Hello Reader! I recently began reading Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, 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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
An Ode to Anime
Hello 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.
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 Volume 1. 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.
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.
And I want that image for my characters. I've always considered Volume 1: The Proxy Wars 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.
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!
What I'm getting at is that I'm learning. I'm learning from shows like Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, or Cowboy Bebop. 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.
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?
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.
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.
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 Volume 1. 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.
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.
And I want that image for my characters. I've always considered Volume 1: The Proxy Wars 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.
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!
What I'm getting at is that I'm learning. I'm learning from shows like Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, or Cowboy Bebop. 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.
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?
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.
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.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Query Letter Week 3
Hello Reader! The summer's been hot, so I've been staying inside reading and writing. I recently finished Dave Eggers' book Zeitoun 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.
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 The Corrections) 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.
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!
Until next time then.
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 The Corrections) 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.
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!
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.
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. 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.
Standing in the way of his success is a growing mafia civil war, led by the arrogant Tory Cross. 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. 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.
Until next time then.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Query Letter Week 2
Hello 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, please click here. You can also view last week's post here. Enjoy! Please comment, critique and suggest!
Query 1:
Query 2:
Query 3:
There they are! Again, please tell me if they grab your interest. Or do they just sound too ridiculous? Also, let me leave you with this link. 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!
Query 1:
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.
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.
Query 2:
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.
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.
Query 3:
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.
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.
There they are! Again, please tell me if they grab your interest. Or do they just sound too ridiculous? Also, let me leave you with this link. 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!
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Today's My 40th
Hello 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 fulfilling 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.
I've posted my query letter three times before 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.
Anyways, here it is.
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.
I've posted my query letter three times before 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.
Anyways, here it is.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Smells Like Regret
Hello Reader! As you know, I'm prone to writing these blogs in response to a movie, book, or tv show that has recently inspired me. Seeing as how Inception is just such an inspiration, on a scale whose magnitude I cannot readily comprehend, one would think I would immediately blog my heart out about it. I won't however, keeping in character as the contrarian I pathetically try to be.
What I'm going to write about today is regret. It's such a powerfulemotion state of being that is incorporated in almost every hero's tale. Why though? Why is regret such a necessary part of a hero's character? From Odysseus on up to Batman regret can drive, haunt, stop and burden the heroes we want to see as stoic paragons. There is an ethereal (I use that word deliberately) attraction we, as the audience, have to heroes filled with regret.
You could blame this all on the Judeo-Christian philosophy of original sin. That would be easy, and because the idea is so widespread we've got a blanket reasoning behind the ubiquity. But that's not good enough. Where's the explanation then for Odysseus, or Oedipus, for Achilles, for the Shanahmeh? Western literature may be rife with heroes who run towards martyrdom with regret biting at their heels because Adam screwed up at the beginning. But before that? The explanation thus requires further delving in order for it to be discovered.
But where else can you delve? We've got no references, and saying that a cultural story about some mistake at the beginning of time is merely an anachronistic euphemism for original sin. Basically, there's nowhere to go but down - into the human soul.
We as human beings have a deep yearning for drama. Not because we're all queens looking to screw each other over. Get General Hospital out of your head. No, it's because we seek to give purpose to our lives. We seek to fulfill that purpose, and via that fulfillment we will have given our own answer to why we are here. The need for drama is a method through which we fulfill our own, self-determined purposes. Regret then is a marker, a clear indicator that you tried. You did your damnedest and made your decisions in an attempt to fulfill your personal legend - yes, I just finished reading Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist.
Having regret is not the only indicator that one tried to fulfill his/her purpose. But it is the strongest, because it also meant that you failed at achievement. You reached, and you fell. As a marker of progress, regret is paradoxical then. It is both a reason to exalt and a reason to console, a sign that you made choices and decisions few have the courage to make - but you just couldn't follow through and get the goal. Does this, the sign post nature of regret, explain why we love it in our heroes?
To a degree, yes. But a deeper facet remains, and I've gotta let it out. We, as human beings, like to see people rise above our base nature. And we equally adore seeing them fall back down. It's a reflection of our own dualism, and heroes with regret are those men and women who travel between the twin realms of triumph and failure. We see them rise, because they've made choices we could never hope to make. And then when they fall we love them more, because we see that, in fact, they truly are human.
What does this mean though? Can a hero only be filled with regret, never grasping onto true success? No, absolutely not. Regret is not the absence of succes. Achilles achieved fame beyond recognition or legend to become myth, an honor reserved only for Gods. He got his success. But at a price. The woman he loved was but an ephemeral memory, a transient who filled his vision for but a second before Paris struck him down. Did he, as a man, regret not living a life with this woman? Yes. And that is what regret is, at its most basic core without accoutrements or extra adornments. It is the absence of perfection, gained through the courageous pursuit of purpose and fulfillment.
Which is why we love our heroes to have regret. Their pain means more than just a good story. It means they fought, and bit, and gnawed, and scrambled their way through Hellfire and all its friends to get to rapture. They represent the best of us when they have regret, and the worst of us at the same time. There's a reason why Narcissus is a legend: human beings love looking in the mirror. What we find enraptures our considerable mental faculty, fascinates our imagination. Heroes with regret are our most potent reflections, emblazoned in crystalline form without impurity. They have tried, and they have failed, and then they tried again. We love them, adore them, cherish them. Because at the end of the day, when all has been said and done, these reminders of what we can become and what we are paint beauty upon this dry canvas. God (swt), how I hope Briok can be a hero. Until next time then.
What I'm going to write about today is regret. It's such a powerful
You could blame this all on the Judeo-Christian philosophy of original sin. That would be easy, and because the idea is so widespread we've got a blanket reasoning behind the ubiquity. But that's not good enough. Where's the explanation then for Odysseus, or Oedipus, for Achilles, for the Shanahmeh? Western literature may be rife with heroes who run towards martyrdom with regret biting at their heels because Adam screwed up at the beginning. But before that? The explanation thus requires further delving in order for it to be discovered.
But where else can you delve? We've got no references, and saying that a cultural story about some mistake at the beginning of time is merely an anachronistic euphemism for original sin. Basically, there's nowhere to go but down - into the human soul.
We as human beings have a deep yearning for drama. Not because we're all queens looking to screw each other over. Get General Hospital out of your head. No, it's because we seek to give purpose to our lives. We seek to fulfill that purpose, and via that fulfillment we will have given our own answer to why we are here. The need for drama is a method through which we fulfill our own, self-determined purposes. Regret then is a marker, a clear indicator that you tried. You did your damnedest and made your decisions in an attempt to fulfill your personal legend - yes, I just finished reading Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist.
Having regret is not the only indicator that one tried to fulfill his/her purpose. But it is the strongest, because it also meant that you failed at achievement. You reached, and you fell. As a marker of progress, regret is paradoxical then. It is both a reason to exalt and a reason to console, a sign that you made choices and decisions few have the courage to make - but you just couldn't follow through and get the goal. Does this, the sign post nature of regret, explain why we love it in our heroes?
To a degree, yes. But a deeper facet remains, and I've gotta let it out. We, as human beings, like to see people rise above our base nature. And we equally adore seeing them fall back down. It's a reflection of our own dualism, and heroes with regret are those men and women who travel between the twin realms of triumph and failure. We see them rise, because they've made choices we could never hope to make. And then when they fall we love them more, because we see that, in fact, they truly are human.
What does this mean though? Can a hero only be filled with regret, never grasping onto true success? No, absolutely not. Regret is not the absence of succes. Achilles achieved fame beyond recognition or legend to become myth, an honor reserved only for Gods. He got his success. But at a price. The woman he loved was but an ephemeral memory, a transient who filled his vision for but a second before Paris struck him down. Did he, as a man, regret not living a life with this woman? Yes. And that is what regret is, at its most basic core without accoutrements or extra adornments. It is the absence of perfection, gained through the courageous pursuit of purpose and fulfillment.
Which is why we love our heroes to have regret. Their pain means more than just a good story. It means they fought, and bit, and gnawed, and scrambled their way through Hellfire and all its friends to get to rapture. They represent the best of us when they have regret, and the worst of us at the same time. There's a reason why Narcissus is a legend: human beings love looking in the mirror. What we find enraptures our considerable mental faculty, fascinates our imagination. Heroes with regret are our most potent reflections, emblazoned in crystalline form without impurity. They have tried, and they have failed, and then they tried again. We love them, adore them, cherish them. Because at the end of the day, when all has been said and done, these reminders of what we can become and what we are paint beauty upon this dry canvas. God (swt), how I hope Briok can be a hero. Until next time then.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
How The Last Airbender Has Inspired Me
Hello Reader. Yes, it's a weird title to have. Especially since The Last Airbender received a dismal 8% so far on Rotten Tomatoes, and a ridiculously low 20 score on Metacritic. But M. Night Shyamalan's absolute, aberrant, atrocious movie has reignited in me a rage I thought was long since dormant. And I think that is what has spurred on my lethargy.
This lethargy I'm referring to is the one that has plagued my novel for a long, long time. Yes, I've been working on it. Sporadically. But that's not good enough for someone who has high hopes, grand dreams. I stumbled upon this article, which outlines six ways a writer can become organized. The second hint towards an organized lifestyle is focus. I don't have that.
This is due in part to many factors, most of which are legitimate. The primary one is schooling. I'm trying to get an education in a field that is distinctly NOT artistic or literary. It's a hard task I've set myself. So it draws my attention away from writing. Nonetheless, I could still find time to write. And I don't.
I don't have focus. Plain and simple. And everything I've tried to give me focus - from turning off Kanye West and his cohorts, to downloading Internet-killing apps - has failed utterly. Save for my rage. Now, as you may or may not know by now, I've got another blog. It's about Islam, which is the religion I ascribe to. I'm a religious man, so I've done my best to educate myself. What I know is but a drop in the ocean of thought. Yet I believe firmly that this drop can cause ripples with great effect, forming tsunamis that can bring my beliefs and opinions in an enlightened way to others. I fight for this, madly like a dog. And this is because of my rage.
I have an immense amount of anger towards Muslims and the West for just plain screwing things up, ALL THE TIME. This anger and rage is directed and funneled through my words and into, hopefully, action through the blog. Both fuels focus me, hone me and drive me forward with unbridled passion.
I've lost a lot of that in my writing, in my depiction of Briok's life and legend. I don't have that fire anymore, that absolute passion to publish and let my written word be read by all that care. It's dissipated into passivity, relaxed and kneaded into submission to a fate of perpetual unpublished editing. The Last Airbender is slowly changing that.
I am so damn angry that a beautiful show, not cartoon, could have been so utterly messed up by a man who was once great. Now he's an arrogant prick, happy to chalk up his failures to "different accents". I've been begging Hollywood from afar to not screw up any more of what I find just plain awesome. But they continue to drop the ball, roll around in the mud, and expect me to pay 13 dollars for their feces. No longer!
And this is where the whole rage part comes in. Shyamalan has given me that focus, that passion, that fire behind my back propelling me forward. His failure, well I want to turn it into my success. Thus, I've begun writing an Airbender script. I have no clue how to do it, but my focus is taut. My anger is still burning from within, its outward spell casting a light upon whatever work I take upon. And hopefully this light will guide me towards some semblance of quality.
Most importantly though, I think this speaks to the irascible side of me. Which isn't necessarily a good thing. Actually, having a temper is never a good thing. But I am starting a concerted effort to stop lying to myself. So, yes, I do have a temper. And that fire that always keeps me hot, that bull I try to keep chained, has been let loose upon my fellow Muslims. It's what keeps me focused, what keeps my eyes on the goal of helping to change my people. This same fervor needs an outlet. It needs a funnel through which I can release. Finally, that funnel has been found for my writing. Thanks Shyamalan for being such a colossal screw up. The friendly neighborhood Afghan is coming after your legacy. I'm going to rip it apart, and leave in place a collective effort shining with quality. Because I know the secret to success: collaboration, you arrogant prick.
But most of all? Thanks for giving my hot ire, that rests in my soul all hours of the day and night, another place to fan its smoldering coal. Briok, you will be written. Your legend will be told. Until Next Time Then.
This lethargy I'm referring to is the one that has plagued my novel for a long, long time. Yes, I've been working on it. Sporadically. But that's not good enough for someone who has high hopes, grand dreams. I stumbled upon this article, which outlines six ways a writer can become organized. The second hint towards an organized lifestyle is focus. I don't have that.
This is due in part to many factors, most of which are legitimate. The primary one is schooling. I'm trying to get an education in a field that is distinctly NOT artistic or literary. It's a hard task I've set myself. So it draws my attention away from writing. Nonetheless, I could still find time to write. And I don't.
I don't have focus. Plain and simple. And everything I've tried to give me focus - from turning off Kanye West and his cohorts, to downloading Internet-killing apps - has failed utterly. Save for my rage. Now, as you may or may not know by now, I've got another blog. It's about Islam, which is the religion I ascribe to. I'm a religious man, so I've done my best to educate myself. What I know is but a drop in the ocean of thought. Yet I believe firmly that this drop can cause ripples with great effect, forming tsunamis that can bring my beliefs and opinions in an enlightened way to others. I fight for this, madly like a dog. And this is because of my rage.
I have an immense amount of anger towards Muslims and the West for just plain screwing things up, ALL THE TIME. This anger and rage is directed and funneled through my words and into, hopefully, action through the blog. Both fuels focus me, hone me and drive me forward with unbridled passion.
I've lost a lot of that in my writing, in my depiction of Briok's life and legend. I don't have that fire anymore, that absolute passion to publish and let my written word be read by all that care. It's dissipated into passivity, relaxed and kneaded into submission to a fate of perpetual unpublished editing. The Last Airbender is slowly changing that.
I am so damn angry that a beautiful show, not cartoon, could have been so utterly messed up by a man who was once great. Now he's an arrogant prick, happy to chalk up his failures to "different accents". I've been begging Hollywood from afar to not screw up any more of what I find just plain awesome. But they continue to drop the ball, roll around in the mud, and expect me to pay 13 dollars for their feces. No longer!
And this is where the whole rage part comes in. Shyamalan has given me that focus, that passion, that fire behind my back propelling me forward. His failure, well I want to turn it into my success. Thus, I've begun writing an Airbender script. I have no clue how to do it, but my focus is taut. My anger is still burning from within, its outward spell casting a light upon whatever work I take upon. And hopefully this light will guide me towards some semblance of quality.
Most importantly though, I think this speaks to the irascible side of me. Which isn't necessarily a good thing. Actually, having a temper is never a good thing. But I am starting a concerted effort to stop lying to myself. So, yes, I do have a temper. And that fire that always keeps me hot, that bull I try to keep chained, has been let loose upon my fellow Muslims. It's what keeps me focused, what keeps my eyes on the goal of helping to change my people. This same fervor needs an outlet. It needs a funnel through which I can release. Finally, that funnel has been found for my writing. Thanks Shyamalan for being such a colossal screw up. The friendly neighborhood Afghan is coming after your legacy. I'm going to rip it apart, and leave in place a collective effort shining with quality. Because I know the secret to success: collaboration, you arrogant prick.
But most of all? Thanks for giving my hot ire, that rests in my soul all hours of the day and night, another place to fan its smoldering coal. Briok, you will be written. Your legend will be told. Until Next Time Then.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Weary Summer Days
Hello Reader! I'm hoping today finds you well. I really have nothing to talk about today, seeing as how my writing is on the backburner while I raze myself over my summer school schedule. Hellish chemistry labs, work schedule, and statistics labs that keep me up from nigh dawn till nigh dusk. And then some, considering the amount of homework piling upon my shoulders.
Anyways, this post isn't to rant or rave. It's to say thanks for paying attention to this, the legend of a work in progress. After six years, four years I'm rewriting the book again and hopefully it will turn out better this time. Better enough to launch a publishing career? Let's hope so. I digress however. Thank you and please, as always, comment, critique, suggest. Until next time then.
Anyways, this post isn't to rant or rave. It's to say thanks for paying attention to this, the legend of a work in progress. After six years, four years I'm rewriting the book again and hopefully it will turn out better this time. Better enough to launch a publishing career? Let's hope so. I digress however. Thank you and please, as always, comment, critique, suggest. Until next time then.
Monday, June 21, 2010
I'm Back
Hello Reader! Sorry I’ve been out for so long, Blogger and I were having a tussle and it took me a while longer than I thought it would to win. Anyways, I should update everyone on the status of my contest participation. The Shirley Collier Prize people have not contacted me, and June 4th was the day to do so. I’m hoping against hope that this lack of response is due to the fact that I am not a Humanities major, which was one of the requirements to participate.
Or it could be that my manuscript wasn’t up to par, which it wasn’t. One hour before the deadline I found that a portion of a chapter had actually been spliced to another chapter when I was still editing the manuscript. I was shocked and scared out of my mind. Without that portion, the chapter was short and meaningless. So instead of doing my best to fill in something within the next hour, I panicked, deleted the paragraph I had written while editing, and submitted.
Plus, I’ve found a glaring inequity in my story overall. The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae is one of four books in a volume. But it’s not being released at the same time as the other books. Thus, it is absolutely imperative that the novel stands on its own as a story with a singular theme and plot. Dramatis Personae does not. It has a theme, definitely. But its plot does not support the theme, because there isn’t a standalone conflict. Dramatis Personae serves as the introduction to every character I will use in the first volume of the story. And it only does that.
For there to be a plot, the novel requires a problem introduced near the beginning of the story. And by the end of the novel, this problem needs to be solved. I have allowed my characters to run around and solve every problem presented to them “off-stage”. I only depict the consequences of their actions, which leaves me a few meager settings to set my action, long conversations, and brutal scenes of exposition. By brutal, I mean infodump.
While this is all fine to have, without action happening in between I am left with a tome of philosophy rather than an engaging page-turner. At least, that’s what I feel. To alleviate this problem, I’m going back to Book 1: Dramatis Personae and revamping every chapter one by one. It’s going to take longer than I want, but I need to do this. I understand that as an author, I will never truly be satisfied with my work. I understand that this perfectionism could work against me. But if I can achieve this feat within the year, I promise I will not touch the novel until I have found an agent. The fact that I have spent six years on this novel without making any inroads with the industry both confuses and saddens me. Of course, I will only enter the business of publishing until my manuscript is absolutely ready. But to get it that ready, I have to give my theme a plot.
Onto other news, I’ve begun ideas for short stories that I want to submit to various contests and literary magazines. Yes, they will stick to the same genre – science fiction – but I am not going to shoot for the epic space opera that I want The Proxy Wars to be. I’m not going to write about what my ideas are, mainly because they’re just ideas. At any point in time they could change and morph into something else. But I'm hoping I'll be able to finish them before the summer and have them published in a magazine, or submitted to a contest. Bakhayr, we'll see. Until next time then.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Muses
Hello Reader! This week, I'm going on a Supernatural binge. Both on this blog AND my other blog. Yes, I have two blogs. Supernatural is a television show on the CW that has been going on for five years now. Count that, FIVE years. Yes many of you will say: it's just two pretty boy, white-trash brothers gallivanting across America trying to kill a couple boogeymen. And it kind of is just that. Except the show has humor, cleverness, is self-referential without being preachy, and a beyond stellar recurring theme: free will is great, but it also has its consequences.
But the one thing that Supernatural does that I'm most in awe with is make the surreal wholly bland, and the bland a part of elegant drama, possessing a beauty wholly ethereal. There's a good reason why I say this. Take for example the episode "Hammer of the Gods" just this past season. Despite its clunky mythology surrounding Odin, Shiva, etc. the show managed to do something brilliant: explain why humans are better than angels. Without being cliche, melodramatic, or preachy in any way!
Forgive me for the bad quality. On the left is Gabriel, on the right is Lucifer. They're brothers and they're discussing how Dad, i.e. God (swt), loves Humans more than Angels. And how God is right. "Damn right they're flawed," Gabriel says, "But a lot of them try...and you should see the Spearmint Rhino!" How beautiful is that? That reference to the strip club is brilliant, underplaying the soft sad music hitting us over the head in the background. And it balances the dark theme with an airy tone that alleviates some of the tension.
Am I getting ahead of myself in describing this show? Absolutely. It's a popular, mainstream TV show on the CW. THE CW! Home to such scions of civilization as Smallville, Gossip Girl, and The Vampire Diaries. Yet somehow, despite the trappings of popularity that shackle it, Supernatural soars above everything else on the boobtube. The last episode wasn't incredible just because it asks the audience what the nature of God (swt) is and never answers the question. The season finale was frikkin' awesome mainly because the goofiness that makes the show unique remained intact. It carried the finale away from the apoplectic storyline to a place of common humanity that we could all relate to. Case in point: an Angel calls an Archangel an assbutt.
Why is this important to me though? Why is this goofiness so crucial that I'm dedicating both of my blogs to this one television show? Because I want to write Supernatural. I want to so badly depict surreal situations populated with real characters whose flaws make them who they are, and have far running consequences. Is that too much to ask? I do not think so.
In fact, I think it's what every science fiction novel should strive for. You can read my rant about science fiction here, but in general there are so many problems with the way the genre has been written over the past fifty years I can't just relegate them all to one post. So I didn't, and a little bit of my ire has leaked into this post. Speaking in a blanket manner, science fiction has become more a contest of who can create better, more scientifically accurate worlds than the other. Authors have pried themselves away from what makes any and all stories good: the humanity of it all.
Flaws are rich pools for diversity to be created and maintained, for plots to develop and push forward, and for characters to interact with each other in both heartbreaking and uplifting ways. Take those flaws away from us humans, and we're just like the angels:
Following destiny like dogs, never forgiving, never learning. We all know that isn't human. We all know that doesn't make for a very compelling story. And that's the kicker: I'm still astonished that a show I started watching just last November has taught and inspired me so much in terms of my writing. Both Supernatural and Battlestar Galactica are huge influences on me (more on Battlestar next week). But what Supernatural does, and what Battlestar sometimes didn't, was give weight to each character through their flaws. Dean Winchester confronts Satan, pictured above, and Michael, the one Archangel powerful enough to kick Beelzebub's ass, while playing "Rock of Ages" by Def Leppard. Goofy? Stupid? Reckless? Unnecessary? No, none of those. That's Dean Winchester.
I want people to say that about my characters, about my story. Briok just broke out into a fit of rage because someone yelled at him? Was that childish? Overdramatic? Unnecessary? No, that was Briok being Briok. Can I get there? Bakhayr, maybe. Even if I don't though, I'd still be happy with myself. Because I tried my very best to emulate a show like Supernatural, to paint a portrait of humans fighting aliens without pretension and heavy-handedness. To tell a story, pure and simple. Until next time then.
But the one thing that Supernatural does that I'm most in awe with is make the surreal wholly bland, and the bland a part of elegant drama, possessing a beauty wholly ethereal. There's a good reason why I say this. Take for example the episode "Hammer of the Gods" just this past season. Despite its clunky mythology surrounding Odin, Shiva, etc. the show managed to do something brilliant: explain why humans are better than angels. Without being cliche, melodramatic, or preachy in any way!
Forgive me for the bad quality. On the left is Gabriel, on the right is Lucifer. They're brothers and they're discussing how Dad, i.e. God (swt), loves Humans more than Angels. And how God is right. "Damn right they're flawed," Gabriel says, "But a lot of them try...and you should see the Spearmint Rhino!" How beautiful is that? That reference to the strip club is brilliant, underplaying the soft sad music hitting us over the head in the background. And it balances the dark theme with an airy tone that alleviates some of the tension.
Am I getting ahead of myself in describing this show? Absolutely. It's a popular, mainstream TV show on the CW. THE CW! Home to such scions of civilization as Smallville, Gossip Girl, and The Vampire Diaries. Yet somehow, despite the trappings of popularity that shackle it, Supernatural soars above everything else on the boobtube. The last episode wasn't incredible just because it asks the audience what the nature of God (swt) is and never answers the question. The season finale was frikkin' awesome mainly because the goofiness that makes the show unique remained intact. It carried the finale away from the apoplectic storyline to a place of common humanity that we could all relate to. Case in point: an Angel calls an Archangel an assbutt.
Why is this important to me though? Why is this goofiness so crucial that I'm dedicating both of my blogs to this one television show? Because I want to write Supernatural. I want to so badly depict surreal situations populated with real characters whose flaws make them who they are, and have far running consequences. Is that too much to ask? I do not think so.
In fact, I think it's what every science fiction novel should strive for. You can read my rant about science fiction here, but in general there are so many problems with the way the genre has been written over the past fifty years I can't just relegate them all to one post. So I didn't, and a little bit of my ire has leaked into this post. Speaking in a blanket manner, science fiction has become more a contest of who can create better, more scientifically accurate worlds than the other. Authors have pried themselves away from what makes any and all stories good: the humanity of it all.
Flaws are rich pools for diversity to be created and maintained, for plots to develop and push forward, and for characters to interact with each other in both heartbreaking and uplifting ways. Take those flaws away from us humans, and we're just like the angels:
I want people to say that about my characters, about my story. Briok just broke out into a fit of rage because someone yelled at him? Was that childish? Overdramatic? Unnecessary? No, that was Briok being Briok. Can I get there? Bakhayr, maybe. Even if I don't though, I'd still be happy with myself. Because I tried my very best to emulate a show like Supernatural, to paint a portrait of humans fighting aliens without pretension and heavy-handedness. To tell a story, pure and simple. Until next time then.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Science Fiction
Hello Reader! Today I'm going to go on a rant. Be prepared.
I'm incredibly mad at io9.com. Yes, it is a science fiction blog and thus may have a little bit more authority on what is and isn't science fiction. But why is it that when a science fiction show decides to cross boundaries and morph genres, it is lambasted by the science fiction acolytes that once salivated over it like dogs? Is it a classic case of the servant ruling the master? Or is it just plain hubris on the part of science fiction writers and readers?
It could be both, but seeing as how I'm in the mood to rant I'm going to have to say it's the latter. Science fiction does not and cannot box itself in, deliberately trying to restrict itself to the conventions of technology. For if there ever was a time when religion is prevalent in society, it is now. And all good art is a reflection of the time in which it was created. Right? I like to think so.
Anyways, I do not think that tossing religion into science fiction is heresy. Rather, I think religion can strengthen a science fiction novel, tv show, movie. It presents a dichotomy between that which can be explained, and that which cannot. For those shows that are good, I mean. For those shows that are great, science and religion intertwine to create a mishmash of the explainable and unexplainable. Science CAN explain religion, and religion CAN explain science. It's absolutely possible, and while Battlestar Galactica was an imperfect prototype of this model, it was by no means a betrayal of the genre.
By now, you're probably wondering what spurred this whole diatribe. This article is what did it, as it bends over backwards to dump on God as a plot device. The gist of it is that God in Battlestar Galactica is an improper device to explain many of the strange events that occur in the characters' lives. God is unexplainable, that is the very definition of God. It has rules, but can break them at any time. It can even change its rules. The writer of the article then compares this to Lost, and its God figure Jacob. As a conduit for the show's mysticism Jacob serves as an explanation of the God-like powers that swirl around the island and is its stubbly, pouty face.
What beef I have with the article is that the writer states clearly that one path is better than the other. That's only if you're a whiny kid who needs an answer to everything. That's only if you approach the show, novel, movie as a work of hard science, grounded in steely contraptions and whizzing parts. But Battlestar - along with Lost - has always carried with it a proud badge of mysticism, one that screams fantasy. Does that negate it as a piece of science fiction? Not in the slightest.
Because science fiction is not just the novelization of a scientist's greatest fantasy, or the serialization of a physicist's grandiose experiment. Science fiction is the creation of a world programmed around its own internal history that seeks to answer questions about the essential elements of our humanity. You do not need robots in science fiction, and aliens are extra credit. What you need, and what is sorely lacking from many science fiction novels of today, is humanity. Surrealism is perfectly acceptable, but if you're trying to say something about the human condition you had better damn well include a bit of humanity in your work.
To deny that the human condition involves religion or faith is stupid. Just plain stupid. Even the denial of religion is an involvement of religion. If I'm going to write a realistic science fiction story, which indeed is my goal, I'm going to have to face the facts: religion is a huge part of people's lives. Sure, you may say that religion is waning. Atheists and agnostics are more and more prevalent.....in Europe. But in the rest of the world, religiosity is reaching a fever pitch! (To debate whether this is wrong or right, go here).
Anyways, I'm digressing like no other. My beef was with io9 complaining about God in science fiction, and not having answers explained with whizbang scientific theories that fit in snugly with logic. Well, Battlestar was trying for something. It was shooting for depth, it was shooting for characterization, it was aiming for that elusive hybrid story of religion and science. Maybe it didn't get there, but it was damn near perfect when it swung for the fences.
When science fiction blurs the line between logic and faith, and asks the audience to come to its own conclusions, rather than feed some mythos to the reader/viewer, that's art. That's drama, and that's beautiful. If there's anything that my story aspires to do, it's to throw surreal situations at real characters and depict in the starkest detail their reactions to the hurly burly surrounding them. I want to be like Battlestar, I want to blur the line between God and the machine. If I do, if I accomplish this Herculean task, I'll have created something that speaks volumes above a novel or movie or television show. I'll have connected to reality. To get there then, my success depends on you. Until next time then.
I'm incredibly mad at io9.com. Yes, it is a science fiction blog and thus may have a little bit more authority on what is and isn't science fiction. But why is it that when a science fiction show decides to cross boundaries and morph genres, it is lambasted by the science fiction acolytes that once salivated over it like dogs? Is it a classic case of the servant ruling the master? Or is it just plain hubris on the part of science fiction writers and readers?
It could be both, but seeing as how I'm in the mood to rant I'm going to have to say it's the latter. Science fiction does not and cannot box itself in, deliberately trying to restrict itself to the conventions of technology. For if there ever was a time when religion is prevalent in society, it is now. And all good art is a reflection of the time in which it was created. Right? I like to think so.
Anyways, I do not think that tossing religion into science fiction is heresy. Rather, I think religion can strengthen a science fiction novel, tv show, movie. It presents a dichotomy between that which can be explained, and that which cannot. For those shows that are good, I mean. For those shows that are great, science and religion intertwine to create a mishmash of the explainable and unexplainable. Science CAN explain religion, and religion CAN explain science. It's absolutely possible, and while Battlestar Galactica was an imperfect prototype of this model, it was by no means a betrayal of the genre.
By now, you're probably wondering what spurred this whole diatribe. This article is what did it, as it bends over backwards to dump on God as a plot device. The gist of it is that God in Battlestar Galactica is an improper device to explain many of the strange events that occur in the characters' lives. God is unexplainable, that is the very definition of God. It has rules, but can break them at any time. It can even change its rules. The writer of the article then compares this to Lost, and its God figure Jacob. As a conduit for the show's mysticism Jacob serves as an explanation of the God-like powers that swirl around the island and is its stubbly, pouty face.
What beef I have with the article is that the writer states clearly that one path is better than the other. That's only if you're a whiny kid who needs an answer to everything. That's only if you approach the show, novel, movie as a work of hard science, grounded in steely contraptions and whizzing parts. But Battlestar - along with Lost - has always carried with it a proud badge of mysticism, one that screams fantasy. Does that negate it as a piece of science fiction? Not in the slightest.
Because science fiction is not just the novelization of a scientist's greatest fantasy, or the serialization of a physicist's grandiose experiment. Science fiction is the creation of a world programmed around its own internal history that seeks to answer questions about the essential elements of our humanity. You do not need robots in science fiction, and aliens are extra credit. What you need, and what is sorely lacking from many science fiction novels of today, is humanity. Surrealism is perfectly acceptable, but if you're trying to say something about the human condition you had better damn well include a bit of humanity in your work.
To deny that the human condition involves religion or faith is stupid. Just plain stupid. Even the denial of religion is an involvement of religion. If I'm going to write a realistic science fiction story, which indeed is my goal, I'm going to have to face the facts: religion is a huge part of people's lives. Sure, you may say that religion is waning. Atheists and agnostics are more and more prevalent.....in Europe. But in the rest of the world, religiosity is reaching a fever pitch! (To debate whether this is wrong or right, go here).
Anyways, I'm digressing like no other. My beef was with io9 complaining about God in science fiction, and not having answers explained with whizbang scientific theories that fit in snugly with logic. Well, Battlestar was trying for something. It was shooting for depth, it was shooting for characterization, it was aiming for that elusive hybrid story of religion and science. Maybe it didn't get there, but it was damn near perfect when it swung for the fences.
When science fiction blurs the line between logic and faith, and asks the audience to come to its own conclusions, rather than feed some mythos to the reader/viewer, that's art. That's drama, and that's beautiful. If there's anything that my story aspires to do, it's to throw surreal situations at real characters and depict in the starkest detail their reactions to the hurly burly surrounding them. I want to be like Battlestar, I want to blur the line between God and the machine. If I do, if I accomplish this Herculean task, I'll have created something that speaks volumes above a novel or movie or television show. I'll have connected to reality. To get there then, my success depends on you. Until next time then.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Updates, Updates, Updates
Hello Reader. I promise next week will have a better post. For now, I just have to update you on The Shirley Collier Prize. Despite the restriction of the contest to just Humanities majors, I am applying. I will be heading to Kinko's and will print out all 315 pages of my novel (I've reduced the size to 178 using a 10-point font and 1.5 spacing). Wish me luck! I'm also hard at work on The Coachella Review prize! Pray for me, knock on wood for me, whatever it is you do, please do it! Until next time then.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Resumes
Hello Reader. So I've been thinking about how I'm going to make myself look abso-positiva-lutely amazing to agents, so much so that they will want to just gobble me and my book right up! The best answer would be to get an MFA. Seeing as how I'm set on this Neuroscience track, I don't think that's really feasible. Unless I fail this genetics class. But please God don't push me into writing by beating the crap out of me in science. Pretty please?
Anyways, seeing as how MFA-dom is slightly further away than Pluto I've been looking into/getting suggestions for writing contests! And literary magazines of course, which I've already talked about. Not extensively, I know, but enough to fill you in. Need to know basis and all.
So, there are two contests in my sights right now: The Shirley Collier Prize and the Coachella Review Prize. Both are prestigious in their own way. Both say prize at the end, making me sound extra special. "I won a prize Agent X!" "Alrighty son, sign me up!"
Right, well, a man can dream. This is an update, pure and simple. My life has become so much more hectic now that my procrastination has finally caught up to me. Until next time then.
Anyways, seeing as how MFA-dom is slightly further away than Pluto I've been looking into/getting suggestions for writing contests! And literary magazines of course, which I've already talked about. Not extensively, I know, but enough to fill you in. Need to know basis and all.
So, there are two contests in my sights right now: The Shirley Collier Prize and the Coachella Review Prize. Both are prestigious in their own way. Both say prize at the end, making me sound extra special. "I won a prize Agent X!" "Alrighty son, sign me up!"
Right, well, a man can dream. This is an update, pure and simple. My life has become so much more hectic now that my procrastination has finally caught up to me. Until next time then.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Midterms
Hello Reader. As you can see, I am on hiatus for this week. Midterms have come around, fell beasts of an academic blight. I do not wish to do battle against them, for their fell wings and fire rimmed mouths do not engender confidence. However, as any warrior must, I will still draw my sword and run it through their flesh. My steel will match their ire and I will emerge triumphant, for failure is not an option in this daily toil. No, failure is death and death I am not ready for.
Ok, so that's definitely not going to be my style of writing in the novel. I'm just demonstrating how epic midterm season at the home of the Bruins can be. Alright, until next time then.
Ok, so that's definitely not going to be my style of writing in the novel. I'm just demonstrating how epic midterm season at the home of the Bruins can be. Alright, until next time then.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Yins and the Yangs
Hello Reader. So this past weekend I had the time of my life. What did I do? Not important (I was at a retreat in Hermosa Beach). What happened there? Important because of its consequences. For a long time I thought of where Briok would go in his development. I knew the end, but I didn't know what it would mean. How would he have grown and changed? What exactly would he have grown into at the end of his story? I'm not talking about the end of this book that I've written, or the end of the volume of which it is a part. I'm talking about the very end of the story, when Briok can no longer be written about. What kind of man would he be? Would he even be alive at the end of it all?
The alive part I can't divulge. It's a rather appealing idea, killing off my character. That way, no one can write about him! Oh how selfishness does feel good! Anyways, Briok's death or survival at the end of the planned three volumes is of little consequence because what really matters is whether or not he has changed from the beginning to the end. I had a vague idea: he'd be more mature. Screw me for even attempting to write a character with such an ambiguous premise.
Over the weekend however I had a couple of conversations that were...well, life-changing is an inappropriate word however good it may sound. I mean, my life isn't over yet right? Can't count my chickens before they hatch. But these conversations were revelatory. And they both came from women. I'll post on another day about women in my story. For now, let's focus in on how Briok's going to be a man.
Black and white are two opposites on the moral spectrum that do exist. Yet in between both is a swath of gray that is far more prevalent. Most people will acknowledge this, especially in a post-9/11 world where our enemies can no longer be entirely vilified. We realize now that there CAN be a terrified, little boy amidst the sea of terrifying, suicide bombers. But people, in general, do not easily handle this. It's far easier to have an "us vs. them" mentality.
Herein comes our young hero, not yet the man he is asked to be, not yet ready to even attempt scaling the Everest of expectations rising high above him. Thrust into a moral continuity most grown men are unable to comprehend, he must find that balance so many others have not. He must accept the gray. For the course of three volumes he attempts to reconcile the morals and values he's been given with the realities of a world that doesn't give a damn about his idealized principles.
Verily this is not the traditional fantasy epic, because most of the time you have a child thrust into a vast war that forces him to accept his destiny. Ugh, what does that mean? Accept destiny? Why? Accept the gray, on the other hand...well, you have to. Otherwise you'll go crazy. You'll build these illusions about people and things that will come crashing down with all the force of a raging bull in a room full of mirrors. You won't be able to function normally.
Where did this all come from? Yes, my life. For a long time I've had trouble dealing with the little nuances in a person's character that make them less than perfect. I built up illusions that went so far as to idolize a person, and when they shatter my heart doesn't just break. It aches for months. These past few months have been transformative in a way though. I've allowed myself far more leeway in accepting others and their flaws. In fact, I've forced myself to realize that a person is nothing without them. Life itself is flawed, and if I'm going to enjoy it I've got to take the good with the bad. Because the essence of friendship, love, the relationship between me and this dunya (an Arabic word of enormous importance that generally means a plane of existence) is not based on how perfect someone or something is. It's based on how well balanced the yins and the yangs are.
Briok needs to find that balance, and he needs to see that balance in others. When he does that, then can he sit beneath a sprawling oak overlooking creation and let the silver clouds of joy wash over him. My question to you, the reader, is this: how would you have liked some of your favorite characters in books or movies to have ended up? Oh, and why? Until next time then.
The alive part I can't divulge. It's a rather appealing idea, killing off my character. That way, no one can write about him! Oh how selfishness does feel good! Anyways, Briok's death or survival at the end of the planned three volumes is of little consequence because what really matters is whether or not he has changed from the beginning to the end. I had a vague idea: he'd be more mature. Screw me for even attempting to write a character with such an ambiguous premise.
Over the weekend however I had a couple of conversations that were...well, life-changing is an inappropriate word however good it may sound. I mean, my life isn't over yet right? Can't count my chickens before they hatch. But these conversations were revelatory. And they both came from women. I'll post on another day about women in my story. For now, let's focus in on how Briok's going to be a man.
Black and white are two opposites on the moral spectrum that do exist. Yet in between both is a swath of gray that is far more prevalent. Most people will acknowledge this, especially in a post-9/11 world where our enemies can no longer be entirely vilified. We realize now that there CAN be a terrified, little boy amidst the sea of terrifying, suicide bombers. But people, in general, do not easily handle this. It's far easier to have an "us vs. them" mentality.
Herein comes our young hero, not yet the man he is asked to be, not yet ready to even attempt scaling the Everest of expectations rising high above him. Thrust into a moral continuity most grown men are unable to comprehend, he must find that balance so many others have not. He must accept the gray. For the course of three volumes he attempts to reconcile the morals and values he's been given with the realities of a world that doesn't give a damn about his idealized principles.
Verily this is not the traditional fantasy epic, because most of the time you have a child thrust into a vast war that forces him to accept his destiny. Ugh, what does that mean? Accept destiny? Why? Accept the gray, on the other hand...well, you have to. Otherwise you'll go crazy. You'll build these illusions about people and things that will come crashing down with all the force of a raging bull in a room full of mirrors. You won't be able to function normally.
Where did this all come from? Yes, my life. For a long time I've had trouble dealing with the little nuances in a person's character that make them less than perfect. I built up illusions that went so far as to idolize a person, and when they shatter my heart doesn't just break. It aches for months. These past few months have been transformative in a way though. I've allowed myself far more leeway in accepting others and their flaws. In fact, I've forced myself to realize that a person is nothing without them. Life itself is flawed, and if I'm going to enjoy it I've got to take the good with the bad. Because the essence of friendship, love, the relationship between me and this dunya (an Arabic word of enormous importance that generally means a plane of existence) is not based on how perfect someone or something is. It's based on how well balanced the yins and the yangs are.
Briok needs to find that balance, and he needs to see that balance in others. When he does that, then can he sit beneath a sprawling oak overlooking creation and let the silver clouds of joy wash over him. My question to you, the reader, is this: how would you have liked some of your favorite characters in books or movies to have ended up? Oh, and why? Until next time then.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Revelations...Not Really
Hello Reader. So I'm in the mood to share today. I've already posted an excerpt, so no I won't be sharing more pages from my novel with you. I will however be posting my newest query letter. Comments, critiques, suggestions? All are welcome. What I want to know is...from this query are you interested? I tried to do something different than what I've seen from other queries (that have gotten their books published) mainly because I'm trying so damn hard to combat the science fiction stigma. I am not a science fiction writer, I am a storyteller. The query letter is after the jump.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Ah well, life goes on.
Hello Reader. Today, I'm in a dull mood. Grades came back, health's down the toilet, and my final query letter was just returned. Another no from Barer Literary. I was actually disappointed with this one. I was really hoping she would be able to represent me. Her style is so focused and she has an insane amount of dedication. I've always tried to be an optimistic person, but today just isn't cutting it. So I'm going to cut this post off short with an excerpt.
The scene is where Tory and Weller, the two brothers who lead the Cross Mafia Family, are awaiting a new shipment of their laser guns. They are met with a mysterious person that they know well, who brings them news from the frontlines of the war between the Mags and Howlas.
The scene is where Tory and Weller, the two brothers who lead the Cross Mafia Family, are awaiting a new shipment of their laser guns. They are met with a mysterious person that they know well, who brings them news from the frontlines of the war between the Mags and Howlas.
“Do you want to talk or should I deal with the captain?” Tory was glaring at his brother.
Weller grunted wearily, “I don’t want to talk. I don’t even know why you brought me here.” He impatiently checked his watch.
“You’re here because you are my brother. We built this empire together, we’re going to run it together.” Tory looked around the shoreline, his eyes scouring for any passersby. “If you’re not going to talk, at least control your anger. You look like you’re about to kill someone.”
“You, perhaps, for dragging me away from my home.” A wind blew through their coats, brushing their beards. They stood on the pier for a while, watching the boat navigate its way around a series of jetties. Seagulls cawed behind them, dropping by their silent figures hoping for something to eat. When nothing came they flapped away, blaring their cries for food louder.
When the boat came to dock they walked along the pier to meet the captain. What met them forced surprise onto Tory’s face. “What are you doing here?” he growled.
A Howla, diminutive in stature with more of a mouse’s face than a wolf’s, was shuffling towards the gangsters. Thick-rimmed glasses adorned his face, an odd trait for someone who could heal his wounds at anytime. A large cloak covered his body, shabby and dull in color. He wore a patched hat, loose strings following him as he walked. His fur was a dark shade of brown, with red streaks flitting in and out of sight as he moved. His ears were intact and his stomach was absent of any scars. He was the exact opposite of a Howlian warrior.
“How are you Tory? Weller? I’m glad both of you are here,” the Howla took his hat off and held it against his chest. “Please, if you will follow me I want to discuss a few things with you before you take these away.”
Tory flinched slightly when the mysterious Howla had put his arm on him, turning away towards Weller with a look of apprehension filling his eyes.
“What do you want from us Harry? We haven’t done anything wrong.” Weller was bristling as well, his frustration showing in his voice.
“Not yet,” Harry giggled, a high-pitched wheezing sound that scared the birds in front of them, “No, not yet. I’m here to make sure you never do.” He took a few more steps past the docked ship and let his hands clasp in front of him.
“Did you know that the Holy Prophet Howlamega has killed the twenty-fifth Magna Beast?” Harry smiled at the awe in both Tory and Weller’s faces, “I see you have yet to hear the good news. Well, this death we have finally come upon is momentous, as I am sure you know.”
Tory’s look of awe turned to anger, “What does this have to do with us?”
Harry gave a wry smile, crinkling his face into a terrible mask of conceit, “As the ambassador of the Holy Prophet, it is my duty to tell you of the Rewards that have been placed upon us. Due to Sulfanen the Lion’s death, we have been given the unique opportunity to build our army without hindrance from the Mags. Obviously, you understand the implications for your families.”
Weller’s bristling turned to outright rage. He grabbed Harry by the throat and lifted him with one hand, “How dare you attempt to use us, just after my son dies? You want to kill more boys for your war?”
As Harry struggled, Tory looked on with equal hatred. Restrained as he was, he also stepped towards the dangling Harry, his body tense. “We have accepted your help from afar as a business transaction. Not as a favor. I don’t give a damn about the Howlamega’s dreams. Your war is not ours. We’re trying to make a living.” But Tory’s words were lost upon Harry. Though his life was slowly being ripped away from him, he was smiling. His wheezing laugh could be heard through Weller’s grunts of frustration.
“Stop laughing!” Weller dug his hands deeper into Harry’s throat, “Stop laughing I said, you conniving bastard.”
It was to no avail. Harry continued with his giggling fit, his hands now hanging limp at his sides. He was doing nothing to stop the attack, nothing to stop his life from escaping him. Tory’s eyes narrowed when Harry looked to the bow of the ship. “Stop Weller!” Tory pushed Weller’s arm down, forcing him to let Harry go. “The Howlamega’s here,” Tory whispered into his brother’s ear. He followed Harry’s dark eyes and saw a wisp of smoke slither away.
“Good boy Tory.” Clasping his throat tightly as he healed it, Harry grinned. “You are a fine leader.” He rose unsteadily before glaring at Weller, “Your brother on the other hand is too wild. Small wonder that his pup went and killed himself.” Harry had to step back as Weller made another grab at his throat.
“Where is he?” Weller’s growl was full of menace, unrestrained hatred lacing his voice.
“As if you could kill him,” Harry straightened his jacket and put his hat back on. “Back to the Rewards. You will, young Tory, have your family be a part of our army. This is your duty as a Howla, this is your duty as a warrior. It will not be shirked.” He glared at Weller, “Knowing your anger however, I am worried. You must remember that there is always a limit to the Rewards. We are not allowed to harm the Lion’s family, or the country in which they reside.”
“How would we know where they live? We don’t know who the Magna Beast is!” Tory was in disbelief. The Howlamega was demanding the world from Howlas a world away.
Harry remained unfazed, “Make a wild guess Tory, use that magnificent brain of yours.” He turned around to face the Atlantia coastline, “Why else would we build you up here?” With that, Harry smiled. “Be careful with these guns Tory. And Weller, I am truly sorry that your son died. Next time, I hope we meet under less strenuous circumstances.” He tipped his hat to the brothers, and left them in shock.
Until next time then.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Inspiration
Hello Reader! I wasn't going to post today, because I honestly couldn't think of anything to say. I was wrung dry, and falling off the literary bandwagon. My third letter, the one to Barer Literary, has probably arrived at school and I'm on spring break so I can't get to it. Ergo there are no updates. I've begun the second book of Volume 1, because I'm sick and tired of rehashing Book 1 over and over again. The second book, titled Rising Action, is not coming along well.
I can't imagine back to five (or is it six now?) years ago when I began this ridiculous project. How did I stare at the blank canvas on the screen and just pour out my soul? I had no direction then, and I just wrote. Six years later, I'm trying to find an agent. I don't want the second novel or any subsequent novels iA to take that long again. Yet I fear that my lack of inspiration that has suddenly appeared (can a lack of anything truly "appear"?) is making me lose sight of my life's dream.
Staring at the blank canvas showers me in dread that nothing I write will be good enough. That I honestly do not know the direction in which I am heading. So I searched for that inspiration, like a mad dog. I scoured my iTunes looking for music that will catch my soul, twirl it around for a bit, and then fling it on high towards heaven. I thought I found it in Placebo's music. I love them, they are my favorite band. "Days Before You Came" defined my first heartbreak, and the rest of their body of work continued to shape my adolescence.
But oh how I erred, fancying a quick fix rather than a solid patch over the leak in my imagination. So, I watched a movie. Terrible, terrible movie. 20th Century Fox, if you take another one of my childhood shows and then rape it into anything akin to the caricature that is Dragonball: Evolution I will firebomb your headquarters. Seriously. Anyways, that didn't work. So there I remained with a leak turned flood, my ideas and thoughts pouring off into oblivion as I wasted away into my own obscurity. Well, it wasn't that dramatic. If that's my biggest problem right now, I am blessed subhanallah.
It's still a problem though, and a problem needs a solution. Herein enters Ashton Kutcher, of all people, with his goofy smile and odd sense of humor. Did anyone see Valentine's Day? Did anyone like it? I ask because I absolutely adore this movie! There are no suitable words for me to use, I just love it so much. Some of it's cliche, and other parts seemed disingenuous to me. But I don't care about any of that, because it left me lighter than before. It's filled that hole in my head, and I needed that badly.
Movies have always held a special power for me. I attribute this to the fact that my father owned a video store from when I was born till I was ten. And during that time, I spent almost every summer watching movies. Right and wrong, equating manhood with being a hero, how to treat women, my very image of beauty have all probably been shaped in one way or another by that damn video store. So when I see an incredible movie, even if it's cliche, the film holds a special power over my mood and thinking. I start acting differently, I start speaking with more gusto, I start being everything that my laziness usually stops me from being.
And it's always random. There have been other movies that have touched me just as deeply, movies that probably possess a vastly greater amount of quality than Valentine's Day does. And each discovery, each refueling of the fires that rage inside of me occur by chance. I was looking for another movie to watch (I'm on spring break, what?) and I randomly clicked this film. I immediately became engrossed. It was celebratory and it took risks with my emotion. It was normal, yet it transcended normalcy to reach into a deep wellspring of emotion intangible. I couldn't believe I had missed it so far.
Now, I am filling up with ideas. My soul that ached and bled is finally dedicating itself to the work of creating a world filled with rich characters and a fulfilling plot. Seriously, it isn't that melodramatic. I just like to fill my language with flowery vocabulary and intricate metaphors. Or at least, I hope those two adjectives apply.
Anyways, my question is: if you're writing something, or making music or pursuing any other artistic endeavor, what do you use as inspiration? As always comments, critiques and suggestions are always appreciated. Until next time then.
I can't imagine back to five (or is it six now?) years ago when I began this ridiculous project. How did I stare at the blank canvas on the screen and just pour out my soul? I had no direction then, and I just wrote. Six years later, I'm trying to find an agent. I don't want the second novel or any subsequent novels iA to take that long again. Yet I fear that my lack of inspiration that has suddenly appeared (can a lack of anything truly "appear"?) is making me lose sight of my life's dream.
Staring at the blank canvas showers me in dread that nothing I write will be good enough. That I honestly do not know the direction in which I am heading. So I searched for that inspiration, like a mad dog. I scoured my iTunes looking for music that will catch my soul, twirl it around for a bit, and then fling it on high towards heaven. I thought I found it in Placebo's music. I love them, they are my favorite band. "Days Before You Came" defined my first heartbreak, and the rest of their body of work continued to shape my adolescence.
But oh how I erred, fancying a quick fix rather than a solid patch over the leak in my imagination. So, I watched a movie. Terrible, terrible movie. 20th Century Fox, if you take another one of my childhood shows and then rape it into anything akin to the caricature that is Dragonball: Evolution I will firebomb your headquarters. Seriously. Anyways, that didn't work. So there I remained with a leak turned flood, my ideas and thoughts pouring off into oblivion as I wasted away into my own obscurity. Well, it wasn't that dramatic. If that's my biggest problem right now, I am blessed subhanallah.
It's still a problem though, and a problem needs a solution. Herein enters Ashton Kutcher, of all people, with his goofy smile and odd sense of humor. Did anyone see Valentine's Day? Did anyone like it? I ask because I absolutely adore this movie! There are no suitable words for me to use, I just love it so much. Some of it's cliche, and other parts seemed disingenuous to me. But I don't care about any of that, because it left me lighter than before. It's filled that hole in my head, and I needed that badly.
Movies have always held a special power for me. I attribute this to the fact that my father owned a video store from when I was born till I was ten. And during that time, I spent almost every summer watching movies. Right and wrong, equating manhood with being a hero, how to treat women, my very image of beauty have all probably been shaped in one way or another by that damn video store. So when I see an incredible movie, even if it's cliche, the film holds a special power over my mood and thinking. I start acting differently, I start speaking with more gusto, I start being everything that my laziness usually stops me from being.
And it's always random. There have been other movies that have touched me just as deeply, movies that probably possess a vastly greater amount of quality than Valentine's Day does. And each discovery, each refueling of the fires that rage inside of me occur by chance. I was looking for another movie to watch (I'm on spring break, what?) and I randomly clicked this film. I immediately became engrossed. It was celebratory and it took risks with my emotion. It was normal, yet it transcended normalcy to reach into a deep wellspring of emotion intangible. I couldn't believe I had missed it so far.
Now, I am filling up with ideas. My soul that ached and bled is finally dedicating itself to the work of creating a world filled with rich characters and a fulfilling plot. Seriously, it isn't that melodramatic. I just like to fill my language with flowery vocabulary and intricate metaphors. Or at least, I hope those two adjectives apply.
Anyways, my question is: if you're writing something, or making music or pursuing any other artistic endeavor, what do you use as inspiration? As always comments, critiques and suggestions are always appreciated. Until next time then.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Life As I See It
Hello Reader! So this is an update blog, as well as a thought-game blog. I've been lax to reply, mainly because I've been lazy but finals also contribute to the problem. So let's get down to the nitty gritty shall we? I missed you.
Castiglia Literary got back to me. They were incredibly nice about their rejection, which I expected seeing as how they don't really represent "science fiction". It's sad that I can never escape that label with my book. I have, oh, three fight scenes in my entire 80,000 words. I've only got one spaceship in the entire thing. But I've got aliens running amuck, in a future world with an alternative history, just about 1000 years into the future.
Even so, I don't want to be science fiction. In fact, I can't even be science fiction. A lot of the "science" I incorporate into my story isn't very accurate. The ideas I have about what the future will be like are actually all formulated based on the conjectures I've made from what I hear on the Discovery channel. I'm not a hard science fiction writer, I'm not even a light science fiction writer.
Those people base their entire stories on technology that can be. Their stories center around the effects of technology on humanity, and humanity's effects on technology. Stories like these are intricate, no doubt. They're tapestries of crystalline cities immersed in their own grandeur, only to be brought to a level, humble ground through even more grandiose technology. Authors that can spin that kind of web are impressive, to say the least. But I'm not one of their fold.
I write about humanity's effects on itself. I write about the dangers that lie dormant in us, and how when awakened these demons are fought with vigor unparalleled by our own strength of will. The grandeur of metal and steel twisting themselves around transducers to create a warping effect of reality isn't the kind of theme I'm interested in. I'm fascinated by the epic that is man (woman too).
Castiglia Literary got back to me. They were incredibly nice about their rejection, which I expected seeing as how they don't really represent "science fiction". It's sad that I can never escape that label with my book. I have, oh, three fight scenes in my entire 80,000 words. I've only got one spaceship in the entire thing. But I've got aliens running amuck, in a future world with an alternative history, just about 1000 years into the future.
Even so, I don't want to be science fiction. In fact, I can't even be science fiction. A lot of the "science" I incorporate into my story isn't very accurate. The ideas I have about what the future will be like are actually all formulated based on the conjectures I've made from what I hear on the Discovery channel. I'm not a hard science fiction writer, I'm not even a light science fiction writer.
Those people base their entire stories on technology that can be. Their stories center around the effects of technology on humanity, and humanity's effects on technology. Stories like these are intricate, no doubt. They're tapestries of crystalline cities immersed in their own grandeur, only to be brought to a level, humble ground through even more grandiose technology. Authors that can spin that kind of web are impressive, to say the least. But I'm not one of their fold.
I write about humanity's effects on itself. I write about the dangers that lie dormant in us, and how when awakened these demons are fought with vigor unparalleled by our own strength of will. The grandeur of metal and steel twisting themselves around transducers to create a warping effect of reality isn't the kind of theme I'm interested in. I'm fascinated by the epic that is man (woman too).
Monday, March 08, 2010
Burnt to a Crisp
Hello Reader. First a bit of news: I sent out three query letters today. Exciting? No, not at all. It's more a mixture of overwhelming fear and anxiety boiling over into the region of calm that suppresses a wild and intense need to yell and scream out of delirium. So, on to who I sent these letters to!
Barer Literary: She's known for being incredibly intimate with her authors, and she knows her way around the publishing industry. Plus, just based on the few interviews I've read with her, she is one of the most passionate literary agents out there.
Meredith Bernstein Literary: Not much has been said about her but she's old school, which is something that I absolutely gravitate towards. She represents (kind of) what I'm writing so I decided to give it a shot.
Castiglia Literary Agency: Honestly, I've been using Writer's Market 2009 to inform my decisions about who I should send my queries out to. Castiglia sort've represents what I'm putting out, so I sent out a letter.
I'm really hoping something comes out of these. If not, well, I'm not going to cry because I've got 30 other literary agents on a nice little list of mine who are going to be bothered by me. I wish I had more, because there are so many of them out there! But I can't really spend too much more time fiddling around with my thumbs waiting for this opportunity to plant itself in my lap. I'm going after this, whether I feel uncomfortable or not.
Which is the odd thing. I'm usually extremely-passionate-to-the-point-that-I'm-feeling-nauseous about things like this. I'm not at all nauseous about this. I'm more nervous and excited and...well, read above. But I'm not killing myself over it. Is it because I don't want this enough? How could I not? This has been a part of me since I was a child, I can't remember when it wasn't. This is my life, how could I not be excited for it?
And when I was asking myself these questions, I realized something. This novel, this idea, this legend I've developed in my head using my overactive imagination truly is my life. This is who I am, the very essence of my soul, my existence delineated and crammed into the pages of the novel I've written and those I hope to write. Briok Cwartel's story is my own, and my story is his. I can't be nauseous and I can't ache for something that is already existing and a part of me.
I think that's been the missing piece in all I've done concerning this book. I've never had peace of mind, never truly believed I could be published. And I don't need that when Briok's legend is already published, via my own existence. He is already here, living and breathing and fighting destiny trying to make his mark on the world. He's just doing all of those things under a pseudonym: my own name.
Thinking over this, realizing this, and fermenting it in my head for the past dozen or so hours has opened my eyes. I don't need accolades, I don't need popularity, I DON'T EVEN NEED THIS TO BE PUBLISHED. Those would be fantastic to have, and my gratitude would be without limit. Yet I've found a spot in my journey with this book that's let me see it not just as a novel, but as my journey on this Earth too, and that's damn well good enough. I love this story, I love the grandeur it has given my life. It's my escape, my wellspring of calm and my constant companion. It will not go unheard, I know it won't. But now, even if it does, I'll still be happy. Until next time then.
Barer Literary: She's known for being incredibly intimate with her authors, and she knows her way around the publishing industry. Plus, just based on the few interviews I've read with her, she is one of the most passionate literary agents out there.
Meredith Bernstein Literary: Not much has been said about her but she's old school, which is something that I absolutely gravitate towards. She represents (kind of) what I'm writing so I decided to give it a shot.
Castiglia Literary Agency: Honestly, I've been using Writer's Market 2009 to inform my decisions about who I should send my queries out to. Castiglia sort've represents what I'm putting out, so I sent out a letter.
I'm really hoping something comes out of these. If not, well, I'm not going to cry because I've got 30 other literary agents on a nice little list of mine who are going to be bothered by me. I wish I had more, because there are so many of them out there! But I can't really spend too much more time fiddling around with my thumbs waiting for this opportunity to plant itself in my lap. I'm going after this, whether I feel uncomfortable or not.
Which is the odd thing. I'm usually extremely-passionate-to-the-point-that-I'm-feeling-nauseous about things like this. I'm not at all nauseous about this. I'm more nervous and excited and...well, read above. But I'm not killing myself over it. Is it because I don't want this enough? How could I not? This has been a part of me since I was a child, I can't remember when it wasn't. This is my life, how could I not be excited for it?
And when I was asking myself these questions, I realized something. This novel, this idea, this legend I've developed in my head using my overactive imagination truly is my life. This is who I am, the very essence of my soul, my existence delineated and crammed into the pages of the novel I've written and those I hope to write. Briok Cwartel's story is my own, and my story is his. I can't be nauseous and I can't ache for something that is already existing and a part of me.
I think that's been the missing piece in all I've done concerning this book. I've never had peace of mind, never truly believed I could be published. And I don't need that when Briok's legend is already published, via my own existence. He is already here, living and breathing and fighting destiny trying to make his mark on the world. He's just doing all of those things under a pseudonym: my own name.
Thinking over this, realizing this, and fermenting it in my head for the past dozen or so hours has opened my eyes. I don't need accolades, I don't need popularity, I DON'T EVEN NEED THIS TO BE PUBLISHED. Those would be fantastic to have, and my gratitude would be without limit. Yet I've found a spot in my journey with this book that's let me see it not just as a novel, but as my journey on this Earth too, and that's damn well good enough. I love this story, I love the grandeur it has given my life. It's my escape, my wellspring of calm and my constant companion. It will not go unheard, I know it won't. But now, even if it does, I'll still be happy. Until next time then.
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