Parents

Hello Reader!  Since I'm writing about teenagers, and I am currently wading my way through those awkward years between adolescence and adulthood where everyone expects me to know what I'm doing as if I'm an adult and then laughs at me when I talk about what I want to do as if I'm a teenager, I figured it would be a great idea to talk about one of the central issues that come up in YA fiction: parents.  And our relationships with them.

With that name, how do you think his momma treated him?

YA fiction either puts the parents and adults in the backseat as buffoons, untouchable gods, or condescending asshats.  The teenagers at the center of the story either rebel, or rebel, or rebel against these authority figures because...well, what else do teenagers do but complain, break the law and cry about their crush not giving them a Valentine's Day Gram.  To put it lightly, this is all very cliche and awfully silly.

Going to school with a ludicrous variety of kids, I've seen the gamut of parenting styles.  You've got the uber hippies who sneak pot for their children, and you've got the Asian tiger-moms who stuff napkins into their purses every time they visit a restaurant.  You've got super successful kids who never once in their life did anything wrong or got yelled at or got into trouble with teachers, either because they were sheltered beyond belief - or they were simply just good, motivated, hard-working kids.  On the other hand, there are kids who are constantly in trouble with their parents, butting heads and getting into conflict, taking their frustrations out on their bodies with vengeful tattoos and awkward piercings, yet still get better grades than you ever will and are wildly successful.

OMG I hated the Muslim guy's arc...why do we always have to impregnate someone to be "relatable"???

When did Degrassi ever address those kids?  Stereotypes are really easy to write about.  Could be because the majority of the characterization work is already done for you, but it's also because authors are in a naturally lazy profession.  You're sitting at home, either with pen & paper or on a laptop, writing down words and stringing together paragraphs into a story.  There's no heavy lifting involved unless you're fond of using absurdly giant pencils, there's no sweating from back-breaking manual labor unless you enjoy moving around reams and reams of scratch paper, and there's certainly very little dirty work involved unless you have a penchant for ripping apart your felt tip pens and pouring the ink all over your face every time writer's block comes knocking.

No, that's still not right.  Stereotypes sell.  Yes, that's better.  When you read interviews with agents and publishers, they want the next new thing.  To better handle the uncertainty of the public's fickle tastes, they want what's already worked beforehand.  This is completely understandable.  It's also lulled writers into complacency.  Especially when it comes to parent-teenager relationships.

I really need to learn how to put .gifs on here...

I don't blame any one television show or novel *cough* Degrassi *cough* *cough*.  I blame authors who can't think of new ways to get things done.  I'm not saying I'm some writing messiah with a innovative writing style that will blow people away - although if someone ever says that about me I'll grin so wide you can see my wisdom teeth.  All I'm saying is that I'm noticing a problem, and when I walk through Barnes & Noble I don't see anyone trying to fix it.

All you ever see are bumbling buffoons of parents.  Honestly, the best parent-kid relationships I've seen in YA fiction are in Harry Potter.  Everyone rags on J.K. Rowling for not being a literary genius, and yes her writing isn't top notch Charles Dickens fare.  But her relationships, the characters' interactions with each other, these are miraculous.  With very little literary prowess, she manages to blow us away with real feelings and emotions and everything in between those two synonyms.  The relationship between Ron and his mother is fraught with overbearing love and wisdom oft-ignored.  Molly Weasley is not a bumbling fool, but neither is Ron a brazen idiot.  Dumbledore is basically Harry's grandpa, and he's always looked to as a source of wisdom and confidence - he is not an authority figure to brush up against rudely and without any motivation other than to move the plot along.

TOO SOON!  TOO SOON!  *sobs in the corner*

You'd expect YA fiction to take a page from the wildly successful J.K. Rowling and her awesome character relationships.  Instead, they decide to settle on this general, very narrow tidbit of wisdom: there will never be another Harry Potter so why try?  They'd much rather go for the small game like the Hunger Games (Lord almighty why does Katniss' mom suck that bad?) or Twilight (Bella's dad is like a teenage boy who decided that having a mustache makes him a man).  These relationships suck, and the parents exist as filler - they had to pop out of something right?  Disney really knows what's up though.  They avoid all of these problems altogether and just kill the parents right from the get-go.  Brilliant people, Disney.  Just brilliant.

But then again, what do I know?  I'm no best-seller.  Here's an excerpt between Sheba, Briok's mom, and her son.  This takes place at the grave of Briok's father.  It's the first time he's visiting it, since he was in a coma when his father was officially buried.  His mother takes him, and tries to console him after he learns that he is half-human and the last Magna Beast.

              After several minutes without moving Sheba took pulled Briok away and looked him in the eyes.  “Do you know why I think you can handle this?”  She smiled and turned to rest her back against the statue.  “Proteus told me what you did, that night.  At that café, when you decided to disobey me and your father.”  She pulled him close to her.  “Briok, you jumped in front of a bullet.  You didn’t know that you were the Magna Beast, you didn’t know that you would probably heal.”  Briok continued to look away from her, but signs of life began to show.  He was fiddling with the grass, pulling at it in tufts.

            “I wasn’t thinking when I did it,” he finally spoke.  “And you’re my mom, you’re supposed to believe in me.”  He pulled his head up, “You're supposed to say all these great things about how amazing I am and support me.”  

             “Briok, you know your mother,” she stopped his hands from pulling at the grass, 

“If you do something wrong, I’m not afraid to tell you.  If you weren’t so wonderful, I 

would tell you.”  She laughed, “You risked your life.  You should be proud.  More than 

that, Briok you proved that you’re a man.  I’m proud to have you as my son.  You don’t 

listen to me, but I’m still proud.”  She hugged him.  Despite his dour mood, he returned her  

hug, burying his head in her shoulder

Like always, let me know what you think.  Until next time then.

What's Your Novel About?

Hello Reader!  Every time I tell someone that I'm writing a novel, their very first question is "What's your novel about?"  And while this is a completely logical question to ask someone like me, a 21 year-old know-it-all with a hard science degree, it is also unsettlingly annoying.

They look just like this guy!!

I say unsettlingly because every person that asks me that question looks to me with this half-condescending, half-curious stare of pseudo-interest.  It's honestly very uncomfortable.  I usually stutter and spurt out a few trite words about the novel being science fiction, about a boy who learns that his father dies, etc.  And I never get the reaction every author hopes for, the indelible, "Oh my God, that's so interesting!"

Of course, the real reason why I'm so uncomfortable with the question may be that I can't explain the damn thing in one sentence.  This is a definite detriment to any and all of my attempts to market the novel.  I really need to get that down.

Proud parents can sometimes translate into embarrassed teenagers

But my own inequities do not negate the uncomfortable nature of explaining my novel to someone.  Especially when my novel includes magic powers, yellow, furry cat like aliens fighting a holy war against aliens who look like bi-pedal wolves, and tons of teenage angst.  All surrounded by really angry, ultra-violent gangsters (who just so happen to be some of those bi-pedal wolves) who are embroiled in class warfare against other, fellow bi-pedal wolves.

It's sort of like trying to sell your kid.  You know what I mean.  What exactly would your parents say about you?  I know my parents would stumble over my litany of extra-curriculars.  Heck, in the beginning of my collegiate career my major shifted from biology to chemistry and back on a weekly basis with them.  My point is that it's not easy to dilute into one sentence something that you put a lot of care and time into - more than nine years worth in my case.

Oof, my worst fear realized.

I'm not sure if my discomfort is shared by everyone.  It probably isn't shared by some of the true greats, or people who have "made it" as authors.  But since I refuse to be a whiny bitch, here's a crack at diluting The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae into one sentence:

A kid is given enormous powers and responsibilities but gets in over his head trying to use them to discover the origins of the laser gun, and why the group of gangsters who have been attacking him possess the new technology.

It's way more complicated than that one, somewhat run-on sentence lets on, but who am I to refuse agents and publishers what they want?  Let me know what you think.  Until Next Time Then.

Hierarchy of Race

Hello Reader!  The title of the blog post sounds like something you'd see from my other blog right?  And you know, it probably would be a good topic to discuss there too.  But for now, I feel like it's super relevant to the "legend of a work in progress".  It's probably one of the most important considerations I made in creating my characters and shaping the species (be it Human or alien) they come from.

It's stupid how gorgeous he is, right?

In case you don't know what the Hierarchy of Race is, here's a link to Professor Michael Hunt's paper.  He teaches at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill and has written a book about how racial ideologies have shaped US foreign policy.  To sum up what he says though, there's a very real race hierarchy in people's minds that informs them in their day-to-day interactions.  This guy is black, thus he is less than an asian, who is less than a white.  And so on and so forth.  While this may not be true for everyone, and I would argue that for the majority of people it is not true, it's apparently a really big part of US foreign policy and you can't deny the fact that it's a huge part of the American legacy.

And it's also a huge part of science fiction and fantasy.  Look back on a lot of the classics in either genre.  You'll see a definite partitioning of races based solely on the fact that they are who they are.  Yes, in Lord of the Rings the Quenya fought a war with the Noldorin and they certainly don't shy away from marrying into the race of humans.  And in science fiction once in a while you see aliens turning on each other politically like Estraven's struggle against his native Karhide in Ursula K. Le Guin's Left Hand of Darkness.  But the vast majority of science fiction and fantasy (syfy) novels have a set number, kind, and relationship for the races that populate their books and authors do not deviate from these set standards.  Orcs are always stupid, trolls are even worse, and elves are badass gorgeous people.  Humanity is either in charge of a system of worlds and corrupted, or fighting against an organized system of worlds and pure.

Poor kid...

Sure, you can hide behind the idea that these are tropes, motifs, structures that have worked before and can totally work again.  I agree that they're fun, but I also posit that they are outdated.  I'm tired of reading about the same old relationships, I'm tired of reading about the human protagonist saving the aliens because their weirdo ways saved him/her, I'm really freaking tired of reading about the same political, societal relationships between the perennially creepy species and the always beautiful ones.  It's kind of ridiculous how stagnant things have become.

Syfy was meant to be a world of endless possibilities, where the problems and issues of the real world can be explored and extrapolated on a dramatic scale.  Interesting interpretations should abound, not ossified hierarchies that don't even exist.  Why can't the Elves be hoodlums and the Orcs be the dignified ones?  Where does it say that every future society has to be a dystopia ruled by despotic aliens/humans?  Everything is the same same same.  Ugh.

Funny face, lulz

Why is it that after a war between aliens and humans, the political and societal effects aren't explored?  Don't you think that aliens would intermingle with humans?  That humans would influence aliens, that after millennia some of them might even adopt our religious systems?  Why is it a fact that the religions of today die out in the future?  After two millennia we still have Christianity, what's another two?  Often I feel that the attachment to these tropes, especially concerning how aliens or fantasy races are developed and interact with each other, is built off of laziness.

Laziness, however, is a lazy answer.  More probable is the idea that the whole genre of syfy is losing its focus.  People are beleaguered with spectacle and awe, an empty miracle of technology that will only hold a person's eyes without ever touching their soul.  And the easiest way to deliver this spectacle is to not push the envelope, to leave the bells and whistles of syfy be.  There's no challenge for the audience, and none for the creative mind.

Such a badass, so good at world building

But it's a lot less fun.  Maybe, after all of this complaining, I should throw out there what I'd like to do with my races.  Maybe.  I find it to be self-serving, a "Gotcha!" moment that is rooted in arrogance.  I do not think that I have achieved whatever level of creativity is needed to abolish the old stereotypes.  I only ardently wish that the work I am doing now is seen in that light.  I want to shake things up, I want to break barriers.  The Howlas aren't a single, mindless race of beings.  There are Howlas who hate other Howlas, who are Christian and Jewish, who love humans and hate themselves.  Humanity is not weak but burdened, under the thumb of no alien species and in detente with all of them.  Argh, I'm digressing.

Either way, I think syfy needs to change.  Orcs shouldn't always be stupid and ugly, aliens shouldn't always be war-mongering.  It'd be nice if authors and filmmakers and showrunners could have some creativity, and even more so it would be nice if they respected the audience.  Until next time then.

You've Lost A Lot In These Waning Years

Hello Reader!  I was coursing back through time yesterday, staring my memories in the face.  As it were, I couldn't help but gloss over - alright I'm a liar, I didn't gloss over it, I outright pored over them - five years of my life spent with someone.

No, I wasn't in a relationship with the person.  Although, we were close enough for it.  And it's not appropriate to explain here why the friendship soured.  I feel it is enough to say that even the best of friendships have beneath them an undercurrent of...well, something far more sinister and darker than just friendship.

Is it really melodramatic for me to call it a betrayal?  I mean, for God's sake it's been three years since everything ended.  How am I still hung up on this issue?  Probably because I did many wrong, cruel things to that person in the dying shambles of the relationship.  My justification has been that worse, crueler things happened to me.  Not over the course of a year, but during that entire five year epoch of my tiny life.  That's good enough justification right?

Either way the issue is important, for this blog at least, because I want it in my book.  I think I've said somewhere that this novel is asking the question what if Paul Muad'dib had to go to high school and still lead the Fremen?  What if Harry Potter and Dune were to be mashed up, their storylines and character attitudes merged together?  But in a lot of ways, the teenage relationships between Harry and his friends are incredibly juvenile.  For one thing they don't curse.  Maybe British children are less foul-mouthed than American children, but seeing as how I'm an American I can't really avoid writing about what I know.

That's a minor thing though.  What irks me as I reread the Harry Potter series is the genuine goodness in each of the children.  It seems to be that all of the undesirable traits, or at least those that people absolutely everywhere absolutely cannot tolerate, are sequestered to Slytherin house.  For pity's sake, the worst thing anyone in any of the other houses ever does is uncleverly tease Harry.  Most of them, actually all of them, apologize to him after they've been proven wrong by our persevering hero.  Of course I understand that the novels are meant for children.  Why shove complexity down their throats?  Ravenclaw can have terrible human beings in it too?  Whoa, heavy man.  To be fair there's already enough new information, and the whole damn thing is presented so delightfully and with so much vivid and wondrous detail there's no reason for any more complexity in the relationships between these children.

But then again maybe there is.  High school isn't the sordid affair presented by many books, movies, television shows etc.  Often these media present to us a wasteland of common sense inhabited by cliques who are all mutually exclusive from each other.  This is a complete fallacy.  High school, or at least what I experienced high school as, was an ever shifting chaotic mess of children figuring out who they are in often harmful ways - to themselves and to others.  I had friends who did more hard drugs in high school than many of my college friends, who pride themselves on their lack of boundaries, even attempt.  Backstabbing in college is so much easier, because you're not clustered with the same 60 students everywhere you go for six hours straight.  There isn't much harmful gossip in college, because as fast as word travels at the university it is thousands of magnitudes slower than the drivel that's tossed around on a high school campus.

Again, as always, I'm speaking in generalities.  You can bombard me all you want with examples of gossip and backbiting behaving by rules diametrically opposite to those I've outlined above.  Fine.  I'm a generalist, I apologize, I hope you can learn to accept it as I've learned to accept the nitpicking.  Also, I could be totally wrong.  If I am, I'll admit it.  Now on with it.

Now, how does this vision of high school relate to the novel?  Well, I'm writing about high school students for most of the story.  In fact, the first novel's plot is driven by the high school aspirations, pratfalls, missteps and melodrama that follow my teenage characters.  In a lot of ways, high school is the very first step - or series of giant leaps - we all take in becoming less innocent.  I'm not just talking about sex or drugs, I'm talking about sins and diseases of the heart.  Some of us become arrogant in our ephemeral youth, believing the success and grandeur of our teenage years will last us until we're well into the throes of our death bed.  Some wayward souls dive headfirst into waters unknown and do not surface.  Ever.

Franzen & Fantasy

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.

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.

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 powerful emotion 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.

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.

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.

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.

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). 

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.

A Discussion on Theme

Hello Reader.  I apologize for being late with the post.  I've been sick, so my life has slowed down quite a bit.  Anyways, I've never done this before so bear with me.  I've been thinking a lot about the themes and ideas I've been instilling in my novel.  And I haven't been wondering if it was the right thing to do, as is usually the case.  No, I've been wondering why I obsess over these themes.

It's strange not knowing a part of yourself.  Especially a part of yourself that's been festering within for as long as you can remember.  I honestly cannot think of a time when the Magna Beast's battle with destiny was not on my mind.  As a child, I had it in simpler terms.  Can Briok really be controlled or not?  As I've grown, the ideas have morphed and shades of darkness have been added to the canvas.  The overall portrait I've created in my mind is filled with bright patches clouded in swaths of rabid shadow.

Back to my point, I wanted to know why I am so obsessed with this concept of battling destiny.  And I'm not talking about Luke Skywalker fighting the inward pull to become his father.  Briok fights that, but that isn't his test.  I want this character to pit his grandiose personality against the very tides of fate itself.  I want him to break apart convention and become something wholly new, an abrasion on the surface of reality that cannot easily be forgotten. 

Wait, I'm supposed to be in school...

Hello Reader.  I'm writing to you from someplace other than my dorm room.  Amazing, right?  I think so. I'm in a computer lab.  Waiting for a class to start.  Because my days are always hectic, and I find myself living on campus rather than in my dorm room with my satisfying video games, laptop, and bed.  I haven't worked a lick on Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae in some time.  Is it my fault, or am I going to blame my schoolwork for that?  I don't even know that yet. 

But that's not troubling me so much.  A) I've already written about time management, B) I'm pretty sure whining is not going to get me more blog readers.  What's really troubling me is the lack of attention being paid to the slush pile.  For those of you who don't know what that is, the slush pile is the aggregation of any unsolicited manuscripts that are sent out to publishers and agents by first-time authors. I've read a couple of interesting articles about the death of the slush pile - one of which you can find here.  It's disheartening to see what I think is an art form die.

The slush pile is a random pile of crap mixed with more chance than a Monopoly board.  Should I put a TM there?  Maybe when this is more popular.  Anyways, while the slush pile's cons are very large, I believe it's pros are much larger.  New writers bring new ideas.  Don't tell me there are no new stories.  You're right, and everyone else knows it.  So stop pretending you're intelligent.  What there are plenty of, are writers capable of telling the same stories over again in new and exciting ways.  The slush pile can give publishers and agents exactly that. 

Now by publishers, I mean Penguin and HarperCollins and another major "label" out there.  So one can imagine the girth that such a company may bring to finding new authors and new stories.  Is that an excuse to ignore the musings and hopes of so many voices?  I don't think so.  I'm not that well-versed in economics, and I'm definitely a new guy to the publishing scene - so new I haven't even been published yet!  But what I am well-versed in are second-chances and lucky breaks.  Because I've had several of them.  I've been given so many first chances and "Hey why don't you try this, and if you fail, we'll try again huh?"'s  that my life story is due in little part to my own machinations.  I've been the beneficiary of so many other people's generosity.  And I've done pretty well so far with all of that lovin'.  So why can't others get that treatment?

Why can't I get that treatment?  You can see where I'm coming from.  A place of greed and supplication.  I want to be lucky enough that publishers and agents will notice me in the slush pile.  I want to be that ridiculously blessed bastard who only sent out 15 query letters, got 10 rejections, and because of some secretary's mistake wound up with the rival to Harry Potter's ubiquity - I am so calling you out Stephanie Myers.  The death of the slush pile is killing that greed, replacing it with a forlorn sense of WTFery.  As an aspiring author, all I can do is look at articles like the Wall Street Journal one above and be catatonic with doubt.  Has anyone watched that movie?  It wasn't very good.

But why is it an art form, you, that anonymous reader who doesn't comment very often, ask?  Because voice is an art form.  And the slush pile gives you some of the most varied and wonderful voices you can imagine.  It's variety that's the spice of life, right?  Then again, they also give you crap like this:  oops, no one puts up stuff from the slush pile because they think it's not worth it.  Dicks.

Sorry about that.  I'm trying to make a more concerted effort at trying to stop my bitterness from making me digress.  It's difficult.

Anyways, I think I've found a way around the slush pile.  Whether I like it or not, the thing is dying.  The economy is forcing agents to be more wary of fiction, and publishers have outright refused to see anything that's not agented.  So I have to adapt to the times.  My solution?  Or desperate plan?  Submitting to literary magazines.  I've already got Westwind Literary magazine in my scope, and maybe I'll start writing some short stories so I can submit them to some other magazine.  God willing, one day I'll get to win an award or be published in a prestigious anthology.  Here's to hoping.  So that'll be my question of the day: What literary magazines do you know of?  Do you know anyone who's been published in one?  Leave comments, directions, and e-mails to those people, if you know them, below.  Until next time then.

Ugh, writing.

I haven't even touched my book.  For the past two weeks I've been focused on trying my hardest to be as lazy as possible, doing as little studying as possible.  That's not good, I know, but I'm mentally exhausted.  Nevermind, that's a blatant lie.  I'm just lazy.

Why shouldn't I be?  I've written a book (unpublished, I know), I've got a hellish school schedule: MWF 9-6 with a Tues. and Thurs. no better, and I've got three different organizations depending on me for work to be done.  I deserve rest!

No, not really.  My book is unpublished, I had the same kind of schedule last quarter, and the three org's aren't asking much.  Ugh, it's hard to find motivation for things you're not into.  I'm not into writing letters to people thousands of miles away, who'll probably pass me up like week-old cheese.  I'm definitely not passionate about physics, and life science reading is tedious. 

I read somewhere that writing a novel is only part passion.  The rest of it is hating your work until it's perfect.  I think I'm paraphrasing egregiously, but it sounds good doesn't it?  I'm really trying to get a handle on that last part.  I've become prone to writing in bouts of passion, furiously finishing ten pages and then being lazy for the next week or so.  It gets me great writing, but it's slow progress.  It took me five years to get 310 pages worth of my thoughts on paper.  That's too long.

So what should my solution be?  An updated To Do List everyday?  Just slap myself into action more often?  What do you do to get yourself into the mood to do work?  Until next time then.

The Book is a Beast

Hello Reader!  So let's begin this post with a lament.  No, it's more like a bastardized form of a complaint.  It's so hard to get a novel organized!!!  There are so many things being juggled around at once.  From sequencing to flow to tone, I'm reeling from the variety of plates I've got to keep spinning.

It's all due to the episodic nature of the novel.  I'm not talking about novels in general, I'm talking about mine.  Each chapter is devoted to one theme.  Will an agent think I'm just a schizophrenic teenage author?  It's scary wondering what someone will say about your work that's hundreds of miles away.

Actually, that might be the fear that's really behind my complaints.  Everything from sequencing of events to the tone of the novel are things I can fix.  I guess I'm not truly afraid of those things. I'm just being lazy.  What I'm really scared of are the agents that'll be reading my work.  They don't have an emotional attachment to who I am and what I'm trying to do.

I read a lot of the interviews that these agents give.  They're so damn generic about what they want.  It's like trying to interpret a woman.  Yes means no, but only on Tuesdays when you're having Fried Fish.  Otherwise, Yes means Yes, unless you've gone to the bathroom three times that day.  These are exaggerations, but read anyone of the links above to the Literary Blog.  Sometimes I feel like even these agents don't know what they want.

One guy said that he threw out the Lovely Bones because he couldn't handle it.  He had three daughters and he just couldn't bear to read about a little girl being raped and killed.  Well, how the Hell was Alice Sebold supposed to know that?  Do I have to stalk each and every agent I'm querying?  Should I not send my book to an agent whose father died when they were a young age?  It's baffling how subjective these guys can be, and I, as an author, still have to depend on them!

And then there's the hatred out there for science fiction.  Jeez, no really respectable agent represents it!  It feels like my name has to be Isaac Asimov for me to get published in the genre.  I don't even want to be published in that genre, I want to be in commercial fiction.  But I've got aliens and spaceships in my book.  Nothing matters except for those things.  I barely even have spaceships!  There's only one!  In the first five pages of the book!  And then it's gone.  Ya, I've got tons of aliens, but they're not the slithery kind that like to suck your brains out.  They've got passions and hatreds, loves and loss. 

I'm venting, yes.  But it feels good.  Anyways, I guess I'd better suck it up. It's normal I suppose to be afraid of putting yourself in the fire.  It's a part of life to be afraid of judgment and paranoid of ridicule.  It's also part of life to deal with stubborn people who only see one path, even though you see another.  I've got to convince them my way is the coolest, otherwise this book will stay a 300 page waste of hard drive space.  Let's hope this winter break changes that.  Until Next Time Then.

And I got schwooped.

Hello Reader!  No, that isn't the title for the next chapter.  It's actually my lament.  Recently, a second-year undergraduate student at UCLA published a book.  That he started writing when he was 14.  I'm befuddled.

That's not to say I'm jealous of the guy.  We live two very different lives.  He dedicated himself to the book in both practice and mind.  I've simply dedicated myself to the book in mind.  If I had in practice, I wouldn't be a part of four different organizations and taking a neuroscience major.  I would be writing on this book everyday for at least two hours.  Too bad other things always take up those two hours.

It's stories like his that both discourage me and get me pumped up to write more.  The discouragement first.  I don't want to be seen as a follower in anyone's footsteps.  For sure, I'll be compared to someone somehow, if I get this thing published.  But I don't want to be the second runner-up in a long line of young authors.  I just want to be me.  Because that's what I've put into this book, me.  To have that be covered up by another person's accomplishments scares me and angers me a little.

Also, I just feel like something was snatched from underneath me.  It was never mine to own, this right to publish, but when you're on this kinda track, you don't hear from too many other people that are also young and writing a book.  So you get this feeling of oneness, that you're a singular individual with this singular dream.  A guy just as young as you, going to the same university as you, publishing a book hella close to your genre, pulls that illusion from right under you and it's disorienting.

I should move on though.  I do feel inspired now.  I try to look past the fact that I'll be #2 in some respects, or that I'm not really alone.  Dwelling on those feelings is a total possiblity, but my story has been nagging my head since as early on as I can remember.  And for that simple fact, I write.  I'm not doing this for money, although that would be nice.  I'm definitely not doing this for recognition, because that's so hard to get and such a random phenomenon.  This book is being written because it's an itch I can't help but scratch.  A really, really powerful itch.  And it grows stronger when I hear stories like this.

I'm a competitive guy.  I always taunt, I always trash-talk, even if I'm not good at something, I goad whoever is into competition so I can get better.  I'm not doing the goading this time, but I am competing.  It's my own little one-sided rivalry, and it spurs me on to scratch that itch.  I've never given up on anything.  It's my Afghan recklessness coming out in me, the belief that I can do anything that anyone else can with perseverance and a hard head.  Can you tell I'm ready to begin writing anew?  To begin writing Harder, Faster, Better, Stronger?

I'm not sure if this was a satisfying post for anyone, even me.  I wanted to post another excerpt of the book.  But this had to be addressed, because ultimately the blog is about my journey in writing and publishing.  My journey's been filled with rocks and clouds, where I trip or rise up.  Hopefully, I'll end up staying on a cloud.  Until next time then.