hzptLreUj_w/s1600/ernest-hemingway.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xbiKhc1M1kI/TaVhTUDZEAI/AAAAAAAAAKU/hzptLreUj_w/s320/ernest-hemingway.jpeg" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a beard.<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That's an interesting thought, isn't it? Ernest Hemingway once said, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">"</span><span class="sqq" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”</span> Isn't that depressing? But it's kind of telling. A lot of "great" writers and great artists in general have channeled their immense pain into their work. This is what has made their literature powerful, timeless, evocative. Some would even argue that the channeling of such pain is the only way to achieve the heights that authors like Hemingway have soared to. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Usually my contrarian self would say "Screw that" and argue against such an idea. But I cannot disagree with the notion. For it is my own pain that drives me towards making Briok's imaginary wanderings real. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sure sure, I get it, I'm only 20. How much pain could I possibly experience? And to be completely honest, I haven't seen much pain inflicted upon me. I have a stable home, my mother and father are both still married and I have a loving sister. I've got great friends, a second family really, and there aren't too many dire economic strains on my lifestyle. I'm not crippled by some physical handicap, nor do I experience judgement, prejudice and hate everyday. I'm verily blessed in so many departments.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HLUNf-GiTEM/TaVhc--pvvI/AAAAAAAAAKY/JH4pWnu16ng/s1600/11061_f520.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HLUNf-GiTEM/TaVhc--pvvI/AAAAAAAAAKY/JH4pWnu16ng/s320/11061_f520.jpeg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To me, that's the look of true suffering.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But no one escapes pain, least of all an Afghan. Pain is drawn to us as the tides are drawn to the shore, an incessant waxing and waning. Sometimes these waves of pain are harsher than before, sometimes they are softer but always they are constant. I think it may be due to my sensitivity. I feel differently, not drastically, but just differently. I can get butthurt over random things, and easily take shit for other stuff that people would think is off-limits. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So where does this pain come from, if I've pretty much got it made? Several things. My own perceived inadequacy, a perception I do not want to argue about, my inability to handle my own imperfection and mistakes, things I have said and done and still-raw feelings over friendships severed. I can't believe that these things still haunt my skull, but in the back of my head do they remain like slow-moving wraiths. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yFEXC1S778w/TaVhwHNJqOI/AAAAAAAAAKc/naPm3m9htHU/s1600/wrist-slit.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yFEXC1S778w/TaVhwHNJqOI/AAAAAAAAAKc/naPm3m9htHU/s320/wrist-slit.jpeg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Least gory way to show bleeding that I could find.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Channeling these hurt feelings and painful memories into words is not as easy as bleeding however. Because the raucous contrarian inside of me refuses to accept this emo bullshit. I will not succumb to some dumbass ideology that bitches and whines itself into literature, morphing my novel into a pity party. I am a man damn it, I've got regrets but they can go to Hell. I did what I did and I apologize, so why in the world should I be weighed down by the guilt?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I once spoke about regret in heroes. I postulated that this regret, this interminable feeling of remorse, is not what makes our heroes so enjoyable. It is their constant rebellion against these feelings, no matter how persistent or powerful they may be, that makes them heroes worthy of our fervor. What else would? And so too does Briok's story go. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Whatever pain I feel, whatever I witnessed in the midst of my hurt, will not define my work. The rebellion against such feelings is what will define it. That is what will be Briok's journey, a constant series of reactions to a constant crashing of sorrow upon the shores of his human heart. And hopefully, one day, just as he will eventually build a levee against such incessant waves I too will build a wall against the crippling woe. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3alLr9dcfJI/TaViMO44jlI/AAAAAAAAAKg/bJPV8keqnks/s1600/fri_wand.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3alLr9dcfJI/TaViMO44jlI/AAAAAAAAAKg/bJPV8keqnks/s320/fri_wand.jpeg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me, overlooking the daunting task ahead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is a short post, because this was really just a fleeting thought in my head. I just wanted it put down somewhere that I refuse to allow my work to be defined by my sorrow, despite my willingness to pour such feelings into the novel. Plus, I'm working hard on doing well in my Writer's Workshop that I am attending. That's right! UCLA is offering a four-week, two hour a week workshop on writing given by a self-published author of science fiction novels who has her master's degree in Neurophysiology. It's like the university plucked from my hopes and aspirations the perfect program.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe that's where the whole post can come together. I learned in the first workshop about something called progression. It seems like a simple idea, a common tool that any writer would need. But it's actually very elusive. Moving a plot forward, moving characterization forward without packing in too many details or new characters or outlandish events is excruciating. That second one is important. Characterization is very hard to do realistically. Even the best characters can come off as fake sometimes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I never want the reader saying, "Well, why didn't he just do blahdiddy blah blah?" I want them to understand intrinsically the motives behind each action my characters take. So what's more understandable than rebelling against pain? We all strive to do it, we all want to do it. I don't think anyone here would like for their pain to consume them. And that's the progression. Briok has to first learn what pain is. Then become consumed by it. Then fight it, and finally conquer it. Or he could remain consumed by it and become a monster. It'd be interesting wouldn't it? Anyways, this writer's workshop has definitely been a massive help and I've only been to one session! Until next time then.</span>The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-87305551012782744062011-01-20T11:54:00.000-08:002011-01-20T11:54:11.545-08:00A New ExperimentHello Reader! I'm going to test out something new. I'll be writing a passage "from my book" and posting it up here for all of you to read and critique. The reason for the quotations is that this passage I am posting is not necessarily in my novel already. I am writing it right now. Or rather, after this sentence is done.<br />
<br />
Actually I should probably preface this excerpt. Antfortas Bersules is the older brother of Ablendan Bersules. Their relationship is rocky, mainly due to their father's constant absence and their mother's fragility. Dimo Bersules is a police captain in Atlantia, the capital city of Atlantis - the country in which the story is set. Their mother is Miranda Bersules, a stay-at-home mom with traumatic memories from the family's original home in Sudan. They arrived as immigrants by the good grace of the Magna Beast, who was in Sudan years before the present story on a mission. Dimo Bersules helped him in that mission, and was rewarded with a way out of the war-torn country. The whole family becomes embroiled in the war between Mags and Howlas because Ablendan ends up becoming friends with Briok, and coerced into joining the war. The excerpt deals with the relationship between Antfortas and his father, Dimo.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<blockquote><br />
Antfortas walked into his home with a towel wrapped around his shoulders and hair still dripping wet. His seashell colored swimming trunks were still moist from the Water practice, Coach Sharon having run them particularly hard this day. Of course, after a loss of fifteen to a school half their rank, the Atlantia High Dolphins weren't expecting a relaxing week. On top of schoolwork being used in a sadistic, savage manner to drill knowledge into upper-classmen, Antfortas was now expected to take care of his brother. Having just entered Upper School, and only being 14, family culture dictated Antfortas take care of the precocious Ablendan. This took more effort than Antfortas could muster on a good day, let alone this day.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Walking into the parlor, Antfortas dropped his bags on a simple wood table carved by his father's hands. Intricate images of wildlife and war games had been etched into the birch, memories of a past life his father was too often too fond of. "Andy!" Antfortas turned at the booming voice and backed away from his father's imposing figure. Shoulders broad as the hallway he entered from, mustache thicker in girth than the upper lip it rested on and eyes wild with constant, restrained fury Dimo Bersules shouted out his son's name again. "Andy! Where is your brother?"</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "What?" Antfortas draped his towel over one of the chairs strewn around the room. The parlor was very bright, illuminating Dimo's angry face. </blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "I just got a call from a Proteus Qolsat. The son of the Mafia Czar, and he's asking me if Abe can stay the night. Why don't you know about this? He was supposed to be with you!" Dimo knocked over a chair in his anger. Antfortas' eyes glanced at the chair and back to his father.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "To tell you the truth Baba, he hasn't really been hanging out with me that much anymore. He's with the Proteus kid a lot." Antfortas craned his neck to see past his hulking father, but Dimo moved between him and the hallway. He surged forward in the same instant, smacking Antfortas to the ground.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Antfortas could do nothing but stare in shock. It had been a long time since his father had hit him. "Do you not remember what I told you about letting him run amuck in Upper School? The first day he went, I told you to watch after him! What kind of brother are you that you cannot look after him?" Dimo made to raise his hand again, but Antfortas stuck his hand out.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "What's wrong with him being with Proteus? He's a good kid! Dad! Baba! Stop it!" Dimo was proceeding to take off his shoes now, readying himself to tear into Antfortas. As he moved towards Antfortas, the young man quickly shot up and around the room in a vain attempt to escape his father. "Why are you so angry?" Antfortas shouted.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "You know why boy! That Proteus is bad influence on your brother! He is rebellious, disrespectful and has an attitude. I will not have my children be corrupted by these Atlantian brats!" Dimo threw his shoes at Antfortas' scurrying figure. For his part, Antfortas hid underneath a table, cowering beneath his father's anger. The bad blood that existed between the Bersules and Qolsats was no secret to anyone. The most powerful Enforcer captain in the capital city could not abide by the incompetence shown by Benas' powerful branch of the government. And Benas' frustration at Dimo's stringent, hardline policies were constant sparks for debate. The uneasy relationship between the bureaucracy built to monitor the mafias and the Enforcers who would police them was more than that, it was a bloodless feud of unrestrained egos.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Dimo Bersules continued to pursue his son, flinging his shoes at him and picking them up as they parried against one another across the room. "Baba, just go get him if you don't want him to stay with Proteus! There's nothing I can do, he doesn't listen to me!" In the middle of picking up one of his poorly thrown shoes, Dimo straightened up immediately. A wild, demonic look took over his entire body. His back was rigid and eyes livid.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "Boy, you think you can tell me what to do?" Dimo roared. "You think this is about that Proteus boy? You think I care?" Antfortas' jaw dropped. His father was beginning to stop making sense, always a sure sign that the punishment was going to become ten-fold worse than before.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> He tried his best to weasel out of the situation. "Baba, I swear, you just said -"</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "Nevermind what I said, this isn't about Proteus, or Benas, or anything else! YOU are supposed to look after your brother! And instead you go have sex with that hooker Jenny -"</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "She is NOT a hooker! Mom likes her! Where is Mom?!" Antfortas voice cracked and he dodged another shoe.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "Your mother went to go pick-up your brother, the one you were supposed to look after!" At this point Antfortas made a mad dash for the hallway that would lead to the staircase and then his bedroom. He could lock the door there. But Dimo was faster. Almost the minute Antfortas had turned his back, Dimo grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. Upon seeing the look of fear on his eldest's face however, Dimo immediately cooled down. He unclenched the hands that had grabbed a hold of Antfortas' shoulders and heaved a great sigh. His face hung low now, Dimo walked away from his son to one of the chairs in the parlor.</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Antfortas was frozen. His face was still petrified with the look of fear that had stopped his father, and most assuredly the best thing to do was hurry up to his room. But his father decided to speak at the exact moment Antfortas found the resolve to move. Frozen again by his father's voice, Antfortas barely breathed for fear of starting another rage. "You don't remember your uncles, but they were all younger than me. There were six of us, each one stupider than the other. I don't mean intelligence, I just mean street smarts. None of them could take care of themselves, always getting caught up with the wrong crowd. I always had to make sure they stayed in line. I've seen what happens when an older brother doesn't do his job, Antfortas. Do you know what happens?" Dimo looked up, his hard eyes softened with tears. Antfortas had lost his voice at the sight. His mouth opened but sound refused to come out. Never before had his father cried before. </blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> "Your Uncle Thomas, the one I grew up with and loved the most, he hated me. Your mother can tell you of the fights we used to have when we still lived in Sudan. We used to take knives at each other, like dogs we wanted to kill each other sometimes. I only ever wanted what was best for him, to keep him away from the wrong people. You know what your Uncle Thomas ended up doing?" Dimo was wringing his hands now, as if trying to wash something off. "He ended up joining the Howlas, thinking he could save the country with them. The night he left I was stabbed five times, him seven because I tried to stop him." Dimo's hands were shaking now. Antfortas's eyes stayed wide and his body remained frozen. This story had never been told to him before. "I can see now the separation that destroyed me and my brother happening between you and Ablendan. I do not want that for you my son. I've always tried to treat you like an adult, and I'm sorry if I've ever put too much responsibility on your shoulders. But you cannot lose him." </blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Antfortas gulped down the swelling in his throat, and tried again to speak. But nothing came of it. He simply nodded his head. "Your brother is a fool and incredibly naive. It is your job to make sure that what happened to my brother doesn't happen to yours." Dimo rose and walked up to his son, hugging him. "I should not have reacted with violence. I'm sorry. Go upstairs and get changed, your mother will be home soon."</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Numbly Antfortas nodded his head and walked into the hallway his father had emerged from not twenty minutes ago in an unrelenting fury. Pictures lined the wall of Antfortas' family, seaside snapshots and awkward holiday portraits littering memories along the cream-colored paint. Staring at one in particular, Antfortas grimaced. He and his brother had gotten into a fight over who should be in front of the other in a Christmas portrait, thus causing the photographer to take the snapshot while the two of them were fighting and send the family home. He and Ablendan had taken quite the beating that night. Antfortas turned around and hurried back to his father. He found Dimo staring at a watch in his hand, cracked brown leather frayed at the tips and its silver face scuffed. "Dad?" Dimo turned to look at his son. "What happened to Uncle Thomas?"</blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><blockquote> Dimo shook his head. "I know I trust you with a lot, Andy. You deserve it, you are wise beyond your years and more mature than anyone I've seen your age. But that is too much for you to bear. Just make sure your brother is always in your eyes, and never far from your reach. Now go. We wouldn't want to upset your mother with all this." Dimo turned back to the watch, ending the conversation. </blockquote><br />
Comment, Critique, and Suggest please! Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-40797118544751833472011-01-03T21:27:00.000-08:002011-01-06T01:10:39.095-08:00What I Did in the Dead of WinterHello Reader! So I've been awfully busy the last few weeks. Legitimately! Stop laughing! Anyways, I've been working hard on clearing my mind so I can continue writing on my novel. Wait a minute, you just said you'd been working hard! Shut up and listen, I'm getting there!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKr0-0-f1I/AAAAAAAAAIo/-JzqyZO8GVQ/s1600/definition-script-writing-800X800.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKr0-0-f1I/AAAAAAAAAIo/-JzqyZO8GVQ/s400/definition-script-writing-800X800.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Schizophrenia aside, I really have been diligently pressing forward on a side-project of mine that I've taken quite a bit of pride in. The culmination of my anger at <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/the_big_picture/2010/07/night-shyamalan-confronted-by-one-of-his-critics.html">M. Night Shyamalan</a> coupled with my love for the series <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Avatar_Wiki">Avatar: The Last Airbender</a> has resulted in a completed, 118 page script for a film! Yes, it's a hefty and slightly arrogant task to undertake. I've never taken a screenwriting class, what do I know of the intricacies involved in crafting a well-done movie? But that's not the point of this exercise.<br />
<br />
The point was to see if I could. To see if I could finish the damn thing the way I wanted to finish it, to envision the first season of Avatar the way I feel it could be represented best. It was quite a challenge, and through its travails I understand why Shyamalan failed. Condensing one season of a television show requires more than just cutting out certain episodes and including others. In fact, this condensation shouldn't even occur. What should happen instead is an elevation of the plot's strongest points, the character's most powerful emotions and the story's most transcendent heights. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKr7ktDFxI/AAAAAAAAAIs/--w6uU7EQfs/s1600/aang-001.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKr7ktDFxI/AAAAAAAAAIs/--w6uU7EQfs/s400/aang-001.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
With <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/List_of_Avatar_Episodes">Avatar</a>, this is all rather easy. You just had to pay attention and rewatch each episode religiously. From <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Aang">Aang</a>'s emergence in the first episode to the awkward and rushed ending of the last, each thread of story is so clearly outlined and full developed by the show's creaters Bryan Konietzko and Michael DiMartino that any missed beat is solely the fault of the writer.<br />
<br />
Take for example Aang's love for <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Katara">Katara</a>. Several times in the show this love is clearly articulated. The Cave of Two Lovers episode, The Play episode of Season 3, even the very first episode of the series depicts Aang's infatuation with Katara in crystalline brushstrokes. But those are only a few episodes at a time. What truly illustrated Aang and Katara's mutual feelings was the blushing, awkward glances, brave attempts at flirting and even daring rescues that occurred without lines being spoken. It's these subtleties in acting, performance, cinematography and direction that Night left out of his film and that the creators of Avatar utilized extensively. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKsROdebhI/AAAAAAAAAIw/vGxlIG_NjLg/s1600/Bumi_omashu.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKsROdebhI/AAAAAAAAAIw/vGxlIG_NjLg/s400/Bumi_omashu.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
So what did I have to do to <u>elevate</u> the show? Cut out several episodes, steal lines from one episode and insert those tidbits of information into scenes and places they did not exist beforehand. I had to, several times, steal from future seasons and write-in events that would happen later in the series. For example, <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Bumi">King Bumi</a> makes an appearance in the first season. While the episode he appears in is derivative filler, the character himself is incredibly important. He is part of the <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Order_of_the_White_Lotus">White Lotus</a>! A group of men that becomes so ludicrously important in the latter half of season two and final episodes of season three that shoving each of the main members' introductions into the second or third movies will demean their incredible importance. <br />
<br />
It is crucial to introduce Bumi in the first film of three, give him time to be imprisoned in the second film, and then bring him back during the third. Because in the second film, you have the introduction of the White Lotus itself, laying down railroad tracks the viewer cannot see the destination of but whose very construction intrigues them enough to come and see the Avatar world a third time. And Hell, there's so much going on in the second season that using precious minutes of film time to introduce and give backstory to a rather kooky character right after Aang, Katara and <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Sokka">Sokka</a> have fought the battle of their lives and lost those that they loved seems to be a drastic and sadistic treatment of tone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
And therein do we find the most important aspect of any elevation of a television series. The tone must be set correctly. Granted, several times during the animated show itself one sees a flux in tone that is uncharacteristic of the producers. The final three episodes of the first season are clear examples of this. How does <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Pakku">Master Pakku</a> teach Aang and Katara so well in those few days or so that he has them? Or have weeks gone by? Why is it that when Sokka and <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Hahn">Hahn</a> grapple with each other, they are almost immediately pulled apart by <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Arnook">Arnook</a> and then without any attempt at figuring out who was at fault Sokka is taken off the very important secret mission to kill <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Zhao">Zhao</a>? Why is the <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Zuko">Zuko</a> arc of the three episodes so...limp? Nothing comes of his attempt to steal Aang away, no personal growth or even plot development. In fact, though he was in the background for much of the first season, <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Iroh">Iroh</a> creates more ripples in the plot during these three episodes than Zuko does. Huh? <br />
<br />
But there are more often than not great examples of tone throughout the Avatar series, especially in Season one. The Fortune Teller episode, though filler, had an incredibly and delightful balance of humor and sincerity. Grappling with his love for Katara and saving a village at the same time, Aang is portrayed as a sincere, honest, kind, compassionate <u>child</u> who we can all root for. But it is always emphasized that he is still a kid, not yet ready to confront the dangers he is asked to tame. The episodes <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Jet_(Episode)">Jet</a> and <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/The_Blue_Spirit">The Blue Spirit</a> are more great examples of tone. Humor is injected into very dangerous, very serious situations that test the morals, mettle, and tolerance of our heroes to degrees they've never experienced and must become accustomed to. <br />
<br />
It's this tone I was trying to strike in the script. Humor is one thing that was seriously lacking from Shyamalan's script. These children are not fighting in a war, not yet. They are surrounded by war, but that does not mean they have to be sodden depressives. These children are filled with hope - so what if it's naive? - and determination born of rugged lifestyles brought upon by their poverty and loss during the war. Sorrowful, wandering saps they are not. And that is exactly what they were depicted as in Shyamalan's idiot film. No longer was Aang the happy go-lucky child thrust into the limelight of responsibility. He was an angry, inarticulate and rather stupid Airbender. Whoopie.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKvBEnODhI/AAAAAAAAAI0/mL6501kjj1M/s1600/shyamalan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKvBEnODhI/AAAAAAAAAI0/mL6501kjj1M/s400/shyamalan.jpeg" width="347" /></a></div><br />
After watching interviews of Shyamalan expressing his love and interest in the film, you can see his utter gall. He has no real respect for the material. The Eastern influences he constantly espouses as bait that reeled him in are not nearly as prominent as he makes them out to be. They are segues into character development, not plot points in and of themselves. The spirit world is only visited in attempts at furthering the plot, NOT as a religious pilgrimage guided by a blue dragon. Fuck, <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Roku">Avatar Roku</a> was the most important spiritual character in the ENTIRE series and he wasn't even included in the God damn film! Atrocity? I think so!<br />
<br />
Anyways, the script includes Bumi, <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Jeong_Jeong">Jeong Jeong</a>, Zhao, and <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Jet">Jet</a>. I've left out the <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Kyoshi_Warriors">Kyoshi warriors</a>, the <a href="http://avatar.wikia.com/wiki/Northern_Air_Temple">Northern Air Temple</a>, the Earthbender prison, the pirates, and many other derivative characters that did not contribute to the central plot: get to the Northern Water tribe as fast as freaking possible.<br />
<br />
However, as a side note, the Kyoshi warriors will appear in the second film. Because after I'm done with this novel, I'm going to write a second script. I have no clue what I'm going to do with these things. They were written for two purposes alone: 1) to make myself feel loads better about the film, and 2) to take my mind off the novel. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKvgGIXwiI/AAAAAAAAAI4/tjyv3Y_TrHE/s1600/reloaded5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TSKvgGIXwiI/AAAAAAAAAI4/tjyv3Y_TrHE/s400/reloaded5.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
About that second purpose though. This exercise legitimately helped. I've figured out new avenues to pursue with the novel, solving many of the problems I've been having with continuity and plot development. There just needs to be more action! There's too much God damned hand-wringing and worrying and talking in my novel! Not enough of the wam-bham, OMG I'M GOING TO DIE variety of prose. Because that is what drives the plot really. Something happening. On screen. On the page. Not some allusion, or threat. But an actual monkey wrench in the plans.<br />
<br />
Writing this script forced me to strip a story to its bare bones. I had to realize what was good, what was drivel, and what would help elicit an emotion from my audience. Then I had to connect the dots with flourish and panache, injecting humor taken directly from the series into a war-zone of ideas and emotions clashing against each other violently. This really helped my novel. What is the bare bones of my story for this first book? <br />
<br />
<br />
Briok has learned he is the Magna Beast and must begin his training in the art of murder. His best friend Proteus Qolsat is being hunted down by the mafia because of his father's high political position, forcing Briok into situation after situation testing his new abilities. Briok's mentors Amar and Arthur Fourgun are confronted with new technology whose origins and purpose they do not know, and whose raw power could undo the very peace and calm they've fought for. And Tory Cross is a young mafia boss enraged by betrayal to the point where his manic anger will soon cause a world of pain to Briok and the ones he loves.<br />
<br />
Thanks Shyamalan for fucking up so well. You've let me attempt quality in my work, and I am truly greatful. Until next time then.<br />
<br />
*Sidenote, I realize I used a lot of names and talked about a lot of plot that is unfamiliar to most of you. I apologize for this. I can't really remedy it though, because explaining Avatar the animated series to everyone would take a whole blogpost in and of itself.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-24806731476491559172010-12-22T00:11:00.000-08:002010-12-22T00:11:31.156-08:00You've Lost A Lot In These Waning YearsHello Reader! I was coursing back through time yesterday, staring my memories in the face. As it were, I couldn't help but gloss over - alright I'm a liar, I didn't gloss over it, I outright pored over them - five years of my life spent with someone. <br />
<br />
No, I wasn't in a relationship with the person. Although, we were close enough for it. And it's not appropriate to explain here why the friendship soured. I feel it is enough to say that even the best of friendships have beneath them an undercurrent of...well, something far more sinister and darker than just friendship. <br />
<br />
Is it really melodramatic for me to call it a betrayal? I mean, for God's sake it's been three years since everything ended. How am I still hung up on this issue? Probably because I did many wrong, cruel things to that person in the dying shambles of the relationship. My justification has been that worse, crueler things happened to me. Not over the course of a year, but during that entire five year epoch of my tiny life. That's good enough justification right?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGw5d5_g_I/AAAAAAAAAIM/le6WoTb40fg/s1600/alg_harry_potter.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGw5d5_g_I/AAAAAAAAAIM/le6WoTb40fg/s400/alg_harry_potter.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Either way the issue is important, for this blog at least, because I want it in my book. I think I've said somewhere that this novel is asking the question what if Paul Muad'dib had to go to high school and still lead the Fremen? What if Harry Potter and Dune were to be mashed up, their storylines and character attitudes merged together? But in a lot of ways, the teenage relationships between Harry and his friends are incredibly juvenile. For one thing they don't curse. Maybe British children are less foul-mouthed than American children, but seeing as how I'm an American I can't really avoid writing about what I know.<br />
<br />
That's a minor thing though. What irks me as I reread the Harry Potter series is the genuine goodness in each of the children. It seems to be that all of the undesirable traits, or at least those that people absolutely everywhere absolutely cannot tolerate, are sequestered to Slytherin house. For pity's sake, the worst thing anyone in any of the other houses ever does is uncleverly tease Harry. Most of them, actually all of them, apologize to him after they've been proven wrong by our persevering hero. Of course I understand that the novels are meant for children. Why shove complexity down their throats? Ravenclaw can have terrible human beings in it too? Whoa, heavy man. To be fair there's already enough new information, and the whole damn thing is presented so delightfully and with so much vivid and wondrous detail there's no reason for any more complexity in the relationships between these children.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGxGm66ijI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/oudGqx6qpGU/s1600/freaksgeeks32.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGxGm66ijI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/oudGqx6qpGU/s400/freaksgeeks32.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
But then again maybe there is. High school isn't the sordid affair presented by many books, movies, television shows etc. Often these media present to us a wasteland of common sense inhabited by cliques who are all mutually exclusive from each other. This is a complete fallacy. High school, or at least what I experienced high school as, was an ever shifting chaotic mess of children figuring out who they are in often harmful ways - to themselves and to others. I had friends who did more hard drugs in high school than many of my college friends, who pride themselves on their lack of boundaries, even attempt. Backstabbing in college is so much easier, because you're not clustered with the same 60 students everywhere you go for six hours straight. There isn't much harmful gossip in college, because as fast as word travels at the university it is thousands of magnitudes slower than the drivel that's tossed around on a high school campus.<br />
<br />
Again, as always, I'm speaking in generalities. You can bombard me all you want with examples of gossip and backbiting behaving by rules diametrically opposite to those I've outlined above. Fine. I'm a generalist, I apologize, I hope you can learn to accept it as I've learned to accept the nitpicking. Also, I could be totally wrong. If I am, I'll admit it. Now on with it.<br />
<br />
Now, how does this vision of high school relate to the novel? Well, I'm writing about high school students for most of the story. In fact, the first novel's plot is driven by the high school aspirations, pratfalls, missteps and melodrama that follow my teenage characters. In a lot of ways, high school is the very first step - or series of giant leaps - we all take in becoming less innocent. I'm not just talking about sex or drugs, I'm talking about sins and diseases of the heart. Some of us become arrogant in our ephemeral youth, believing the success and grandeur of our teenage years will last us until we're well into the throes of our death bed. Some wayward souls dive headfirst into waters unknown and do not surface. Ever.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGyGwaZV6I/AAAAAAAAAIc/YBerMukzK0k/s1600/angry-kid.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGyGwaZV6I/AAAAAAAAAIc/YBerMukzK0k/s400/angry-kid.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I lost a lot during those years. The waning of my adolescence introduced an incredible side to me, one I had never known myself to have. Of course my mother predicted it and forewarned me of it for many years. She's pretty good at that. But my adolescence decided to ignore her. That same friend who hurt me so bad, was in turn hurt by my raging temper, volcanic as it was and very well still may be. I'm not sure if it's pride or shame I feel when I consider that she was the only person privy to my purest rage, but I cannot pretend that others weren't exposed to some degree of the fury. In a lot of ways the development of this temper was the maturation of the darkest shades of my personality, a slow loss of my innocence. Naturally I am not defined by these shadows. How many people are? <br />
<br />
Then again I cannot sugar-coat the issue. Some of us lose ourselves to the rollicking darkness. Some of us lose ourselves and come back. And some don't. I don't feel as if this is melodramatic at all. I live in a bubble of successful high school students, those men and women who were holistically strong enough to attend the institution I do. They can do a damn fine job of keeping this kind of thing under wraps. But what about those who were deemed unworthy by the admissions board? What about those who didn't even try? Do they not count, because they did not succeed? In novels dealing with children of or near my age, often two archetypes emerge. There's the Stephen King character who has gone through truly traumatic events in his or her earlier life and must, as an adult, deal with these issues head on. Or there's the watered-down, often funny, mostly acerbic character studies that populate most young fiction - these characters are all generally good natured, and even their bullies are really good people deep down.<br />
<br />
If you're going to gripe about my generalizations - I don't blame you, the little man inside my head is griping right alongside you - then please suggest a book to me that deviates from these two characterizations in describing child characters of or near the age of adolescence.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGxxtu93RI/AAAAAAAAAIY/26LShouZDL4/s1600/first-day-of-school.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGxxtu93RI/AAAAAAAAAIY/26LShouZDL4/s400/first-day-of-school.jpeg" width="332" /></a></div><br />
I'm not trying to write a book. I'm trying to write a story. I'm not a good writer. I'm a great storyteller. And I attribute this arrogant iota of information to my intellectual honesty. And my intellectual honesty demands that I admit to a very solemn fact. We have all lost much in these waning years. We are not the perky students of our youth, wearing the cute Disney backpacks of our own volition - or without some hipster-influenced, high-falutin, sarcastic purpose. We are not innocent. Not a single one of us. We have all done things we are not proud of, and those that I am surrounded by in college are good at hiding it. I'm good at hiding it though three years on it still haunts me. But those who aren't good at hiding these travails deserve a high school tale too. Those who didn't survive the maturation and development of their worst selves should have their stories told too.<br />
<br />
That's what Briok's tale is about. I've always scoffed at the cliques of most high school dramas. They specialize in a certain brand of sterilization. These kids are like this, those kids are like that, and they may change, but they always change for the better. Or they stay the same, sterile version of bad they started out as. The worst that can happen is you'll get made fun of if you're a geek, and some everyman will come by and help you out of the trashcanlockertoiletjanitor'scloset you've been stuck in. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGyfXHQ7dI/AAAAAAAAAIg/25N30DVr-_8/s1600/g30_18506897_thumb.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TRGyfXHQ7dI/AAAAAAAAAIg/25N30DVr-_8/s400/g30_18506897_thumb.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I was told once that my words and a few of my actions caused someone to contemplate suicide. My comments as a <u>high schooler</u>. Of course I was told this by that friend whose relationship I value no longer, in anger, and without any proof. But obviously I made her feel something raw if she was going to accuse me of that. I filleted her psyche to the point that she wanted to get back at me with that. Why? Because our innocence was gone by then, too steeped were we in the dredges of the collective human condition. Those dredges where your peer is no longer worthy of the same treatment you require for yourself, where humanity defines itself not by the help it affords its constituents but by the amount of outright maiming it can incur upon those same denizens. <br />
<br />
Can you imagine the burden? We are so infantilized nowadays, made to think we haven't experienced anything. Yes, we're 20 and living in the first world. We have yet to see our entire families raped and pillaged and I carry no battlescar with me for the rest of my life. But that doesn't, or at least it shouldn't, deny us the mental damage we inflict upon ourselves and our friends. If our luxury and modern comforts afforded us true joy, we would be the happiest nation on Earth. We are decidedly not. This damage isn't bad. It isn't really a good thing either. It just is. And I say this with as much certainty as I can afford: scars wrap themselves around us like a blanket, guarding us against the freezing wind that is our lesser nature. You can only swim if you've touched the water.<br />
<br />
And Briok and his friends will undergo that scarring. To as far and wide an extent as possible, they will be wrapped in flame and adorned with thorns to give them permanent signposts on their minds as they make their way to an as yet unforeseen destination. Death, maturity, marriage, peace, what have you. That's the nature of it no? That's the nature of our lives. Maybe not the purpose though. I'm too young to figure that one out yet. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-86955585100881791532010-12-14T14:39:00.000-08:002010-12-14T14:39:45.579-08:00The Very Origins of My StoryHello Reader! I've always noted, rather proudly, that the story I'm blogging about, writing about, and have been thinking about since birth has no discernible origin in my memory. But after rewatching bits and pieces of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dark_Crystal">The Dark Crystal</a>, I've come to realize there can be no other source of genesis for my story. Which is odd because, while I am incredibly nostalgic about the movie, the storyline behind it irks me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfuXLzqbcI/AAAAAAAAAHg/yqEtPyhD6aI/s1600/url.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfuXLzqbcI/AAAAAAAAAHg/yqEtPyhD6aI/s400/url.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div><br />
Basically a race of being on the planet Thra called <a href="http://darkcrystal.wikia.com/wiki/UrSkek">UrSkeks</a> came from another planet that severely looks down on moral impurities. They plan on using a very large crystal, the same one that brought them to the planet Thra, and its ability to focus light from Thra's three suns in an attempt to purify themselves of their sins. Well the event is called The Great Conjunction and the results are not what they expected. They are split in two, a species called the <a href="http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Skeksis">Skeksies</a> representing their unrestrained, evil sides and another species called the <a href="http://darkcrystal.wikia.com/wiki/Mystics">urRu (or Mystics)</a>. I think it's quite obvious that the Mystics represented the disciplined, righteous side of the UrSkeks. <br />
<br />
Anyways, the whole movie is about a young <a href="http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Gelfling">Gelfling</a> who is prophesied to bring together the Mystics and Skeksies by finding the lost shard of the Dark Crystal - the same crystal that caused all this trouble in the first place - and rejoining it to the larger crystal in Skeksies territory. Yeesh it's weird writing Skeksies. The word is supposed to be the singular and plural form of the species, so I'm constantly feeling as if my syntax and grammar is totally off.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfwzOSFbOI/AAAAAAAAAHk/8NbiIumJG1Q/s1600/aughra03.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfwzOSFbOI/AAAAAAAAAHk/8NbiIumJG1Q/s400/aughra03.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I digress however, because the main point of the story wasn't to introduce you to the plot of the movie. As I've said above, the whole story irks me. I'm not sure why. For a Muppet film, the movie is very dark in its tone and the Skeksies are incredibly unforgiving, paranoid, ruthless villains. Which is all very nice and good. You never want villains that aren't scary. But the story just irks me.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I've finally found the Big Bang. Or at least, the Big Bang of my story. The Mags and the Howlas did not come from the same species of people - they have always been distinct. But they do originate from the same planet. And the first Magna Beast, as well as his counterpart the Howlamega, were each given their powers by a crystal. Whoa, right? I'm not positive as to when I watched this movie, but I am more than assured as of now that this film was the beginning.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfxFDgsGfI/AAAAAAAAAHo/h6YoSBwaJtw/s1600/Hercules-muses-as-busts.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfxFDgsGfI/AAAAAAAAAHo/h6YoSBwaJtw/s400/Hercules-muses-as-busts.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Is that the cause of my annoyance? I hope I'm not that arrogant, but I cannot lie and say that I wasn't proud of my story's lack of origin. Fascination engulfed me. I was enamored with the idea that this story was a germ that spontaneously erupted in the creative nether regions of my mind. I wanted, so badly, to believe that this story was something more than just another conglomeration of past ideas. I will still press on, no doubt. Briok's tale is too far ingrained in my DNA now for me to not express it. But an itching will constantly reside in my head, something that tells me, whispers to me that this wasn't my idea. <br />
<br />
Of course one answer would be that I have thus far steered away from outright copying Jim Henson's work and made the UrSkek story my own. But how did I steer away from it? Every metastasization since has been easily attributed to something or another. The fact that I had to create a purpose behind the story, a theme that resonated was due to Mr. Perkins my eighth grade english teacher. The darkness of the characters, their deep melodramas and their superficial joys were inspired by <a href="http://www.syfy.com/battlestar/">Battlestar Galactica</a>'s intrepid character portrayals. The restraint of my imagination in service of the reader hammered into me by my sophomore english teacher Mrs. Higgins. The mafias, a monkey wrench in the plans of my main characters, were yanked straight from the reels of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battles_Without_Honor_and_Humanity">The Yakuza Papers</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfx8HKbDQI/AAAAAAAAAHs/ipyR8TzxXKk/s1600/bob-ross.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="380" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TQfx8HKbDQI/AAAAAAAAAHs/ipyR8TzxXKk/s400/bob-ross.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
No artist since the dawn of man has painted without another's color. I justify myself thus. Anyways, no point in crying over spilled milk. Is that the phrase? I've got what I've got. It's made some people happy. Hopefully it'll continue to do so. I'll just keep writing, humbling myself with the knowledge that what I've been given I'll be giving back in a new way. And hey, what I've been given isn't so bad. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-64324256562022336622010-11-30T01:05:00.000-08:002010-11-30T01:08:01.617-08:00Oh Who Am I Kidding?Hello Reader! I failed. Utterly. I wasn't able to finish my NaNoWriMo challenge in time. Sad face emoticon. In my shame, this is all I want to post. Until next time then.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TPS-10EM0wI/AAAAAAAAAHY/fgJlSfwew_Y/s1600/url.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TPS-10EM0wI/AAAAAAAAAHY/fgJlSfwew_Y/s400/url.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-83318691581780965092010-11-10T01:01:00.000-08:002010-11-10T01:01:41.568-08:00I was saving my 50th for something amazingHello Reader! It's been fifty, 50, FIFTY, %)!!! weeks that I've been posting on here about my novel! You'd think I would have finished by now. But no, as always, school has taken over my life. Thank God (swt) at least this year, I'm getting good grades. <br />
<br />
Onto bigger and better things however! Hopefully you've all heard of <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a>. If not, then click the link! Here's the gist of the organization. NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month - clever no? Basically, participants are asked to type, write, sketch, doodle a 50,000 word novel in one month - the month of November - and whether the novel is good or not, post it onto their website. No editing, no rethinking of ideas, none of the things that most authors rely on to make their novel great. Just pure, raw, imaginative creativity. It's exciting isn't it? To be free from the hassle of analysis, self-doubt, judgment. <br />
<br />
That's why I'm doing it. I've been obsessing over the quality of the novel for so long, and I'm not sure if it's even boosting the quality of the damn thing. In fact, I think it may be diluting the quality of it. A nice break, one where I'm actually being productive on the side, would be nice. Thus far, I haven't really written in it. One chapter, a measly 10,000 words after deleting around 30,000, into the new version of the novel and Neuroscience has decided to make my life ten times harder than it already was. First world problems are a bitch.<br />
<br />
So what's the new story about? I wanted to write something on an aircraft carrier, something detailing the life of a marine in deep space. Yes, I'm sticking with science fiction. I think I've already explained it beforehand, but it feels appropriate to reiterate my feelings about the genre. I feel that science fiction allows me to create this alternate history through which I can influence my characters and give them context for their actions. What's the point in making them do something, if the reason for it is so current, so present in their own realities? Then it just seems fraudulent, like I'm letting you (the reader) see my hand at work.<br />
<br />
Take for example a situation where Mary finds her new husband has been cheating on her. She goes into a rage, and beats him to death with a frying pan. Then she buries him under their garage and has to deal with his ghost haunting her for the rest of her life until finally she decides to kill herself. Well, that sucks.<br />
<br />
Now what if we knew that her husband had a history, a history of being a playboy and wantonly flirting with other women? And that it took every fiber of Mary's being to get this man to settle down and be with her? What if we also knew her own mother had a history of mental illness, one with symptoms similar to the hallucinations Mary seems to be having after her husband's death. And then! it's revealed that the reason why she knew how and where to bury her husband's body, as well as how she knew to stay away from the cop's suspicion for so long, is because she comes from a family of gypsies living in the South - that's a direct pull from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0496343/">The Riches</a>, I know. <br />
<br />
Doesn't that sound more exciting? Hell, it's a longer paragraph, that's for sure! So, science fiction gives me that leeway. It allows me to write about characters who have depth beyond their own measly lives, giving them drama and connecting them to a larger play they are all a part of. It's high falutin stuff, this explanation/reasoning of mine, hoity-toity to the max and border line arrogant, but at least it makes an interesting story. Or what I hope is an interesting story.<br />
<br />
SO, what exactly am I writing about. I started off writing about a young marine in an engine room reading a bunch of maps. Then alarms start to ring everywhere and a monster appears in front of him, crawling its way from a torture room it has just escaped from. Then I began to write about something I knew would happen eventually. I just didn't want it to happen now.<br />
<br />
I began to tie the story in to the Magna Beast's story. In the world I've created for the Magna Beast, there are six known sentient races. The Mags and Howlas, the Quasarians, the Nymphs, Humans, Hyths, and...well shoot that's about it. So I choose the Hyths to be a part of this story. In my novel, the materials for the new technology allowing people to create laser guns is found on the Hyth planet. So I decided that the Hyth our young marine meets is going to be the same Hyth who was found with his crew shipping those materials. <br />
<br />
And thus, the mad chain of ragtag events zig-zag their way towards a final conclusion in the deus ex machina of my first novel. It's sort of like The Hobbit. Bilbo finds the ring, by accident, and, also by accident, ends up giving the ring to Frodo who embarks on this enormous journey to destroy all evil. It's insane how one event, one instance in a person's life can drastically metastasize and affect forces larger than his/her understanding. I love to play with that, events building upon each other to create a varied tapestry.<br />
<br />
Anyways, I think I'm going to blog about my progress on this new novel. It's an exciting journey to begin on. And hey! I think I did write something pretty watershed-like for my 50th post! Here's to a new novel being finished quicker than the old one! Huzzah! Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-81838096095071325652010-10-25T13:22:00.000-07:002010-10-25T13:22:05.500-07:00When You've Got So Much to ProveHello Reader! I watched The Social Network this past Saturday. Three weeks late, I know, but considering my schedule it's a wonder I even got around to watching it. It's actually a miracle I'm even able to post this for everyone! Anyways, Social Network was an incredible movie. Truly gripping, in a sense used far less often than the word itself. The script never faltered or lost itself, was always sure of its direction and never condescended to the viewer. Dialogue was paced so that laymen would understand these were smart people dealing with sordidly normal insecurities, and really smart people would actually grin at the impressive knowledge exhibited by the scriptwriter. It was freaking cool.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXh0IhelOI/AAAAAAAAAGk/6FIz0IbyWKc/s1600/The-Social-Network.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXh0IhelOI/AAAAAAAAAGk/6FIz0IbyWKc/s400/The-Social-Network.jpeg" width="270" /></a></div><br />
But back up a little bit to the first point about the dialogue. These were incredibly smart people in the movie. I'm talking about the characters. Mark Zuckerberg brought down the INTERNET at Harvard while he was drunk, depressed over his break-up, and blogging. What? Eduardo Saverin made $300,000 in a summer. A summer! What'd you do with your summer? I took summer school, made around $300 with my clerical job, and then dedicated the entire first two weeks of August to watching Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood - the last two weeks were dedicated to finishing LOST. These are kids in a very, very different league.<br />
<br />
Unsurprisingly, they still have the same insecurities as anyone else. And I love that this movie tackled that, while also celebrating the monumental achievement that is Facebook. What really got me though, was the fact that Mark Zuckerberg never grew up. I pitied him in the movie. I didn't hate him or revile him, nor were any of his actions a mystery to me. Is it because he was/is me? Because I share the same manic desire to see everyone beneath my own feet?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXiOnsVSvI/AAAAAAAAAGo/j3B0pI8S7fg/s1600/funny-pictures-cat-thinks-he-is-better-than-you.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXiOnsVSvI/AAAAAAAAAGo/j3B0pI8S7fg/s400/funny-pictures-cat-thinks-he-is-better-than-you.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
No, I don't think so. Everyone has that desire really, we all crave to be better than someone else. Or something else. It's a normal human function, something that allows us to improve ourselves. We shouldn't be ashamed of it. So long as we avoid hurting others in the process it's a noble character trait. What really made me feel connected to Zuckerberg was that his need to prove himself was motivated by a girl. This insane desire to scar the planet with his presence, to rip open his chest and let everyone see the goldmine that is his intellect was born from the common need to be better than others...but morphed into the ravenous <u>want</u> to show that girl he was worth it. <br />
<br />
It happened to me my senior year of high school. That's when things with this novel, and my life in general, started to pick up. I wasn't dumped, because really we hadn't been dating. I have no illusions about the relationship. I had forced it into a kind of limbo because I was too afraid of breaking my promise to not date in high school. But really, come on, you're going to go over and have "dinner" with a guy not once, not twice, but many times while still leading me on? That just sucks dude. Anyways, the whole thing blew up in my face. I was overdramatic and paranoid, she was fed up and too scared to hurt my feelings. *Sidenote: always be straightforward with a guy, please, because not wanting to hurt his feelings usually leads you to hurting his feelings moreso than you would've wanted in the first place.<br />
<br />
This explosion however, propelled me into a fiercer, more focused state of mind. I was president of three different clubs and juggling hundreds of chainsaws at once while spinning three different plates on my nose and balancing a couch on my chin as I unicycled up a hill. It was stressful to say the least. I reveled in it though, I reveled in the newfound popularity I had being at the center of three different, moderately popular clubs. *Yearbook Editor-in-Chief (1/3), Mock Trial Senior Attorney (1/3), and Model U.N. President (1/2).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXiu7DGu7I/AAAAAAAAAGs/3CUgaA7ceKY/s1600/RY2T8611.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXiu7DGu7I/AAAAAAAAAGs/3CUgaA7ceKY/s400/RY2T8611.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I was allowed to scar the school with my presence, winning Senior Boy at the end of the year and two prestigious scholarships - for a small town that is (is 80,000 people still considered a small town?). I got to walk at the front of the class, have my face plastered all over my senior year yearbook, and was even asked to prom by a cheerleader. Going from the kid who always got bullied in elementary school through junior high to the dude who everyone knew and getting asked by a cheerleader is a nerd's wet dream. I got to live it. I was ecstatic. And a little bit of a douchey leader. I attribute this latter trait to the fact that I was totally unprepared for such leadership roles and thought that because I asked for something it would immediately get done. Of course, it did not.<br />
<br />
Anyways! I felt the same euphoric rush Zuckerberg must have felt, and did feel in the movie, once Facebook became the new fad then phenomenon then cultural mainstay. Turning to my novel, my writing output burst during that epoch of sudden popularity. I went from 150 pages double spaced to 315 pages 1.5 spaced. I hadn't finished it necessarily, but I had created the skeleton of my novel while completely scraping away the previous version. That previous version included an entire chapter dedicated to a flashback, a Mag fighting against a tank, and a freeway chase scene. I had invisible Howlas, Amar entering Briok's mind, and a far lengthier first chapter. I deleted everything and started anew after my sophomore Honors English teacher read the manuscript and was thoroughly unimpressed with my sporadic, spastic imaginative firings.<br />
<br />
The idea for the mafias arose during my senior year, the idea that Briok would fall in love then when that love was broken turn into a horrendous shadow of his pure self, the fact that I wanted the two cities encapsulating the action of the first book to be characters in their own right were all developed during my senior year. I can't help but think that my sudden confidence stemming from my sudden popularity spurred on this sudden metastasization of my novel. It was such a high. To be able to write and imagine like that, you cannot believe how good I felt.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXkQ7h3M0I/AAAAAAAAAGw/OOD-JUqtVKA/s1600/blutbambi.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXkQ7h3M0I/AAAAAAAAAGw/OOD-JUqtVKA/s400/blutbambi.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Of course Zuckerberg became a haughty, manipulative creature willing to let anyone pour sweet, shining, poisonous honey down his ear while shunning those who had helped him rise to the top. I could have become that guy, repelling all the old friends I had before this newfound popularity. Did I? I can never know for sure, because I don't know the opinions of every person I've ever met. But I do know that I tried my best not to become that person. I had peculiar insight into the rise of my social status as the phenomenon was occurring. Not of my own accord of course. All things must flow from the mother, and I'm telling you that lady definitely gave me more than a few gifts. One of them was a particularly good intuition. I can't really articulate it, but it's there, and it helps from time to time. Other times it goes off the scale and confuses me to no end.<br />
<br />
In this specific instance though, what was happening was as clear as day. And I stood against the demons associated with becoming so popular. But more than my intuition it was the fact that no matter what happened to me, I had a family at home ready and willing to love me no matter what that saved my ass from becoming an ass. They were also ready to tell me whenever I did become an ass. The movie wasn't clear, but I don't think Zuckerberg had this. In fact, I'm positive his insecurities were allowed to run free and develop at such an exponential rate because he did not have anyone there to alleviate these self-doubts. He didn't have anyone to hug him - interesting how something so small can do so much - and say, you've done well so far. Be happy.<br />
<br />
I am more than grateful. I am indebted to my family. Sure, I went on a couple power trips. But I was well-balanced enough to say sorry afterwards. I still wanted to tear away from my corporeal body and show everyone what I could still become, i.e. publish my novel. As a child walking through the junior high towards my next class I used to daydream a Howla would suddenly appear out of nowhere and I would have to fight the thing in order to save everyone. I would be lauded as a hero and everyone would adore me. In elementary school it was worse. I imagined the Magna Beast would literally tear away from my skin and I would become him. I would then disappear and go off on my own adventures, people mourning my passing but lauding my renewal. These daydreams haven't stopped. I still sometimes imagine myself becoming more than what my body allows, especially when I screw up in a social situation (read: awkward date). <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXkvG_GAWI/AAAAAAAAAG0/wVMpDqPxR8Y/s1600/social-network-movie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Kw1RVBIJW_I/TMXkvG_GAWI/AAAAAAAAAG0/wVMpDqPxR8Y/s400/social-network-movie.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Unlike Zuckerberg though, these daydreams have not conquered my real life. The family unit I grew up in did more than raise me, it saved me. Because of their calming influence, loving embrace and stern discipline I stayed grounded in the real world. The Magna Beast never took over my life. I fear sometimes that this is what is holding my novel back. That I didn't just up and quit school to dedicate myself to writing this novel still prolongs my waking hours, despite the fact that I crawl into bed most nights at two in the morning. Comfort only comes from this one, menial thought: I've always accomplished the same things as others by taking a different path. I've been preternaturally good, not of my own accord, at seeing opportunities and running with them. I'm a lucky bastard, very little if anything at all ever resulting in my life due to my own skill.<br />
<br />
I'm going to continue living my life the way I am, befriending new people enamored with the confident, popular, smiling Muslim man while also staying friends with those who knew and know me as the little boy who got pushed into the girl's bathroom, called Osama's cousin, and believed that being stupid was the only way to be accepted. This dualism is tough. Completely accepting that popularity as a part of my character runs the risk of becoming an asshole. Completely rejecting it runs the risk of becoming a depressive. But I was raised right...enough to deal with this problem anyways.<br />
<br />
The Magna Beast, his roaring resounding in my head from the moment I wake up till the moment I sleep - and even then ruminations of life on Atlantis still stampede in my muddled dreams - will forever be my life's goal and if ever accomplished my life's greatest achievement. But I'm grounded enough to say that just being a good person in general ranks pretty high up too. I am no Zuckerberg. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-9521980885491059182010-10-04T21:12:00.000-07:002010-10-04T21:12:11.039-07:00You Are Who You Are Because You Say Who You AreHello Reader! My titles as of late have been random brain spasms, replacing the well-thought out titles I develop in my head over the weekend. I think they sound cool, what do you think? Anyways, this week's title does mean something (as I hope you've noticed all of them do). Several times this past month or so, <s>people</s> friends have told me I'm one thing...and then quickly find out I'm another. Psychoanalysis this is not. I'm actually going to relate this to the ongoing legend of my work in progress. Ready, set, go.<br />
<br />
There's a dualism to my work, something I've been trying to escape for a while now. Science fiction is where I start the novel. In fact, it's where most of this story takes place. Not because I'm asking questions about what will happen when a certain technology is invented. Or because I'm pondering the mysteries attached to the "oncoming" <a href="http://io9.com/5534848/what-is-the-singularity-and-will-you-live-to-see-it">technological singularity</a>. I use science fiction as an excuse to create my own history, giving each of the character's actions weight and definition amongst a rich, vibrant context. <br />
<br />
Just one example of how the book is one thing...but really another. Relate it to me? Most of my friends think I'm an extrovert. Not true, and never will it be true. I need time alone - lots of it - in order to recharge my batteries and be the exuberant man I am. Or they seem to think I'm a superficial asshole, only capable of making jokes and mocking folks. (Whoa, that was weird). Are these <a href="http://www.philosophyunhinged.blogspot.com/">two</a> <a href="http://www.themagnabeast.blogspot.com/">blogs</a> not proof that I have insecurities abounding, most of which are self-inflicted and remnants of elementary school fears?<br />
<br />
Obviously not. I am who I am because I say who I am. And I don't act like the worried sap that I actually am. What do I do about this? I could paint my eyes black and buy a new wardrobe. Or I could continue on the way I'm going, spilling the abstract Dadaism of my soul onto the canvas that is this book. Its dualism is a reflection of my own, its indifference to traditional genre boundaries not only a product of my sloppy writing but also my frenetic, rapid-fire brain.<br />
<br />
Really, there wasn't a point to this. Any of it. I'm stalling because I've got massive writer's block. I've literally run into a huge hole in my story. Or rather, I'm trying to fill a hole that I've created and it's killing me slowly. I wanted to lengthen the book, make it feel more like the epic that it is in my mind. Maybe I'm just being too rigid? Certain events that are occurring later on in the story...could happen now? There isn't a timeline etched in stone is there? Not really. Or I could expand to ridiculous lengths the storyline of the mafia. I mean, there's a rich tale to be told there. Or introduce the Mahabura earlier? Or even give readers a bigger slice of the Atlantian lifestyle through a teenagers' eyes?<br />
<br />
Dadaism of the rapid-fire brain. I'm telling you, I'm a frenetic mess of ideas and babbling incoherence ready to burst at the seams. Hmm, maybe my personality isn't so far off from what others say after all? You become who you are because you say who you are. Much better title. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-80027586152393756202010-09-27T13:55:00.000-07:002010-09-27T13:55:23.231-07:00I was Once a Man on FireHello Reader! So I used to believe that in order to write well, I had to be in a state of emotional disarray. My feelings had to be hurt in order to put down on paper the story I wish to tell. Then, my mind changed and I was pretty positive that all you need is focus and a clear heading. Questions like how much pain am I in and how best do I deal with this new heartbreak were replaced with how many times should Amar smile or grimace and in which chapter should I deal with the mafia?<br />
<br />
Well, that's changed again. No, I'm not going to detail how that's changed. Too personal for a blog entry. But I will try to detail what changed. I think, and this is just conjecture based on opinion based on random spasms of thought, I think that in order to write well you must have experienced some kind of pain or trauma. From there on out, every time you write you should be able to access that well of pain and trauma. This in order for the emotionality and presence of your characters to be authentic and clear, without the murkiness that overthinking or condescension can bring. <br />
<br />
What does that mean in laymen's terms? It means I have to reach deep into the pit of pain where I've buried all of my past misdeeds and heartbreak, so that when I detail the decaying relationship between Tory Cross and his brother my writing won't devolve into a series of arguments. Rather, tense moments will punctuate the superficial niceties that exist between all warring siblings. At least, that's what I feel is authentic. Comment, critique, suggest me about it in the comments below.<br />
<br />
Seems foolproof doesn't it? I don't have to be in a constant state of self-hate or self-pity, and I can still write well! But if I keep reaching into that wellspring where I've buried every harm done by and to me, won't I risk something? My soul, sanity, whatever? We've all seen it happen. How many authors kill themselves, or become dependent on some kind of drug? I'm not even talking about Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson. I'm talking about normal folks who get fed up with their lives, express it in writing, then let their brains fade away into oblivion. <br />
<br />
I don't want to be a vegetable! I have my whole life to live, and I'm generally a happy person! Or am I being a little too melodramatic? I mean come on, I'm 20 years old, how many traumatic experiences could I have? Right? Totally...anyways the book itself is supposed to be a mode of catharsis for me. I don't want it to bring me down. Hell, maybe this style of writing - reaching into the pit of past experiences to drudge up authentic emotions, may not actually bring me to my knees. <br />
<br />
I'm at the point where I don't want to self-analyze anymore. Being the son of a therapist has given quite a bit of intuition. I thank you everyday for that Mom. But power of psychoanalysis are meant only for Degrassi teenagers. I try my best to stay away from that. Who knows what this new tool for authenticity will do for me. Will it even work? I gotta go figure that out myself. Enough talking about it. Just do it.<br />
<br />
Look to your left. Maybe scroll up a little. Actually, scroll up to the top. Keep looking to your left. See the box labeled Pages? I've removed one of the Pages that was there before - List of Chapters - and replaced it with a new one: Links to Excerpts. The new Page is exactly what the title says it is. A link to all of the Excerpts I've posted on this blog from my current novel: <i>Dramatis Personae</i>. Please comment, critique, and suggest as you read the excerpts - if you read them - and don't be afraid of harsh criticism. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-10072079344253539262010-09-13T22:52:00.000-07:002010-09-13T22:52:40.795-07:00Burning with Desire Hello Reader! Did I post last week? I'm not sure either. Everything has been a whirlwind since I started training to become an RA. It's good though, I enjoy it. I've made incredible friends and forged a pretty solid working relationship with my co-RA. In case you don't know what an RA is, it's a resident assistant. I'm tasked with making sure a community of students on my floor doesn't hurt each other or themselves and has a great time during college. Seeing as how I live at the home of the Bruins, the floor I'm an RA of has 100 plus students. Gasp, I know. Anyways, it's been fun and I'm incredibly excited for the new year. <br />
<br />
To start things off right, I feel like I should post an excerpt from a piece I just wrote in the novel. I'm almost done finishing it off (i.e. being a perfectionist) and I want to share another moment with the mafia. Here, <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/p/character-list-for-dramatis-personae.html">Tory Cross</a> is meeting with <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/p/character-list-for-dramatis-personae.html">General Gakin</a> in an art museum. The two are discussing Tory's recent discovery of Gakin's betrayal, a business transaction gone wrong. As always comment, critique, suggest please. I hope it's up to snuff! Click the link below, the text is after the jump!<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote> Tory walked amongst the depictions of Howla brutality and Human gallantry with a glass of wine in his hand, sipping away absent-mindedly as the curator begged him not to break anything. Nodding slowly, Tory let his eyes wander to a statue of Prince William, scourge of the Howlas during their enslavement of mankind. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Where is Jack?” Tory asked the curator, interrupting him mid-plea. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Mr. Coraq? I’m not sure,” the curator tugged at his mustache, “I’ll go find him right away sir! But please, I’m begging you, these are antiques, relics, the slightest misstep and we could lose millions!”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory grimaced, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to hear you ramble on about your precious paintings any longer friend. Please find Jack.” The curator gulped and loosened his tie slightly. Beads of sweat flying down his forehead, the lithe old man sprinted down the hallway to find Jack Coraq the baker.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Now, I want all of you to set up a perimeter. Be a little obvious about it, make sure at least a few of you can be seen by the General as he moves in.” The bodyguards nodded quickly and went off, their black raincoats billowing behind them. Alone, Tory stood silently. Sipping his wine, he licked his lips and looked around him. Every white wall had been scuffed or trampled on by the rambunctious students, their vigor muddied and wanton. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Suddenly, harsh panting and running feet could be heard. Tory turned around to find Jack Coraq trying to catch his breath. The curator was looking at them from behind a wall decorated with deviant hand drawings of naked human women, what posed for art during the latter half of the 21<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">st</span></sup> century. “You didn’t have to run, Jack.” Tory brought the wine to his lips.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Wait!” Jack took the wine from Tory and sniffed it, “Gakin’s been known to poison people before. He could’ve laced this with something!” Still sniffing, Jack had the wine violently torn away from him. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Don’t ever touch my alcohol again Jack. I know how to take care of myself. This isn’t poisoned.” He waved his wands, “Why did Gakin want to meet me here?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Still panting, Jack shrugged. “I’m not sure Tory, I only came here to make sure he knows I’m neutral.” Jack stared at Tory, “To make sure you know that I’m neutral.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory’s lips parted, revealing jagged rows of teeth, a sorry excuse for a smile, “I know you’re neutral Jack, you must be. After all, you’re only a simple baker right?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Jack didn’t reply. He stood up and waited for General Gakin with Tory. Soon they could hear a voice calling out from the main entrance. Its booming baritone echoed along the hallway. “Tory Cross!” General Gakin then turned the corner and walked towards Tory, carrying one of his guards in his enormous hands. Tory didn’t even flinch.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “General, as always, it’s a pleasure to see you.” Tory looked at Gakin’s broad shoulders, scarred flesh and burn wounds not fully healed peeking past the faded brown fur. “Thank you for returning to me my personal affects.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Gakin tossed the limp body of the guard to Tory, then swung his cape around him. “Come here, I want to show you something.” His gruff voice, even at a whisper, reverberated throughout the hallway. He was tall and strong, a walking mountain of muscle. Despite his girth, he was still quick and nimble. He was vigilantly paranoid, dedicated to the art of quiet suspicion.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Is that why you asked that the meeting be held here?” Tory gave his cup to Jack and followed the General. Jack fumbled with the wine for a bit before quickly taking a sip and giving it to the cowering curator.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “I wanted to speak to you about that,” Gakin’s black eyes flared, “You already received your last shipment of guns for this quarter. Why did you even want to meet with me?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Because I know that was going to be my last shipment ever.” Tory stopped walking.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> General Gakin smiled and stopped to turn around. His cape was a dark shade of verdant, trimmed in a glossy black. He towered above Tory and made use of his height. Walking up to the mob boss, he imposingly stuck out his chest, “And how would you know that, young Tory?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “I know, because I found the papers you wrote to Howard. I know he’s paying you for the rest of whatever it is you have. I know you’re betraying our agreement for that old bastard.” Tory let his hand rest on the gun at his hip, his fingers tensed.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> General Gakin’s eyebrows raised, “That’s quite a feat you accomplished.” His eyes looked to Jack, who was very determined to clean his nails at that point. “I wonder, messenger, how he could have known this. Do you have any idea?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Jack shook his head vigorously, “General, he made me give him the papers. He saw Howard come to my store, it is not my fault!” He rushed over to Gakin and took the General’s hand, “I promise you I would never betray the Holy Prophet or his High Regent. I am only a humble servant!”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory rolled his eyes, “If you’re going to attempt to kill anyone General, let it be me. Jack is not your enemy.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Gakin shook off the groveling baker. Wiping his hands on his cape, Gakin turned back around. “I still want to show you something.” He began walking again, and Tory followed. His knees shaking too badly to move, Jack stayed where he was and furiously began to bite his nails.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Why are you betraying our agreement General?” Tory’s throaty growl did nothing to slow down Gakin. After several more attempts to get the General’s attention, Tory was finally silenced by the sculpture he saw before him.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> It was a limestone rendition of the Howlamega’s battle against the twenty-fourth Magna Beast, Aqusafia. “Why did you bring me here?” Tory asked.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “You have a lot of questions for a gangster,” Gakin walked around the sculpture, his eyes poring over its most minute details. Upon seeing Tory’s face, Gakin sneered, “Sorry, I mean Verokka. You have a lot of questions for a Verokka.” This did not make Tory happy.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Are you going to tell me why you brought me here or not General?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Yes I am, actually. I want you to look at this sculpture.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory shook his head, “No! I called this meeting, I was gracious enough to let you decide where we would have it. I demand answers, now!” Tory ripped his gun from its holster and held it at his side, ready to fire at Gakin.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> The General’s eyes lazily wandered down to Tory’s hand, “I wanted to remind you of what the Howlamega has done for you, young pup.” Gakin looked up at the furious battle-hardened face of the Howlamega, etched with an incredible eye for minutiae. Every hair had been defined, every scar given appropriate attention. “Do you remember the War? Did you fight in it?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “No,” Tory replied, his gun still at his side. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “If you had been there, if you could see the lengths to which our Prophet would go to save us, you would understand. This meeting, your anger, your jealousy, comes from ingratitude. You have been given this entire country to make your playground, to use our money for what you want. And now, when we ask of you to perform your duty as a Howla, you squirm.” In the blink of an eye Gakin was standing in front of Tory, looking down at him.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “We took the guns away from you, because you play with them as if they are toys. Because we know you only care about yourself and your pitiful Verokkas.” Gakin snarled, “Crim understands his place, his purpose. He did not break orders and attempt to kill the son of a government official.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “That was my nephew! My idiot nephew! Don’t blame me for a pup’s mistakes!” Tory shook his gun at Gakin, angrily trying to make himself taller. “Does the Howlamega know that the largest mafia in Atlantis is being cut out from the deal? Does he know?”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Gakin pushed Tory back, “Don’t mistake me pup for a simple slave. And do not pretend you give a damn what the Prophet says. No one is fooled by your acts of obedience. Once a wild dog, always a wild dog.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory had no answer, he merely made another loud, strained grunting sound. Frustration was mounting on his shoulders, burdening him. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “You don’t want to be treated like dirt?” Gakin braced Tory by the shoulders, “Then begin listening to orders, Tory.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory’s entire body was shaking with rage, “You dare touch me?” he roared at the General. He shoved Gakin’s hands away and pointed the gun at him.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> This was an offense the General would not tolerate. He quickly knocked the gun out of Tory’s hands and throttled him against a wall. Fighting to break the General’s grip, Tory lashed out, trying to scratch and claw at Gakin. “Stop!” Gakin slammed Tory into the wall again, bits of plaster raining down on him, “You arrogant fool. Harry said you were smart. He said you knew what you were doing. Don’t let your anger overcome your better judgment. I am the High Regent for a reason.” Gakin flung Tory to the ground. Tory rubbed his throat, scowling at the General. His black eyes were flaring, flames burning the edges of his temples.</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> “Use that anger for something productive Tory. Sit in this room. I said sit! Sit here and remember where you came from. The next time you think yourself so bold as to take on a General of the Howlamega, come more prepared.” Gakin snickered at Tory’s attempts to stand. He kicked the gun out of Tory’s grasping hands and left the room. “I will see you at our next meeting. Hopefully by then, you will have proven yourself worthy young pup.”</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> Tory sat there and stared at Gakin’s retreating figure. His hands were still rubbing his throat, the pain making his voice hoarse. He called out for Jack and the curator but no one came. No one came for Tory Cross. </blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><blockquote> So he sat alone, lifeless eyes gripping with reckless intensity the images of the Howlamega’s victories. Pastels of his greatest feats with the elements lined the walls, watercolors of his most daring adventures; even new-age interpretations of his abode in Territoria filled the room. Finally coming again to the limestone sculpture, Tory sighed. The ghosts of a king he had never seen or met had defeated him. He would comply. For now. </blockquote><br />
Until next time then.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-47333378695826879722010-08-31T22:26:00.000-07:002010-08-31T22:26:40.103-07:00Franzen & FantasyHello Reader! I recently began reading Jonathan Franzen's <u>The Corrections,</u> a 2001 novel that has been called by numerous critics and readers "the best novel of the millenium's first decade". Heavy stuff right? Definitely. The novel deals with consumer-driven America and a very broken, very dysfunctional family's attempt at having one last Christmas together. It gives the reader a rather cruel, incredibly stark, and unapologetically brutal depiction of this family's faults and worries, each imperfection clearly outlined without the slightest hint of empathy.<br />
<br />
Which doesn't make it bad. In fact, Franzen's objectivity in writing is masterful. Most other authors would feel the need to inject some sentimentality in order to lure the reader into a false sense of pity. Not Franzen. He relies only on his prose and the events of these characters' lives. And his writing is absolutely brilliant. Metaphors are created without relying on default images. He uses a Nordstrom bag filled with old letters to describe an old woman's paranoia and frailty. Details are thrown at the reader without hesitation, as if Franzen has a secret well full of them. It's amazing how much the guy has made up in his own head so his story will work.<br />
<br />
But I don't like the book. I just can't wrap my head around it. It's engaging, only because the writing is a river of discontent and malformed values that I can't help but follow. The events of the novel I could do without. I don't want to read about how a disgraced college professor fulfills his lust for a former student by masturbating on his comfy leather chaise, and in the next few paragraphs learn that that college professor's Parkinson's-rattled father is sitting on the same leather chaise eating hors d'oeuvre. <br />
<br />
It's level of detail is disgustingly magnified and, in a way, kind of arrogant. The entire writing style reminds me of a bemused parent watching over a struggling child, one of those kids who valiantly attempts to stuff the triangle piece in the circle hole. Franzen has stated before that the entire novel was a memorialization of the Midwest...but is that from the perspective of a guy who was educated at Swarthmore and lives on the Upper East Side of New York?<br />
<br />
His apparent arrogance aside, I think I'm just biased against books like this. There isn't really a redeeming factor about any of these characters. Even the father, who has dementia, is given the same brutal treatment. And while that does say something about the American character, I need heroes in my novels. Therein lies my beef with literary fiction.<br />
<br />
The subset of fiction has, in my ill-educated opinion, become a medium of retreat for the incredibly well-educated authors of America. For no better reason than "they can" are their books esoteric in nature and highly specialized for a specific group of people: those who have enough time in the day to read. These people don't have to work nine hour days then return to a hectic home where they must clean the house, their kids, make dinner or buy it, and then attempt to catch up on the extra work they've accumulated because they couldn't get it done at the office two hours away, three with traffic. <br />
<br />
No, the people that avidly read Franzen, or Foer or Chabon, come back from work with their house sparkling and their children tucked away. They read at night before they go to bed because they had been lounging beforehand and need a good way to ease into their dreams. Novels that they read are filled with the moans and groans of first world problems, setbacks self-inflicted and relationships devoured by our own greed for more. Most people aren't like that. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Another beef I've got with literary fiction is the emphasis on style and prose. Sure, I get it. The very reason why the genre is a subset of fiction is because of this emphasis and the prevalence of writers who participate. But if Jonathan Safran Foer is going to write a novel with random pictures of doorknobs strewn throughout and a 14-page flipbook at the end of it, and then sell it successfully, something has been sacrificed. If Franzen can get away with writing an entire half-page using only one sentence, he's lost a very important element of literature along the way.<br />
<br />
Critics allow these authors to get away with such murder. Why? Because what they do is cool, it's chic, it's new and vibrant and original and audacious and splendid and requires a lot of explanation in order for people to actually get it. Franzen is tolerable, only because his audacious/vibrant/new/original/cool/chic/splendid prose style is characterized only by writing very long sentences. Not that bad compared to Foer's <u>Everything Is Illuminated</u>, which was written in two voices: one by an incredibly literate Foer character who narrated the tale of a fictional magic-town, and the other voice by a Foer character who spoke in broken-English and narrated the straightforward adventures of finding aforementioned town. Sounds interesting right? Totes magotes dude.<br />
<br />
And people wonder why no one's reading books anymore. The idea may seem interesting. That doesn't mean you should do it. The idea would be better if there was substance behind the novel, if the story itself were worth the time. Often in literary fiction, the story is not worth it. <u>Everything Is Illuminated</u> is the tale of a guy looking to find the person who saved his grandfather during the Holocaust. I respect the tragedy of the Holocaust, and offer my deepest condolences to those who lost loved ones during that horrific time - as if my condolences mean anything. But let's be honest, the story is not original. It's been done before. It's nowhere near as original as the WAY in which Foer has written his novel. Franzen's novel about Midwestern values clashing with big city rules and the regulations of a society slowly going south are as old as those same big cities. He hasn't written a compelling story, he just writes about something compellingly. <br />
<br />
Hey Reza! Stop being an asshole, that's exactly what literary fiction is for! To allow authors the space to write incredibly well, without the baggage of plot. My response to that is: A) That's a stupid idea, and B) if that's the case, why is literary fiction given more prominence than commercial fiction? Because that's the essence of commercial fiction: <s>plot</s> story. <u>Lord of the Rings</u>, if Tolkien attempted to publish it today, wouldn't be published! It wouldn't be lauded or rewarded at all. It's too silly and straightforward, oh how naive of Tolkien to not experiment with his writing!<br />
<br />
Look at J.K. Rowling! Her masterful work (ok, yes, I get it, "he/she said" is used way too often, but that's minor) is an epic of fantastic proportions, engaging the reader in a whole world with real consequences and lessons to be learned! Yet critics, and those of the literary elite, bash her for being far beneath them. It shouldn't be Franzen as the greatest author of the new millenium's first decade. It should be Rowling! Her novels inspired <b><i><u>millions</u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"> of children to read, write, and entertain themselves using their imaginations alone. Her novels spoke about love and hope, pitting heroes against villains in an epic world created from her own mind. </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Franzen and his cohorts inhabit a world where story is second to prose. Where the very core of writing and fiction means less than its packaging. That is what angers me about literary fiction, and what draws me to fantasy or science fiction writing (read: commercial fiction in general). Stories are the very reason why we have novels. Stories are the oldest modes of communication, ancient mediums for relationships and struggles that each person can relate to on the deepest level. We see each other more clearly through stories than in any other way. Past racial divides and ethnic chasms, religious feuds and family wars, stories reach and speak to all of us. Check out <u>Zeitoun</u> by Dave Eggers. It isn't sci-fi or fantasy, it's commercial fiction. But it has an engaging story that draws you in, even if you don't readily relate to a Muslim family living in New Orleans around the time of Hurricane Katrina. Franzen and the literary elite shake off this ancient tradition of storytelling in honor of the <u>way</u> you tell a story. </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Commercial fiction isn't without its faults, nor is the world of fantasy/sci-fi literature unblemished. But I feel it's far better to tell stories, than write novels. These stories should matter, they should be important. I'm not going to remember anything about the final Christmas for Franzen's family. I'm just going to remember how indelibly he wrote that masturbation scene. I'm not going to care whether or not Foer's character finds the person who saved his grandfather. I'm going to be struggling with his prose, trying to understand the "brilliance" of it all. To me, and I believe to many others, the package doesn't matter that much - of course, I'm not going to read some really cool plot without having a decent writer behind it (Shyamalan, here's looking at you). Overall though, it's the story. The weight of what's going on around and between the characters, that matters.</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Admittedly, I have no problem with literary fiction or the people who write it. It's all very fun and endearing, an incredible journey through what people can do with syntax and structure. I just wish they'd stop saying it was better than everything else. Until next time then.</span></i></b>The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-851660722904532732010-08-23T23:47:00.000-07:002010-08-23T23:47:32.035-07:00An Ode to AnimeHello Reader! Last week I posted the third revision of my query letter. I'm going with it. Criticism has been lukewarm, and while I will take each critique into account I am going to use that summary for my letter. Hopefully, this next round of query letters will work better for me. Then again, I have to finish up the manuscript first. <br />
<br />
I've essentially reorganized my entire novel. Gone is the eleven chapter restriction - now it's been replaced by a twelve chapter restriction. Where before there wasn't a first or second act, now there are four. These four acts mirror the composition of <i>Volume 1</i>. There is an exposition, a rising action, a climax, and a denouement. I'm hoping my ever unsatisfied imagination will finally shut up after this manuscript because I dearly want to get back into the mode of selling my novel, rather than working on it. <br />
<br />
Anyways, I wanted to discuss something a friend of mine brought up in an email. I have a penchant for talking about set jaws. I do not disagree. I absolutely love the image of a set jaw in the face of adversity, of stoicism when fear would be the first emotion. And I get this image from anime. Every time an anime protagonist faces his foes, before the battle begins he clenches his jaw. Then, he rages into battle. It's an amazing image, a lasting one that's been burned into my brain.<br />
<br />
And I want that image for my characters. I've always considered <i>Volume 1: The Proxy Wars</i> as an ode to Japanese anime and film. The mafias I've included in the novel are yakuza style families, built on a rigid honor code that uses existing cultural mainstays in their own rules and regulations. The heroes keep their promises, even if that means doing completely ludicrous things in order to fulfill them.<br />
<br />
Another thing that strikes me about anime is the absolutely insane character development. Granted, the development isn't very deep. But almost every single character in the pantheon of characters in any anime gets a backstory. These backstories usually involve a traumatic event occurring, or a parent dying, or a village being burned. Nonetheless, they get a story! How often do you see that in Western television? LOST seems to be the only mainstream, popular TV show in recent memory to have attempted giving each character a backstory (Battlestar Galactica also did this, but mainstream it was not). LOST even one-upped anime, and gave each character a future story. Then in Season 6 the creators one-upped themselves and gave each character a sideways story!<br />
<br />
What I'm getting at is that I'm learning. I'm learning from shows like <a href="http://www.hulu.com/fullmetal-alchemist-brotherhood">Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood</a>, or <a href="http://www.webtvwire.com/watch-cowboy-bebop-online-season-1-full-episodes-video-streaming-torrent-search/">Cowboy Bebop</a>. Even LOST. No, no, I'm not trying to emulate the ludicrous plots and constant yelling. Or the unnecessary powering up that lasts a good three episodes. No, I'm talking about the deep stuff. Anime heroes stand for their principles, they never surrender them. Anime heroes confront, whether it's foolhardy or not, their enemies head-on. If they are going to hide, they hide in plain sight. And the friendships! Oh God, the friendships they develop over the course of a series! These things are the kind of friendships kids dream of, the kind of group where each person specializes in something and is appreciated for it.<br />
<br />
In the end though, I've always hewn close to realism. Or at least, as much realism as I can get when talking about a guy who can control the elements and has to fight a person called the Howlamega. Where can realism come from though, when I also hew close to anime stereotypes about stoicism and honor? <br />
<br />
By turning them on their head. Anime characters love making promises and doing anything in their power to keep them. In real life, people do the exact same thing. And often break these promises. Sure, I can have my characters approach every dangerous situation with a strong chin and set jaw. But each time they get punished for standing up and fighting, instead of running. Each time they protect, they are whittled down to their barest self and left to rot. That is real. Rewards are not often given for the courageous, the bold and mighty. In fact, rewards are so rarely given that falling into a prolonged lapse of hedonism would seem best for our heroes.<br />
<br />
And that's why they are our heroes. Because despite the realistic retribution for their actions, they persevere. They eschew all temptation and continue to keep their promises, protect their friends, and face their problems with a straight back and unwavering determination. That's high drama right there. That's entertaining. And most of all, it says something. Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-74296289143327778432010-08-16T18:36:00.000-07:002010-08-16T18:36:23.582-07:00Query Letter Week 3Hello Reader! The summer's been hot, so I've been staying inside reading and writing. I recently finished Dave Eggers' book <i>Zeitoun</i> which is a fascinating nonfiction account of a Muslim family's struggle to stay together despite the horrors of Hurricane Katrina. I just want to make a quick comment about the book before I begin the meat of the blog. <br />
<br />
It was really refreshing to read a normal story for once, one where there wasn't really a lofty purpose. A lot of the time I catch myself getting absorbed into stories that are grandiose, springboards for the author to comment on the human condition or some other hoity-toity subject. (Yes, I know that's what I want to do to, bear with me for a second). I liked reading a story with a normal family, dealing with circumstances that were indeed extraordinary, but not to the point where existentialist arguments about existence became the theme. I hope that in reading the next book on my to-do list (Jonathan Franzen's <i>The Corrections)</i> I'll be able to dilute some of the work of these two brilliant authors into my own. Creating a fantastical world grounded in realistic engagement between characters is my goal for this novel and the ones to come. Maybe I can learn from Eggers and Franzen how to do that properly.<br />
<br />
Now, onto the real reason I wrote this blogpost. Here's the consolidation of all of your suggestions and a few of my own revisions. I hope you guys like it, and as always please be frank and honest with your critiques. I always appreciate them, and they've been really constructive so far! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!<br />
<blockquote><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">On the island country of Atlantis, Prince Briok Cwartel is born into an era of uneasy peace. With an absent father and a mother possessed of an iron-will, Briok grows to become petulant, brave, and ambitious. Then, on the day of his father’s funeral, the immortal Amar tells him that he is the final Magna Beast, heir to the throne of the alien Mags.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Quickly educated on the holy wars between the righteous Mags and genocidal Howlas, Briok is tasked with killing the Howlamega, savage leader of the Howlas and murderer of Briok’s father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of his young age Briok’s quest does not take him far from Atlantis’ clear azure shores, forcing him to deal with the dual pressures of history assignments and Lara Heken’s sweet smile while training for premeditated violence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Standing in the way of his success is a growing mafia civil war, led by the arrogant Tory Cross.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Power-hungry and grief-stricken at the deaths of his brother and nephew, Tory uses newfound technology to threaten Atlantis’ well-ordered society and Briok's life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the mafia on one side and Briok’s petulant nature on the other, Amar decides to enact a desperate battleplan that blurs the line between good and evil – and just may let him die.</div></blockquote><br />
Until next time then.The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-29229250511582468182010-08-09T16:53:00.000-07:002010-08-12T01:42:52.645-07:00Query Letter Week 2Hello Reader! I'm going to continue from last week in posting possible query letters for all of you to critique! After getting a few comments back (thanks so much!) I've adjusted my query letter accordingly, and even came up with a completely different one. Try all three on for size, and tell me what you think! If you would like to go back and see the other query letters, <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2010/04/revelationsnot-really.html">please</a> <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2009/09/runaway.html">click</a> <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2009/08/3-days-later.html">here</a>. You can also view last week's post <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2010/08/todays-my-40th.html">here</a>. Enjoy! Please comment, critique and suggest!<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Query 1:</span></b><br />
<blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">On the island country of Atlantis, Prince Briok Adam Cwornas Cwartel is born into an era of uneasy peace. With an absent father and a mother possessed of an iron-will, Briok grows to become petulant, brave, and ambitious. Then on the day of his father’s funeral the immortal Amar tells him that he is the final Magna Beast, heir to the throne of Mags and Prophet to an alien people. With new rumblings in the perpetual war between Mags and Howlas, Amar must quickly train his young charge to murder the enemy before the reaper shows its face.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><break><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Standing in the way is a growing mafia civil war, led by the arrogant Tory Cross against his former mentor Howard Crim. Blaming Howard for the deaths of his brother and nephew, Tory uses newfound technology to conquer his enemies. His mad rage threatens to bring down the well-ordered society of Atlantis Amar helped create. In order to keep Briok safe Amar enacts a dangerous battleplan that blurs the line between what is right and what is wrong.<o:p></o:p></div></blockquote><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Query 2:</span></b><br />
<blockquote>On the day of his father's funeral, Briok Cwartel learns that he is the final heir to the throne of the Mags--one of two races that invaded the planet Earth over a millennium ago. Along with the title of Magna Beast, he is tasked with the murder of the King of Howlas, the Howlamega. Only a young man at the birth of his journey, Briok's life is threatened by a growing mafia civil war. Led by the arrogant Tory Cross against his former mentor Howard Crim, the war not only could kill Briok, but also bring down the well-ordered society of Atlantis.</blockquote><blockquote>Possessed with a desperate need to die, the immortal Amar is mentor to the half-human, half-Mag Briok's as he becomes the Magna Beast following his father's death. With Tory's rage over the death of his both his brother and his nephew threatening to destroy everything, Amar enacts a battle plan that blurs the line between good and evil.</blockquote><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Query 3: </span></b><br />
<blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">It is the year 3096, and the scene is Atlantis’ clear azure shore. Fourteen-year-old Briok Cwartel is running from the wanton brutality of the Howla mafia, screaming for help. Refuge arrives in the form of Eli the Mad, a Mag warrior gifted in the art of murder. His skill and brutality save Briok from the yawning maw of death. Taken to safety, Prince Briok Adam Cwornas Cwartel is told by his dead father’s advisor, the immortal Amar, that he is the Magna Beast, King of the alien Mags and Prophet to their people.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Quickly educated on the holy wars of the Mags and Howlas, Briok is told that he must confront and kill the Howlamega, savage leader of the Howlas and murderer of Briok’s father. His quest does not take him far however, forcing him to deal with the dual pressures of history essays and Lara Heken’s grey eyes while training for premeditated violence. Along the way Briok’s life, and that of Atlantis’ well-ordered society, is threatened by a growing and violent mafia civil war. With the mafia on one side and Briok’s petulant nature on the other, Amar decides to enact a battleplan that blurs the line between good and evil – and just may let him die.</div></blockquote><br />
There they are! Again, please tell me if they grab your interest. Or do they just sound too ridiculous? <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anis-shivani/the-15-most-overrated-con_b_672974.html#s123773">Also, let me leave you with this link</a>. It's an article from the Daily Beast which outlines the 15 most underrated authors of today. I'll post about it next week, but please tell me what you think! Until next time then!The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33140642.post-65774002907673227792010-08-03T01:27:00.000-07:002010-08-03T01:27:16.677-07:00Today's My 40thHello Reader! Today's the 40th blogpost! My absolute sincerest gratitude goes out to anyone and everyone who's reading this. Honestly. It's really really incredibly...gah, I'll say it <u>fulfilling</u> to know there are people who actually dig what I have to say. I'm not one to linger on sappy emotions, so let's get right into the post.<br />
<br />
I've posted my query letter <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2010/04/revelationsnot-really.html">three</a> <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2009/09/runaway.html">times</a> <a href="http://themagnabeast.blogspot.com/2009/08/3-days-later.html">before</a> now, each time with slight modifications. I hope this one I post will be better! Please comment, critique, and suggest in the comments section below (or in an email if you feel the need). I appreciate any and all feedback, but especially negative feedback. That's the only way you can grow right? Maybe, or I'm just masochistic. We'll see.<br />
<br />
Anyways, here it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><blockquote>In the year 2015, the Mags and the Howlas brought their unending holy war to the planet Earth in a blaze of fire. A millennium later and Briok Cwartel is born into an era of uneasy peace as final heir to the throne of Mags - the last Magna Beast. The immortal Amar, possessed with a desperate need to die, guides Briok’s journey as half-human, half-Mag after his father’s death. With new rumblings in the perpetual war between Mags and Howlas, Amar must train Briok to kill the enemy before the reaper shows its face.</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><blockquote><br />
</blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal"><blockquote>Standing in the way is an enormous mafia civil war, led by the arrogant Tory Cross against his former mentor Howard Crim. After the death of his brother and nephew Tory uses his position as “largest Howlian boss east of Atlantia” to bring fire upon Howard’s doorstep. His mad rage threatens to kill Briok at the birth of his journey, and bring down the well-ordered society of Atlantis. With a host of enemies bearing down upon him, Amar enacts a battleplan that could prove to be his ruin, and his salvation.</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><blockquote><br />
</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><blockquote>My debut novel The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personaeis a blend of science-fiction fantasy and at 102,000 words mixes world building with raw emotion to paint the portrait of a realistic future.</blockquote><br />
Again, please comment, critique, and suggest! Does this delineation of the plot grab your interest? Does it excite you for what's to come? Or does it bog you down with too much information? Do the events throw you off and strike you as silly? I look forward to your comments! Until next time then.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div></div></div>The Magna Beasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02032919264437461525noreply@blogger.com4