Note: We've been writing poetry in my creative writing class. This may be a manifestation of that.
From where I sit, a good half dozen trees shiver In the nearly-perpetual breeze that pushes Its way between the hill-created canyon of my hometown. They're all in various shades of annual acne, With some more advanced, Branches like matchsticks and leaves Like individual flames burning up Toward the pumpkin-orange sunset sky. Dusty-brown hills rumple in the distance. My neighbors' lawns look as patchy As a teenage boy's would-be beard, The green and brown of stubborn life Amid inevitable entropy. Dead leaves rattle down the road like lost teeth. The hiss of wind that follows those reminders Of Adam's wicked seed, or the countless stunned Bodies of angels fallen from their celestial trees Also manages to tickle the windowpanes, Attempting with the familiar subtlety of, say, A five year old who has repeated, easily for the Eightieth time, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" because she has the Audacity to pay attention to someone other than him For a few moments--this wind that tries to slide In between the panes of glass with shrill whispers Of the outside's coldness, as if that would be enough For me to open up the window. My son's hair is camouflaged in the lower reaches Of the trees, his orange head a flame on a Lollipop-stick white face, the chips of sapphire that Make up his eyes framed by thick glasses to help Him better see the world. He walks down The concrete stream, meandering in his steps like water Or a kid who doesn't have enough mass To push back the wind. He flows to one friend's House to another, never getting beyond the porch And the gentle rejection of "No, not today," Or "Maybe later." He takes this rebuff with a stolidity Born out of frequent experience--as this is a habit He shares with the wily wind, a persistence In entering others' homes--and trudges back, The apples on his cheeks ripening before He can make it back inside to the warmth of the house. Far away--or maybe it's only next door--a dog Begins to yak at some imagined slight, His lupine heritage giving him the confidence Of absolute knowledge about some danger That only a sonic assault, with a predictable Staccato, can refute. Cars and trucks roll by in the oddly hued evening As the pink of the sunset reflects off the lazy Stretches of lolling clouds, giving the world A shadowless twilight Before slipping, once again, Into the kind of darkness that only October can bring. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! In the past I've done a "timed write", which is when I put my fingers on the keyboard and let them run until the timer stops. In this case, I'm looking at twenty minutes of work wherein I will let the thoughts go with as little effort at revising as I can muster.
Fortunately, I have a lot on my mind. Tonight, we did a tradition that I personally dislike, which is the annual pumpkin carving. There's nothing that really appeals to me, as my artistic abilities are limited when it comes to sculpture, and I don't really enjoy getting all slimy. Plus, pumpkin guts smell. More than that, however, it is a really wasteful tradition, one that is somewhat ameliorated when you buy the fake pumpkins from craft stores that you can keep from year to year. Gayle has a handful of those, which do a lot to add to our family's décor. So I was happy that Demetrius, my youngest, picked two too-small pumpkins for Halloween. He liked them because they were cute (the only criterion that matters at that age) and since carving small pumpkins is significantly harder, we convinced him to decorate the pumpkins with felt-stickers. He sat on my lap and drew triangles for eyes and funky looking mouths. I carefully cut the stickers out, then he applied them with all of the studious care that a five year old can generate, making sure that the whiskers of the kitty cat all came out from the right place on its face, and that the hat of the witch had a strap going across it. Once we were done, Demetrius asked if I would read some My Little Pony books to him. These are the easy-reader types, the ones with one or two sentences on each page, none of which were more than ten words long. I read to him about the big fair that one pony put on, and another about the bad dream Pinkie Pie suffered. He picked out a handful of sight-words to work on (he's struggling with "The" when it's capitalized, but he's got "Look" and "Like" down pretty well) as we read. I told him, "Once we finish with your books, I get to read Paradise Lost to you, okay?" "Okay," he said, not knowing really what I meant. But he's a kid of his word. When we finished all of the My Little Pony (plus a PAW Patrol book), he sighed and said, "Okay, Daddy. Now you can read me some Paradise Lost." He settled on my lap again and I began to read. There's a certain power to that poem that comes through reading it aloud. Maybe that's part of why I like teaching it so much: The vivacity of the poem is palpable when it's experienced the way it was brought into this world--through the tongue. Milton's dictation of this epic poem is a feat in and of itself, one worthy of our remembrance. That the poem is this good on top of his struggles in the crafting it puts it on a whole other level. Anyway, as I spoke the sonorous words from book 4 (we were at the part where Gabriel is trying to find Satan in the Garden of Eden), Demetrius poked at the sight-words he recognized in the tiny print of Milton's epic. "'I'. 'Look'. 'Like'." I would compliment each one and then resume my reading. I kept him captive for a page or two, then released him. He was happy to go and change into his pajamas, as it meant being liberated from more Milton. (He was curious, though, to see so much writing in the margins of the book. I have a used copy of the Hughes edition of The Complete Poems and Major Prose, which was carefully annotated by a student elsewhere. I conversate with her markings, weaving my own ideas and thoughts in between hers. Despite the fact that I have my own copy from Norton, edited by Gordon Teskey, there's a charm to the marginalia of the Hughes that I can't escape. That and there's a lot more of Milton in the Hughes--the Teskey edition is only of Paradise Lost with some supplemental parts--which makes it my favorite. It's one of my favorite books, a short list that includes the Complete Works of William Shakespeare Norton International Student Edition that I bought in Stratford-upon-Avon my first time there, and a copy of Paradise Lost from the 19th century. Anyway, Demetrius was shocked that there would be so much writing inside of a book. I pointed out that it was a way for me to think more carefully about the words that are there. I then said to him that it's only okay to write in a book that he owns, and never in a library book. He nodded his head sagely, as if he fully understood that injunction.) Demetrius then plopped a dinosaur book we checked out from the library onto my lap and settled in for a little bit more reading before bedtime. I don't know how much longer he's going to fit on my lap. I've talked about this before, but it's still something that preys on my mind. I've spent so many years (eleven, thus far) as a married man also being a father--we started our family about three years after we wedded--and so it feels like I've always had a pocket-sized human to care for. Now that our third and last is working his way into the grown-up world of knowing good and evil, I find myself being more worried about him. It isn't that the world is so much worse off than it was five years ago (though it is, in important and changeable ways), or that we ourselves are worse off. It's simply…I don't know. A sense of the impending ending that all parents have to confront at one point or another. After all, children must grow older--as I did from my parents. But there's something special about these rare moments of them politely caring about what's in front of them, of when they aren't crying or whining or pouting. It's a rare thing, I think, to have my son on my lap, listening to words that matter so much to me, comprehending none of them, yet being happy to be there because he was there with me. As I brushed his teeth tonight, he said, "You're the best daddy that I've ever had." It's hard not to fall in love with that. Final word count: 1105 ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Three and a half years ago, in April of 2015, I woke up one Saturday morning with an idea in my head. It was, as near as I can recall, a vestigial dream, but there are enough components of the story that I clearly gained inspiration from Final Fantasy VII, VIII, and XIII for part of it. The story--which, as is often the case for me in these little sketches, was only supposed to be a short story--was about a woman named Jarah who was in the midst of a battle on a massive plain. It began like this:
Jarah looked her final pupil in the eye and said, "Remember, child: The Gods are under our control." Thinking back on that morning, I'm pretty sure it was that opening line that made me curious about the world my subconscious cooked up. What does it mean to control a god? I kept writing the story, letting it unfold in my imagination as my fingers moved. Backstory, rules for the world, and motivations began their slow simmer as I finished. (If you'd like to read it, warts and all, it's available here.) I shared the story with my writing group, curious to see how they'd respond to it. To my surprise, it was mostly positive, with lots of questions about what else was in the world beyond what I had shared. Since I was only writing this story as a sketch, I didn't have any answers, but the premise has stuck in my head ever since. "Theomancy" is a story about controlling gods as "summons" (like in the Final Fantasy video game series) and using them to battle each other in theopolemics ("fighting of the gods"). The main character, Jarah, is one who can control the gods, so she summons one to do her bidding, having a battle on a massive scale. If you've read any of my fiction (including the free copy of an old book, also available on the "Sample" page of my website), you'll quickly see how much I like big things. It's probably part of the reason that I love dinosaurs so much, too. In Words of the Silenced, giants roam the land and have to be defeated by humans who've lost their minds but, in return, have magical powers. In both War Golem and War Golems, the protagonists ride inside an enormous, sentient, magically-powered robot in order to fight wars. In my NaNoWriMo 2017 story, The Colony, large alien creatures swarm through a space colony, eating people up. I'm also a fan of Pacific Rim and its sequel, Rocket Monster Punch Punch 2, and movies like Rampage. In other words, I like big things getting smashed. The Hulk is my favorite Avenger. In short, I like the contrast between very small beings resisting--though sometimes unsuccessfully--larger ones. It's natural, then, to see how "Theomancy" would interest me. It's pretty much the concepts of Magic: The Gathering and the Final Fantasy series, but with my own spin. Small, insignificant beings taking control of large ones sounds like the kind of story that would easily come out from someone with my particular interests. That has not been the case. I decided to turn "Theomancy" into a novel, with a lot of different ideas all thrown together. I wanted people who controlled the gods to have their sexual orientations shift as a way of "paying" for the magic they wielded--an idea I scrapped in large part because it wasn't making a lot of sense and it felt…wrong. I also thought of this world as being one where I tried my hand at the grimdark fantasy subgenre, with lots of, as Horatio calls them, "casual slaughters" throughout. What would it be like to kill off characters as cavalierly as Joe Abercrombie or George R.R. Martin? But I couldn't really handle that idea as set out, so I made the souls of dead people traverse through an afterlife of sorts, only to be reincarnated later. The could remember their past lives and it helped them know what to do with each iteration. There was going to be some catastrophe in both the mortal and immortal realm that the characters would have to solve. Topping all of that, I threw in easily over a dozen characters--each one designed to be a main point of view character (until she or he died, which would happen to most of them)--who would forward different experiences of the world. A merchant, a desperate father, a priest, a queen, a rogue…the list went on and on. The idea was to make each character our view of the scope of both sides of the conflict, all while pushing toward a climactic ending. I wrote out notecards--my version of an outline--for almost all of that book. It took a couple of months, chipping away at it, before I finished that part of writing. And I didn't like it. Now, that's the perk of writing outlines: I can see almost immediately what is or isn't working for me. I want to write a story that I'm interested in, not just one that I feel obligated to tell because I'd put some effort into it, and I thought that I would gain interest in the story as I uncovered it. No such luck. The story lacked cohesion, the characters didn't inspire me, and I couldn't really see myself dwelling in a grimdark world for what likely would have ended up being years, as that probably wouldn't be a good mental health choice. I abandoned the project after maybe seven chapters, the characters left in various stages of being killed and/or in great peril. And though there are parts of that world that I still like, almost all of them can be found in the ideas of the short story. I'm glad that I gave up on "Theomancy", as it cleared space in my brain to invent the world of War Golem and its sequel, which are both some of my favorite books I've written. That being said, the idea of a person controlling gods never really went away, and the past year or two has seen me trying to resurrect the idea somehow. A new version was written about half a year ago, with a good six chapters and an entire outline crafted…but I didn't like it. I changed Jarah from being a woman controlling gods in the middle of a battlefield to a woman who has been reincarnated in order to fix the world she accidentally broke. I shifted from a mage-warrior to a fantasy-style Batgirl, a woman with great combat skills, cool gadgets, and gods hanging off her belt. I also shrunk the gods, which goes against my desires to see huge creatures beating the crap out of each other (and the buildings around them), but gives me more flexibility for how I want the story to unfold. Anyway, after at least seven false starts, I think I may finally have the version of Theomancy that I'm willing to tell. I have little time: NaNoWriMo starts on Thursday. But I'm hopeful that I will be able to get an outline hammered out--at least thirty chapters long, as that will give me all I need to ensure I hit the coveted 50,000 word goal of the writing challenge--and move again (for the first time) in the world I've created. If you'd like to read my other two years' projects, or watch as I add a single chapter, day by day, to this year's NaNoWriMo story, feel free. There's no editing done with any of these--they're crafted and published as-is, complete with spelling errors, typos, and continuity problems--so realize that it's more like looking through a person's sketchbook than their finished artwork. Still, I'm excited and hopeful that it will be a worthwhile exercise this year, as it has been in the past. Of all of Shakespeare's "underappreciated" plays--the flawed-but-still-remarkable bunch that tend to slip under popular recognition and, perhaps, even some scholarly approaches--Richard II would be high on the list of those which I consider inexcusably underappreciated. Richard II is part murder mystery, part power play, and most thoroughly enjoyable. Its lack of recognition probably has much to do with how Richard III steals the show in his eponymous play--a play that, chronologically, ends eighty-five years after the events of Richard II--and, perhaps, the realization that Richard II is a far cry from III makes a difference. I genuinely don't know; that's a supposition from my ignorance. The ending of Richard II is a powerful thing--not as powerful as the deposition scene, which continually breaks my heart and stirs my soul; some of Shakespeare's greatest writing this side of Hamlet is in that scene--and it's a troubling one. Here's the briefest, most crucial components of the plot that we need to remember: Richard II has been deposed by his cousin, Bolingbroke, who is the new Henry IV. Because Richard gave up his throne and crown, he is no longer the monarch of England and has been imprisoned. Henry IV is dealing with traitors in his midst--a rather understandable problem, as not everyone is happy with the implications of a deposed king--and is anxious to weed out the problem. In an off-stage speech around a man named Exton (a character who doesn't show up until the fourth scene of Act 5), Henry IV says, "Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?" We as an audience are not privy to this declaration--Exton quotes him and his "First Man" (a servant) says, "Those were his very words." In fact, here's the scene in its entirety: EXTON In the next scene, which opens in Pomfret, we see a broken Richard II trying to understand his new reality. It's…stunning, the entire soliloquy is stunning and I encourage anyone to read it with the understanding that Richard is trying to figure out how a man who was supposed to be a king could no longer be one. But this essay isn't about Richard. It's about Exton. Because here's what happens next: Exton, having heard something implied in the king's speech that an assassin of Richard II would be loved by the new king, decides to take matters into his own hands. Exton sends a jailer to the imprisoned Richard with a meal, which Richard asks the keeper (basically the jail guard) to sample first--ensuring that it isn't poisoned--but the keeper immediately refuses. He says that "Sir Piers of Exton,/Who lately came from the King, command the contrary." Richard II strikes the keeper, fearing that the meal is actually poisoned. The keeper cries out, Exton rushes in, and "strikes [Richard II] down". Richard delivers some poetry before shuffling off this mortal coil, and Exton frets over what he's done: As full of valour as of royal blood: Though Exton is worried he may have made a mistake, he does indeed bring the body in front of the new king. He invokes what Henry IV had said about wanting someone to rid him of his fears, saying, "Within this coffin I present/Thy buried fear" (5.6.30-31).
Henry IV is flabbergasted--and though a director might choose that he act differently, my instinct in the text is that Henry IV is truly grieved for the death of his cousin. "Exton," says the king, "I thank thee not." Exton, shocked--perhaps as much that his own prophetic soul might truly have spoken as the words of the king himself--declares, "From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed." The king immediately banishes Exton, then turns to his assembled court and ends the play with a rhyming octave about how he did not, in reality wish this. To make up for the death of his cousin, Henry IV promises to head to the Holy Land "To wash this blood off from my guilty hand." The curtain drops over the face of a pensive and ill-secured king. *** Why am I going through this? Well, this week has seen an Exton in America. One is named Cesar Sayoc who attempted to explode Democratic leadership, including former presidents and vice presidents of the country. And, when I woke up this morning, a man--at the time of this writing, unidentified but in custody--attacked the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh. A lot of people are keen to put this type of behavior on the rhetoric of the commander-in-chief, and I'm reminded of Exton. I think of times when the president encouraged violence on his perceived opponents, and I'm reminded of Exton. I think of President Obama's comments the day after the 2016 election, saying that we're "actually on one team. This is an intramural scrimmage," and I'm reminded of Exton. I think of the dismissal of victims of sexual abuse by the president and his party, most notably (and, personally, disgustingly) by my own senator, Orrin Hatch. I see despicable behavior of the GOP, wonder at their audacity, and I'm reminded of Exton. Maybe King Henry IV really did say those words. Maybe he really did want Richard II dead. Maybe he didn't. But he blew a dog whistle and then was surprised when a mongrel showed up. People in positions of leadership take with the mantle of power a responsibility* to own the words they say. They have to: That's the point of a leader. The president is supposed to say things that encourage people to behave a particular way. That's why they go on the stump for candidates they endorse. That's why they address the nation in speeches. That's why they are frequently interviewed. Their leadership is supposed to, well, lead. Our modern day Extons are looking for excuses to act on violence. The pattern is clear for any willing to set aside partisan impulses. The danger is also clear: So long as the 45th president of the United States of America chuckles at the idea of locking up his political rivals, of encouraging violence against the press, of declaring the media an "enemy of the people", the president is saying things that Extons will hear and act on. Perhaps President Trump is genuinely appalled by the deaths and bomb-threats. Perhaps. But so long as he blows on his dog whistles, those ravenous for flesh will hear. And they will act. --- * Surely there's some quote somewhere that I can dredge up that demonstrates a connection between power and responsibility. It's tickling the back of my mind, like a spider's web that's brushed the back of my neck… ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! I voted today. I've been registered for by-mail voting since I moved to New Place back in '016, in part because it was the presidential election that year and I didn't want something to happen on that Tuesday that would prevent me from getting to the polls. Though I have some memories about that dark day, I'm not going to focus on November 2016, looking instead at the process I just went through. See, for me voting is a civic duty, a symbolic gesture, and a futile attempt at being in some measure of control of my government. Recognizing that these are all different--and, in some ways, incompatible--impulses, I felt that trying to sort these feelings out on paper may help me understand why I did something that feels so hopeless. The first is my civic duty. As a self-confessed deontologist, I think there are a lot of things to which I have a duty. The egotistical "What has ________ ever done for me?" doesn't hold a lot of water with me: Part of the concept of privilege is that those with it don't know they have it and often fail to recognize the sacrifices that build the tower on which they stand. Yes, there are things that I have been obligated to accomplish, not because of a request or a personal affirmation of that duty, but because I have (sometimes de facto) benefited from a society that is built upon the presumed duty of its members. To honestly believe that a society from which one has, in countless ways, benefited is tantamount to Satan's assertion in Book 5 of Paradise Lost: We know no time when we were not as now; One's success is never "self-begot", a person is never "self-raised". There are too many systems, too many givens in our society for that to ever be true. And I believe that there's a payment due for that sort of boon. Voting is a way of discharging that.
The second is the symbolism of the gesture. Voting isn't useful individually. Only one voice rarely makes a tangible difference. I highly doubt that any of the people on my ballot would win (or lose) because I didn't do my part. But I believe in symbols--I have to, as language is impossible without them. Simply because they are generated via our syntactical symbol-work and are, therefore, artificial doesn't mean they are powerless. Grades are an absolute train-wreck of broken symbols, but if I don't award my students grades, the system that runs on them will crush the possibilities of those students. The same goes for voting. It's important because we say it's important, and because we all agree (for the most part) that it's important, it is important. In this case, it's Hamlet's idea: "Nothing is either good or bad but thinking makes it so." Though I normally take issue with that argument, I think it does apply here: We think voting is good, so therefore it is good. And I should do good things. The third part, however, is the most complicated and nuanced and I don't know if I even understand why I feel this way. Voting is, from what I can see, an individually futile expression of my involvement with my government. The power of the ballot box is a cumulative thing, and I live in a place where my thinking is out of step with the moneyed and religious interests that keep the status quo humming along. Mitt "Mittens" (I'm assuming that's his nickname) Romney isn't challenged by Jenny Wilson. He certainly isn't threatened by her. At this point, Romney's merely waiting on the formality of counting the ballots before relocating to Washington. (And, though few probably care to hear my opinion, I don't think that Romney is going to be any better at stemming the tide of abuses and outrages perpetrated by Agent Orange than any other Republican, though I can at least relish that the ambulatory sack of disdain and arrogance that is Orrin Hatch will disappear from the Congress come January 2019.) I say this not because I think that Jenny Wilson isn't a good candidate--she's perfectly adequate and quite conservative compared to most other Democrats--or that there aren't people who agree with me that Mittlock (I'm guessing) Romney isn't really an advocate of good ideas for worthwhile government. There are plenty of people who, with me, will be voting against Mittador (maybe?) Romney in the thin hope that he'll somehow be defeated. And that's what I mean by the futility. Yeah, I voted against Mia Love--against whom I voted two years ago, though her opponent was so similar to her in so many ways it ended up being a matter of "out with the incumbents" justification for the vote--this year, too. There's been some scandal about the way she's handled finances, but in an age where a toupee-wearing traffic cone can be elected president, it's abundantly clear that scandals don't matter if there's an elephant on the ticket: A corrupt Republican is better than any sort of Democrat. (There may be some races where it actually moves the needle, but I've lost any faith I may have had about the way the Republican party runs itself to think it'll be enough to matter.) Some of you may be thinking I'm being too harsh on the GOP or not scathing enough on the Democrats. You might be right…but I kind of doubt it. I don't buy into a "both sides" argument either, as not only is it often vacuous, but it creates a sense of false-equivalency that isn't just bad logic but actually dangerously harmful. "Whatabout-ism" and "both sides" and "centrism is the way to go" all operate on an assumption that the actions of politicians can be rendered on a comparative spectrum. That's no way to run a political system--shifting goalposts may be the name of the game, but that game is also called "This Is A Load of Crap"--and I refuse to buy into it. Some things that the Democrats do is bad, yes. Some things that the Republicans endorse are good, yes. That doesn't change the fact that the Republicans, who are entirely in control of every aspect of the federal government and a hefty portion of the state level offices (especially here in Utah), have failed to hold the president accountable with even the easiest and trivial of things--revealing his tax returns, vetting those with security clearance, or (as was just reported today) ensuring that the president uses secured phone lines so that his conversations can't be eavesdropped on by foreign entities--are, it too often feels, positively gleeful to allow much larger breaches of conduct and ethics to get a free pass. That's nothing to do with Democrats: It's all on the head of the GOP establishment. That's where my sense of futility comes from, I think. I'm unaffiliated--there's no way I'm paying a political party money, I'm not going to register to be a part of their club--but I long ago left the Republican's method of thinking. I think their fundamental assertions and assumptions are cracked and flawed. However, I always assumed that they were well-intentioned if wrongly directed in their thinking. My, but how 2016 changed that. I realized then that there actually isn't a morality of Republicanism (and this is speaking of the party as a single entity, rather than bothering with the gratifying-but-usually-pointless acknowledgment that "not all Republicans" are that way) that doesn't begin, travel, and end with the Machiavellian impulse of getting and maintaining power. All of politics is about power, of course. It's frustrating to see that the Republicans, for all of their unholy alliances with the language of God and worship, of Christianity and free-market exploitation, of their claims to being a voice for the Moral Majority, have only used these thin veneers to attempt to mask their greed and naked lust for power. Republicans have always been the better salespeople--that's why they have so many people voting for their candidates and belonging to their party. Sadly, it's always only ever been snake oil that they peddle. Writing that makes me sound angry and petty--which is accurate. This is a maddening thing for me, to be surrounded by people who, statistically, think that Tr*mp is doing a good job, of people who would and will vote for 45 despite all of the active harm that he is doing to immigrant families, political discourse, and decades of presidential precedent. It's hard to use my vote to say, "No, this is not right. The politics on the ballot is not right. These ideas are not right," and yet fully know that, in a county and a state as red as mine, it makes no tangible difference. It's as futile as opposing a war that's already over…but I do that, too. So maybe voting isn't so out of character for me after all. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Earlier, I wrote about how I don't talk about Milton enough. The problems of teaching a topic--so much so that it's heavy on my mind even well after school is out--and then coming home and trying to say something new is also familiar to frequent readers. Today, however, a feeling that has been crystalizing in my mind over the past week or two has finally come to the fore and I wanted to explore it before it slips away from me.
I think that John Milton and I are cut from the same cloth. Okay, that sounds immensely arrogant, so hear me out before you decide I'm suffering from delusions of grandeur. Tracing Milton's life here, some four hundred years plus down the line from where we live, it's hard to believe there was ever a doubt of Milton's greatness. His power, authority, poetry, and presence are continually felt. He made an impact on the English language itself, to say nothing of almost single-handedly shaping the way that we in the West view Satan--in a similar way to how Dante has shaped the way we view Hell. There are vestiges of Milton in Mormonism (which I do view as different from the doctrine of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), even, and--for me and many like me--an endless source of insight, questions, and treasures embedded within Paradise Lost most pointedly, but all of his work in a broad sense. So to think that, in the mid-1630s, this buttoned-up Puritan was crippled with self-doubt and concern about his resolution to be, not just a poet, but the poet of the people of England…well, I guess it's hard to believe that he could ever doubt his future fame. But in 1637, when he had finally published his one piece of drama, a masque performed at Ludlow Castle in 1634--a piece we now colloquially call Comus--Milton was still preoccupied with the embarrassing goal of his life: To make something worth remembering. Charles Diodati, a friend to the young Milton and, in some ways (I would argue), a man whose premature death helped to form John Milton into the poet-prophet he would eventually become, received a letter from Milton in that selfsame year, 1637. In it, Milton writes this: Listen, Diodati, but in secret, lest I blush; and let me talk to you grandiloquently for a while. You ask what I am thinking? So help me God, an immortality of fame!" Even to his dear, close friend, Milton struggled to give voice to the calling he felt certain he had received--his vocation (in its more original sense of the word)--to become a poetic voice of such power that his country would never "knowingly let [it] die". He says "in secret, lest [he] blush" about the audacity of his desires: To be famous and, thereby, be immortal. I don't feel I have the same vocation as Milton. I certainly am far too simple a mind to even think about dreaming to follow in Milton's footsteps--aside from the fact that there's really just no market for epic poetry, I don't think my poetic chops would ever be able to approach the worst line that Milton ever blotted--so the scale is smaller in my case. But Milton's conviction--wavering though it may have been, particularly when the needs of his country interjected themselves into his life, diverting him from his poetic path in order to answer a patriotic call--was that he had a grand purpose, a vision that only he could share. And despite that particular conviction, he still doubted, still wondered, still proclaimed his unreadiness and unworthiness to tackle such a large task. In this Milton and I differ quite a bit, though: His ambition kept him motivated. And maybe I have some, too, but I'm also ready to settle and slow down, to be content with what I have. For example, if I were to become blind, I feel like I would probably spiral into a deep depression from which I would never be able to fully leave. I don't know if I would be able to convince myself to continue to write, to create my own version of worlds and stories--and I have twenty-first century tools with which I could accommodate myself. In order to write his later works, most notably Paradise Lost, Milton had an amanuensis (someone who would take dictation and act as a personal aide) to relieve his poetic (prophetic?) lines, a man who would "milk" (Milton's phrase) the blind poet of the lines he'd composed to himself at night. I don't know if I have that much passion inside of me, nor do I have the confidence that anyone would be interested in reading what I had to say if I did push through that difficulty. And that kind of makes me wonder what kind of passion I truly have. There are armless artists, deaf musicians, and blind writers. But I doubt that I would be able to put myself into that category, were my life not so blessed and privileged. So what I identify with is the yearning, the worrying, the desire that Milton harbored throughout almost all of his life. He finished Paradise Lost and its less famous sequel, Paradise Regain'd, in the last few years of his life. He wasn't quite at the level of Dante, who died shortly after finishing The Comedy (which only later generations would call Divine), so Milton was able to enjoy some of the reception of what turned out to be the literal culmination of a life of work, study, prayer, and expectation. Am I charting through waters already sounded by Milton? Am I spending my "early" life in a constant state of preparation and bated breath, hoping that something will germinate and then bloom in a way that future generations--or, perhaps, even this generation--might find worthy of keeping and remembering? Or do I have to wait until my twilight years and the dimming of my faculties before I can approach something that looks like success? And do I have the patience for that? One of the great things about being a kid is that you can Baskin Robins your future: There are so many options, possibilities, careers, and identities that you can choose from that it's both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. And there are moments, I think, in most people's lives that give them a sense of whether or not they would fit into one particular field or another. If the sight of blood makes you queasy, then it's clear that nursing or doctoring won't be an easy career, for example. And what kid hasn't, at some point or another, thought that she might one day become a detective.
As a youngling, I had that idea at one point. Cracking cases, putting together clues--it sounded pretty exciting. One day, I was poking around on the family computer. It was a Macintosh Apple computer, meaning there were limited options for entertainment on the system. We had Marathon (still, in my mind, one of the best video games of that era) and a handful of other games, but they were slim pickings. I noticed one file called "MOOD" floating around. I stared at it. What was that? Was it a game of some sort? I didn't open up the file, as my brother came in at that moment. "What's "MOOD'?" I asked him. He smirked. "It's 'DOOM' backwards, so Mom and Dad don't know that I have it." "Oh," I said. It was at that moment that I realized I probably wouldn't make a very good detective. Maybe part of the fuel to that fantasy came from the Encyclopedia Brown series. There are more of them than seagulls at the city dump, each one having ten to twelve mini-mysteries that the reader can enjoy. At the end of the book, you can look up the answer to the mystery. They all involve fictional Idaville's premier boy detective, Leroy Brown, whose sobriquet is Encyclopedia. Because he's read so many books, even though he's only ten, Encyclopedia has a great eye for detail. The stories are quick and fun, packed with the pertinent details that a person needs in order to solve the case. I'm listening to different books--we're on the third one right now--and, after each chapter ends, pausing it so that the boys can try to guess the solution. About eighty percent of the time, I can figure out the clues, which lets me coax and question the boys until they can cotton on to the correct answer. Sometimes they jump on the discrepancies fast enough that I don't have to worry about it. Other times, all of us are stymied. The thing about these stories is there's always one tiny detail, one important part of the tale that gives the clue (or, as is often the case, the lie) to the whole case. It's nice, because it means that there isn't really a lot of external know-how you need to bring to the stories. While this isn't always true, most chapters are about refining the reader's (or, in this case, the listener's) ability to envision and keep track of details. The story has a consistent cast of interesting and eclectic characters, from Bugs Meany, the local bully to Sally, Encyclopedia's bodyguard and junior partner. The kids get into lots of hijinks and idyllic adventures that tap into the imagined nostalgic of baby boomers--for whom, I think, Donald Sobol wrote. It makes for a wholesome kind of world where wrongdoers are caught, good guys win, and kids make a difference. And that's one of the downsides of the formula. While it's lots of fun to puzzle out the clues and answers, sometimes the incongruity that Encyclopedia Brown notices is so small or potentially circumstantial that a person could compound their lie by simply saying, "I'm sorry, I misspoke." Here's an example: There's one case where Encyclopedia catches the liar by pointing out that the liar's story was obviously false because the backdoor had a spider's web spun around it. Had the liar been telling the truth, the web would have been broken. The end of the story is usually, "Confronted with the truth, So-and-so confessed and returned the stolen goods." But if there's a kid who was caught lying but a spider-web was the counter proof, the kid would probably say, "Well, he must have run through a different back door! Or a side door, I don't know." Being caught in the lie wouldn't likely be enough to drive kids into a confession. And that also turns to the comparative stupidity of the people of Idaville. Encyclopedia's dad is the chief of police, but the man comes off as an incompetent bumbler, since some of the cases that his ten year old son solves are simple enough that my eight year old figures them out, too. This isn't a slight against Sobol, necessarily: His formula is specific for his age group and demographic, and what better way for young kids--mostly boys, so far as target audience goes--to feel empowered than for them to feel smarter than the grown-ups? That slight critique aside (that and Sobol's penchant for bizarre similes can be as irritating as often as it is enjoyable), I remember the Encyclopedia Brown stories fondly. I'm glad that I stumbled upon the audiobooks so that I can share* this sort of attention-refining practice with my own boys. If you haven't checked them out before, you should give them a go. They're a lot of fun. --- * On the whole, the stories are fresh for me. But there are some cases that I remember so well that, despite the fact that it's been over twenty years since I read the book, I can recall the details I needed to pay attention to in order to crack the case. I don't know if that's a hats off to Sobol for writing memorable cases, or that I have a strange tendency to remember random stuff I read from when I was in the single digits. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! When I first moved to New Place, I was excited because it meant that I would have a good hour of total commute time every day--about thirty minutes each way, maybe a bit longer--and that meant I could listen to five or more hours of books every day. This ended up being true, with one caveat I hadn't anticipated: I would run out of kid-appropriate books that I knew of.
It isn't that there aren't plenty of books--and plenty that I'm eager to read, at that--prepared for audio consumption that wouldn't make for a great addition to my "have read" list. It's that, though I read a lot of books as a kid, not all of them--in fact, precious few--have audiobook components. I tried listening to a Brandon Sanderson book, Steelheart, and was only a few minutes in before I realized I didn't want my then-four year old to be listening to the story. It wasn't that it was bad, it just wasn't age appropriate. So I began to cull my memories for stories that I remember liking. We read some Dragonriders of Pern, the Prydain Chronicles, and some other parts that really fit in with what I loved reading as a kid. You can imagine, then, my excitement when I saw that the first two books in the My Teacher is an Alien series by Bruce Coville showed up in my digital library. I loved those four books as a kid, with the last one, My Teacher Flunked the Planet being one of the first novels that ever moved me to reconsider what I understood about the world. Sadly, there aren't audiobooks for the third and fourth entries in the series, so though I'm excited my boys have now listened to the first two (My Teacher is an Alien and My Teacher Fried My Brains), I don't quite know how to handle getting the next half of the series into their imaginations. As far as books go, they're pretty standard Bruce Coville fare, which is to say that they're brisk, well written, interesting stories about kids working hard to overcome difficult things in their lives. Coville wrote the kinds of stories that I enjoyed--science fiction, some horror (kid horror, of course, being spooky stories and nothing more), and a good dose of fantasy--and it's clear that my kids like his stuff, too. My Teacher works well as it's a story in which Susan has to defeat the new substitute teacher, a guy named Mr. Smith. It turns out that Mr. Smith is actually an alien who abducted the original teacher and is now trying to find a representative sample of students to bring with him to outer space--hence his need to disguise himself as an elementary school teacher. What I like about this series is that it pushes into some areas that, as far as kid lit is usually concerned, don't feel comfortable. The aliens are trying to determine if Earth is worth preserving, or if humans are far too immature and need to be annihilated before we figure out interstellar travel. While the idea of humanity's weaknesses making "aliens" uncomfortable is hardly new, the way Coville approaches it is refreshing and exciting. As I said before, it was one of the earliest times where fiction made me reconsider reality. What does humanity have to offer the broader spectrum of existence? It's a hard enough question to answer within the scope of planet Earth. How can we answer that when it's extended into the vastness of the stars? I honestly can't remember what happens in the fourth book that so moved me, save I know there was an impassioned speech that made me think. I keep glancing at my bookshelf to see if I have a copy of that book, but, sadly, that particular gem got lost somewhere on the journey of my life. I bought a three-in-one copy of the first three books for Puck, and though he enjoyed the first one, he hadn't read the second one. The boys followed along with the narration during our commutes, and now they want to read aloud the third book. Then, at some point, I'll have to either buy the fourth one or check it out from the library, I guess. At any rate, the books are light, enjoyable, and worth an afternoon. No, they aren't the most profound thing you're likely to read, but they are memorable. I'd give it a go, if you haven't already. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Yesterday, Gayle and I went to our first anime convention. The local one is called Anime Banzai, which is an interesting name for historical reasons. The entire experience was fun--not on the level of Fan X/Comic Con, as the scale was much reduced--but it was still enjoyable. I didn't recognize a great many of the costumes--when it comes to anime, I have a handful of shows that I really enjoy and I leave the rest alone. (There are a lot of reasons for that, not least of which the fact that there's a lot of content I'm not really sure I want to see.) Gayle and I watched a series a few months ago called Sword Art Online, which we both enjoyed a lot. Gayle decided to make costumes from the series--a choice more than a little influenced by the fact that the two main characters are a dark haired guy and a red-headed girl, I daresay--so we were able to go as Asuna (Gayle's costume) and Kirito (my costume). A dozen or so people asked for pictures, which act acts as a barometer for Gayle about how well she made her costumes. We attended a few panels, played some Dungeons and Dragons, and basically had a good time the whole day. This morning, as I was thinking about what I'd experienced and learned, a conversation I overheard a couple weeks back came to mind. One student was talking to me about Attack on Titan, another anime that I really enjoy (so much so that I couldn't wait for the anime to catch up with the story, so we've purchased all twenty-six volumes of the manga). Another overheard me and said with a kind of scorn and dismay that I'm familiar with--since I have, after all, been interested in the geek scene since I was little and, on top of that, also played quidditch for half a decade--as someone who doesn't agree with another's particular passion tries to make a reasoned argument about why the area of interest isn't worthy pursuit. "Why do you watch so much anime?" asked the chider. "Because I like it and there's a lot to watch." "But there are things besides anime. A lot of it is really good," said the chider, imagining that he was being reasonable. "But I like this. Why should I watch something else?" asked the other student. The bell was about to ring, so I had to leave and not hear the rest of the conversation, but there was something that bothered me about what the chider was after and I wasn't able to put my finger on it until now: Chider thought that anime was a genre, not a medium. The criticism of watching "too much anime" is the same as "reading too many books" or "viewing too many films". There is a conversation to have about how much time a person puts into entertainment, but that conversation isn't about the type, it's about the time. And that isn't what's at stake when someone gets after an otaku who loves her anime. Instead, it's attempting to swap a medium for a genre--a case of apples-to-oranges fallacy if ever I've seen one. Anime is the Japanese term for cartoon, so there's already a generic expectation inside a Western audience. Though we have a handful of cartoons that aren't for children, they are almost entirely comedies (which receive less critical consideration than drama/tragedy). When we Americans think of cartoons, golden age Looney Toons jump to mind, or maybe some Saturday morning fare from when we were kids. Cartoons are what children watch when mommy needs a lie-down. And though there are affecting cartoons that adults love (see: Most of the Pixar film category), there is a nostalgic/reductive tendency--almost to a level of irony, I would say--that moderates the reason for an adult to like what is considered "kid stuff". That prejudice is pretty strong in our culture, but it's particularly misplaced when it comes to another's. In this case, anime isn't for kids--like, hardly at all. Sure, there are some kid-friendly anime series, and they can be a lot of fun. But anime isn't a genre, it's a medium. Within anime there are types of stories that reflect almost every facet of storytelling. There are larger-than-life titles within science fiction (Neon Genesis Evangelion is the example par excellence for that) and high fantasy (my personal favorite was Record of Lodoss War), dystopian (Attack on Titan) and urban fantasy/horror (Death Note), as well as series from much more specific interests. There are J-Pop anime and porn anime and cooking anime and--I just learned about this one--marching band anime. That's right, there's an entire series about some girls who want to be in a marching band and their struggles in the unique dynamic of band camp. (It's called Sound! Euphonium if you want to check it out.) What I'm getting at is there's as much diversity of tone, style, and substance within anime as there is inside of live-action TV, scripted dramas, and basically all other modes of visual storytelling. So why the eye-rolling response when a kid says he likes anime? Again, I think it's part of the knee-jerk disdain for children entertainment. Not all of it is very good, of course, but the idea of actually liking what is intended for a younger audience seems to be bothersome to a lot of people. And the idea that cartoons can't be anything but childish entertainment seems a given. Another reason for a lot of people's dismissal, I believe, is aesthetic. Yeah, Japanese animation and manga have a distinct style. And, to an unfamiliar eye, it can all look the same. But there's a huge difference between what you can see in Dragon Ball Z and Robotech, for example. All of this is to say that I don't think the criticism of anime can stand on as slender a branch as aesthetic/generic critiques. Is there something to say about aspects of the medium? Certainly. There is a tendency to stretch out stories beyond their scope (done for many reasons, not the least of which is that the source material isn't complete). The violence, nudity, sexuality, and swearing can sometimes be so extreme as to distract from the story. Stories often end in tragedy--particularly for the more adult-oriented series--which reflects the Eastern sensibilities that may not be palatable to some in the West. Translational errors can make already overly-complicated tales impossible to follow. Animation quality can vary a great deal, sometimes enough that the ability to enjoy the series is hampered. In other words, there's plenty of reasons to dislike certain anime or genres inside of it. There are areas of critique and consideration. But they're all within the medium, rather than external to it.
I don't believe it as perfectly axiomatic to say "Don't knock it 'til you try it," particularly when there are some things that don't need to be tried to know they're a bad idea (drugs and adultery are two ready examples). But when it comes to anime, I think that there has to be some exposure to multiple types before a full-fledged rejection of the medium is justified. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! In writing parlance, there are two broad formats for how a writer goes about crafting a story: architect and gardener*. The former is one who sets about with a deliberate plan--usually in the form of an outline--and doesn't proceed until all of the pieces are in place. World-building, story outline, characters and their personalities, these are all tools that the architect uses to smash out a story. Famous architects that I'm aware of include Brandon Sanderson and James Patterson--two very different writers with very different generic sensibilities, but also quite prolific.
The latter type are gardeners, or those who go into the world of the story and prune, dung, weed, nurture, and trim whatever is already there until it's a beautiful sight to behold. The story (the garden itself) is there before the work begins, but it's untamed and wild. There are parts that don't fit with the rest of the garden that have to be discovered and then extracted. In terms of writing, it takes a long time to go through this sort of thing, mandating multiple revisions of the story to make sure everything that's supposed to be there ends up in the final product. Some famous architects include (though I may be misremembering their processes) George R.R. Martin and Haruki Murakami. I have done both kinds of writing--which is a distorting phrase, because every novel is different and the process by which I write can shift. It's almost more of a spectrum: Some light architecturing, heavy weeding. Then the reverse. It's rare that a writer doesn't discover something new on the journey, while I doubt there's a writer who doesn't have at least some basic shape of the story that's already built inside of her head. Still, the two categories are useful because, once a writer figures out what she is more naturally attuned to, she can go about improving her skills in that type of writing. For me, I prefer to outline. Not that I specifically like that, it's just that I hate editing a lot (though I'm slowly improving) and outlines--being an architect--cuts down on the plot holes and provides a more satisfying experience on the first pass than otherwise. I haven't always been an architect, though. It was only once I wrote a story, from beginning to end, over the course of a few weeks--as opposed to the multi-year experience from my then-previous gardening project--that I realized I could only be prolific if I buckled down, told myself the story first in outline form, and then moved it into the page. Since then, I've written five or six novels--all of my NaNoWriMo projects were outlined beforehand--using the architect method I've developed. And, frankly, I just really like being able to get a feeling for a whole story before I get into it. It's nice to feel "prolific", even if it is as an amateur (used in its original sense). But I have a soft spot in my heart for the at-the-keyboard-question, Where do I go now? The level of improvisation and effort to retain a distinct memory between what I've thought should be in the story and what I've actually written in the story is exciting. I know a lot of writers like having written--that the process of writing itself is tedious to them--but I'm not one of them. The fact that, even when the essay is rubbish, I go ahead and type it up is an example of that, I think. I like to write. I like counting my words. I like seeing the graph of my work click ever upwards. It's fun. And if my fingers are on the keyboard and I'm drafting a piece, it feels like I'm writing--which I am--in a more fundamental and thrilling way than when I have a handful of notecards and I'm scribbling away on an outline. So, as a result, I have a couple of different projects that I'm currently working on that are mostly garden-style stories. There's still some background work--which I've always done--so that the world feels consistent and the characters don't act out of, well, character. (This is what I mean by the two ends feeling more like stations on a spectrum, rather than firm binaries.) But these stories aren't plotted out, their purposes aren't really understood by me yet. I'm getting images in my mind and I begin to write. It's pretty much that simple. The pro to this is, of the two ways of writing, that actual experience of garden-writing is much more pleasurable to me than the alternative. The con to that, of course, is the cons of being a gardener: I don't know what the shape of my story is supposed to be, which means I may put a lot of effort into something that, ultimately won't be important or pay off. This is what is meant by the advice, "kill your darlings". Sometimes there's a really cool description, moment, or character that is actually a weed in the garden. No matter how pretty it is, if it's a weed, it has to go. And that can hurt. I gave my writing group the first few thousand words of one of these stories, a short (lol, no) story called "Mon Sters". They really seemed to enjoy it, saying that they were sad that it ended (the story's still incomplete) and that it was some of my work that they've enjoyed the most. And I agree with that--I'm proud of that story, thus far--and it has a vivacity that my outlined stuff lacks. Part of that is because of the style of writing that I'm striving for--a more robust approach that toes the line between overwritten and rich--which I can only seem to make when I'm writing ex tempore. On one level, this is flattering. I'm glad that they're liking it thus far. It's also frustrating: I can't rely on the story continuing to be good and it has created expectations that I'm blind to being able to continue. I don't know what will come next, and that is kind of scary. One thing is certain, though: Creation is never an act of control. Architect or gardener, there's always an element of tapping into some otherspace where good words live, seeking a way to communicate through stains on a page some language that's affecting. It's the perpetual struggle of writing: Where do I go from here? --- * And, like any good bit of parlance, there are multiple ways of saying the same thing. So while I use architect and gardener here, the terms outliner and pantser (writing by the seat of one's pants) are also used. I think it was Stephen King who, in the gardener mode, claimed that a story was uncovered, like a paleontologist excavating a dinosaur fossil. While this concept of being a discovery writer fits in well, I'm using the terms above for simplicity's sake. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! |
AuthorWould you like to support my writings? Feel free to buy me a coffee (which I don't drink, but I do drink hot chocolate) at my Ko-Fi page. Thanks! Archives
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