Lowered Expectations

Police That Mooostache!

This guy...

Nothing spectacular for this weekend.  Sorry for the let down.  Currently focusing all attention on finishing Trader within the span of the weekend.  While daunting, I’ve got much support, so there’s that.  Just have to put forth the effort of not being such a lazy ass. 

Wish me luck.

Also, as I’ve got to submit to an agent post-revision (maybe three weeks away), I need to send a Query.  This will include an About The Author section as well as a tag (you know, the thing you read on the back cover before you ever buy the book).  So here’s both of those things. 

Don’t judge me, they’re still in the conceptual phase.

Wrestling with a conscience he wasn’t aware existed as years of reckless hedonism begin to catch up with him, directionless Trader finds that trying to leave an ever confusing life of murder, manipulation, and explosions is more difficult than he could have imagined.

Ignore Me!

Jonny was first published at the age of 19, believing that sailing around the world for a year was enough qualification for writing a book.  From the Mind of a Pez Dispenser did dismally, but proved a turning point in his otherwise shiftless life.  He now spends what little free time he can find, between being a super awesome helicopter pilot (no, seriously, stop laughing) and deployments, writing to his heart’s desire.  He also maintains a blog, because who doesn’t?

There’s also supposed to be a 300 word synopsis for the book, but uh…  uh…  someone wanna get that for me?

Blair Eddings is a Hottie

Remember, no matter where you go, there you are.

There was a trend for a while of websites and books coming out with titles like Dave Willis is a Jerkface (First name, last name, is a, adjective).  And while Blair is indeed a hottie, I just wanted to see if it worked with any cool sounding name. 

It does (sorry B).

There was a better point to this…  Oh!  Pin-ups!  Blair is totally pinup.  And I’m going to start using that word for anything that reminds me of the 30’s and 40’s.  Not, you know, the whole beating your wife and racism thing, more of the better parts of Americana around that time.  The planes were cooler, the rules were more lax, the uniforms were better, and the women were… pin-up.  Maybe I’m just looking at it through the sepia tinted goggles of nostalgia and piloting. 

Seeing a friend – who shall remain nameless – go through a marriage that began as malt-shakes at the diner and has evolved into a 1950’s post-war couple, kind of makes me hate the 50’s.  So…screw that decade.

Eh, I still would.

Finally saw the movie Ted this weekend.  As far as I could tell, it was the heartwarming tale of a former rapper inexplicably bedding a pre-Oz Mila Kunis while she desperately tries to leave behind Family Guy in the form of Seth MacFarlane’s ghost possessing a Teddy Ruxpin.  It gets a 8/10 purely because it felt like everyone involved was three seconds away from saying wicked pissa.  Otherwise it would have been 10/10, bonus points for Flash Gordon.

Her career is much more entertaining.

The Fast and The Furious 6 came out this weekend as well.  Thanks but no, I’ll keep my doses of Vin Diesel to 90 minutes stretches of Riddick.  Michelle Rodriguez would probably be a good excuse to subject myself to watching a tank chase down tricked out Hondas, maybe.  Or I could just watch season 2 of Lost and call it even.  Dwayne Johnson lost all my respect when he decided that The Tooth Fairy was a good idea. 

I highly recommend Tucker and Dale vs. Evil and Lesbian Vampire Killers.  If you have time.

Two things in the news that matter.  The first is some little Chinese asshole teen decided to deface the Luxor in Egypt.  Who agrees that the little doucher needs to be keelhauled?  Accordingly, this type of behavior has become the normal as wealthy Chinese tourists have replaced the (now) atypical ugly American.  But hey, when you’ve got to spend time teaching an entire nation how to stand in line and not spit all over the sidewalk, what do you expect?  (Anyone remember the lead up to the Beijing Olympics?)

Eh, I still would.

The second was that Putin (or is it Medevev?) has decided on a course of action in Syria which completely contradictory to what almost every other free country in the UN believes to be a good idea.  They are going to arm (and presumably train) the Syrian government – you know the one?  The same one accused of some serious violations of human rights? – with S-300 anti-aircraft missile systems.  That’s a generation 5 weapon, very advanced.  I guess they wanted to keep ‘hot heads [sic]’ from entering the conflict.  That means anyone supporting the rebels or preventing the government from bombing civilians OR attacking literally any aircraft they can see (like, for instance, those flying into Israel).   

Regional stability my left nut.

As an afterthought, apparently Mermaids are now a thing.  So, uh, hell yeah.

Trader is almost done.  7 more chapters, 10,000 more words, and cover art.  That's a book ladies and gentlemen.  235 pages so far.  WOOT!

60,000 Words and Virtural Violence

Come see in the violence inherent in the system!

Playing competitive videogames can be equated to driving a car in the sense that road rage begets creativity.  In a recent Soul Caliber IV game with Kat, I learned something very interesting; That when presented with a no-win situation, my current vocabulary is nowhere near up to the par required to express my frustration. 

Because fuck Yoda, that's why.

“I’m going to sword-fuck your nether balls you transubstantial gobble-cock,” while fighting (or sometimes using) Nightmare.  Or even, “Die.  Just fucking die you wrinkly green space turd.  I’m going to fist-rape your Yoda hole so hard, Frank Oz is going to cry.”

I know I’m not alone.  But I think it may be genetic, because according to dad, my grandfather came up with “Your mother’s tits swing,” circa 1970.  He would have been a fantastic gamer.

Anywho, to celebrate 60,000 words, here’s a defining moment of Trader’s cohabitation with Lily.

<it's in revision>

Fratricide

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

Only with a smaller cast.
And less Fox telling fans
to go fuck themselves.

I keep touting the end (of Trader) approaching.  To not be called a dirty liar, I am devoutly working towards that goal.  As such, it is time for cover art.  Initially I wanted a Grand Theft Auto type cover, or the type of cover that Firefly used for its box set. 

But then…

My editor came up with an interesting point – as she is wont to do (see the discussion involving the naming conventions, which coincidentally ALSO involves a Firefly reference).  She said “You don’t really give much description when it comes to your characters [sic].” 

“But,” she conjectured, “it works.”  Totally, completely, utterly, mostly on purpose.  Not really though.  It does work, and that is insane!  The reason, as I’ve figure out from reading Cracked.com, is that your mind fills in the blanks on its own.  Horror is at its scariest when the monster is still hiding in the shadows.  Tolkien is a great writer but he gets fucking tedious after spending several paragraphs on describing what a tree looks like.  If you are talking about a magical forest, gimme some snapshots and I’ll do the rest.  It ruins the imagination.

Where am I going with this?  Lemme back track… Right!  I want the hero of every one of my stories (sans the graphic novels, because screw you that’s why), to be YOUR hero.  I want the villain to be your villain.  I want every character I develop in these books to be, at their very core, yours.  My intent to guide you where needed to capture an archetype, or to keep someone (like Keian) implacably constant.  Trader – much to my surprise – wears different masks as the story progresses, according to a bunch of people that I’ve handed a manuscript over.  Purely accidental, and I wish I could recreate that in everything I do, in the same manner.

Oh, I’m taking submissions, we’ll do a contest if more than three people enter.  Please?  Just don’t ruin people’s ability to think. 

In my defense, he was a
douche.

I just woke from a dream wherein I bludgeoned a man to death with an odd combination of a less than sturdy baseball bat and a rolling pin.  It was a challenge, I’ll say that much.  And the fight was legitimately recognized and refereed.  I was a stand in for a much stronger man, and cannot for the life of me remember the reason for the gauntlet being thrown.

In the context of necessity, I remember the deed needing to be done.  However, the circumstances leading up to the fight are fuzzy.  Something about demons and possessed machines inside a very large spire. As far as the event itself goes, it managed to burn itself inside my retinas.  The man I killed was the definition of a bro.  Frat material through and through.  Even so, it was…

Disturbing. 

I know we all have the capacity to kill.  It’s hardwired as a survival technique, regardless of what lies or stories we tell ourselves.  Fortunately, the experience for most people is so traumatic that even the attempt is unthinkable by anyone with a  conscious. 

The exception is when it comes to need and desire.  Need could fall under a whole slew of categories, such as kill or be killed.  In that situation, if and when you come out on top as the survivor, the feeling is one of elation.  A murderer on the other hand, enjoys it because that feeling ecstasy. 

Trader began killing for the former, but continued to do it for the rush brought by survival.  Whether or not external motivation for justice or monetary gain exists (where justice is generally the reason behind the contracts and money the compensation and illegal activities on the side balance out both of those things) is irrelevant.  The question raised is that of is killing in the name of supposed law okay if the killer enjoys his job?

Cel, by definition, is a murderer through and through.  Don’t over think that one.

The more I write about Keian, the less I know what the hell Keian is.

No Trader until later today.  About to break 60,000 words (and another three or four chapters), so I'd like whatever chapter I post today to be something critical.

In the meantime, here's a camel spider.

Come at me, bro.

My Own Cel

Like I ever drove before.

Before we start anything this weekend, I must state that every post was written through a ubiquitous haze of exhaustion.  While I’d like to believe that I am a terribly clever writer, there is plenty of evidence to the contrary.  Also, I become woefully cynical whilst sleepy. 

There’s your caveat, do your best to enjoy, it’s not all rainbows and sunshine.

Lady Problems.  No wait, problems WITH ladies.

First:  The Guitar; here are some pics:

To rehash; the plan is to raf…raffe…raffa…auction it off at Dragon Con 2013 from Demarr’s booth.  (Yeah, you heard me right.  Demarr has a booth.  Check out his fine wares).  Everyone who signed at DCC was very cool.  Jason David Frank (Green Ranger), Catherine Sutherland (Pink Ranger … after Kimberly), Ernie Hudson (Ghostbusters), Natasha Henstridge (Species), Tom Ambrose (Stargate), Adam Baldwin (Adam Baldwin), and LeVar Burton (Reading Rainbow, et. al) were all willing participants.  Though I did learn that in order to get them to sign charity stuff, one needs to clear it with management first.  A staffer firmly but politely told me to stop.

Woops.

On to the second:  Awkwardness.

I’ve come to the rather sad realization (thence acceptance) that I am terrible at meeting new people in any kind of consistent manner.  Con notwithstanding (because let’s face it, Cons count as an exception to just about every rule), I am a super awkward person when it’s down to one-on-one interaction.  Crowds?  Public speaking?  Making an ass out of myself in front of strangers?  Bring it on.  Anything else…

The example I wanted to use has been replayed many many many times over in my life.  I am (after much heartbreak and nights of absolute self-loathing) a nice guy, very honest, and completely filterless.  I won’t think twice to tell someone they are awesome, or beautiful, or that you might want to rethink those shorts until you lose about ten pounds.  To wit, I once got beat by an interrogator for flirting with her during an certain four lettered school.  Forgive me, I told her during the debrief, I had no idea. 

My latest series of mistakes has been trying to hang out with acquaintances that I’d like to get to know better for literally no other reason than they seem like someone I would legitimately hang out with.  Guys or girls, works for both in this case.  The responses to which I’ve received have usually been along the lines of, “Eh, maybe, as long as it isn’t a blind date sort of thing.”

Wait, what?  I don’t… there isn’t… I guess sitting at home and maintaining interaction with people online has robbed me of social skills and turned me into a total creeper.  That or the directness with which I’ve been accustomed to for nearly a decade of military service has skewed my sense of how to deal with subtlety in conversation.  Meaning I have none, and apparently it is always taken either the wrong way or completely perpendicular to what I meant.

Devi, dammit.  My name
Is. Not. Alice!

When the hell did that become the norm?  I must just be getting old.  And cynical.  God I hope that makes sense to everyone else. 

As far as relationships go, I do not believe in love at first sight.  I do believe in instant friendship.  Like Kat, who has seen me licked by random strangers at Dragon Con (yes, girls can be Con Creepers too.  Knock that shit off ladies, if you wanna lick my tats, ask first lest you get punched in the ovaries).  My first interaction with Kat after Con was her calling me a cock-jockey, which obviously made us best friends forever.  Speaking of, here’s Alice:

But friendships, once established, are easy.  The transition from friendship to relationship is dicey.  I’ve never understood the relationships I’ve had, nor those of my friends.  My thought is that in order to have a successful relationship, it should be based on friendship first, and then NOTHING should change, save the sex. 

Here's something cute to offset everything else.

Saying you love someone is a death knell to friendship.  After love, there’s no going back.  WHY?!  Celeste is not just a character created from the fundament, she is as much allegory as a living, breathing avatar of her real life character basis (including some word for word dialogue).  We started off as friends, and a gesture of comfort (offering her dinner after a bad breakup) turned into what amounts to the rockiest fucking months of my life.

If I was honest with myself (and why not?) I’d say that at first I didn’t even want anything from her.  It wasn’t until she turned into a ridiculously possessive ice-queen (week 2) that I gave in to the tidal wave that was her emotional rollercoaster.  Emotionally I’m distant, she was overpowering, and I was swept away. 

Now?  I am forever wary of intent. 

 

I guess the whole point of this is that introducing yourself by giving a list of the top five male celebs that’d you do and never call back is easily the best conversation starter.

Am I happy?  No, but I am content.  And happy writers suck.

Here Come the Train a'comin Post-Con Blues

Blues man get in just about anywhere.

Buddy Christ is my Buddy.

If you’re an insomniac, or even just a night person (completely different if you happen to be a person of the night or a Batman), then you understand that half of your problem is boredom while the other half is loneliness.  To that end, a city skyline brightly lit well into the after-midnight hours is a beacon of awe.  It means there are other people out there.

For those of you who don’t understand that analogy, you’re going to be lost on this next point. 

Conventions are so much more than people dressing up in costume and getting autographs of friendly B-listers (or in the case of the Shatner, out of work A-list celebs).  It’s about surrounding yourself with like minded people without fear of judgment.  And getting autographs of friendly B-listers…shut up.

Jessie as the Joker

Think about it for a moment; Cosplay is like fightclub for nerds.  You don’t talk about it at work.  Friends that don’t do it won’t understand.  The only people who actually GET IT are the people who dare to be superheroes with a bunch of random strangers that become recognizable faces and then at some point you’re friends and you’ve always been. 

As far as the judgment free thing goes, have you ever heard anyone say out loud ‘that’s a shitty costume?’  No, you haven’t.  I work in a profession where we eat our young because indecision and weakness will quite literally get people dead.  So going out to a world where the pressure if off, even for a weekend, is… a welcome break.  Though to be fair, when people hear about it they think it’s a cool concept, they just aren’t entirely comfortable trying it out for themselves.

For people who aren't me, it's escapism at its finest.  It allows you to be your ideal self.  Becostumed, confident, and f***ing all around awesome.  The person you are at Con is the person you truly are.  Outside of that?  Who cares about the real world?  How many kids wanted to grow up to be a ninja only to be told: NO.  Well guess what?!  Now I'm a damn ninja.

All I said was the Green Ranger at the South Mall was more
convincing.

Speaking of friends old and new; Hung out with Silent Bob and Anne.  Got to see Enasni V. who was just as glamorous and gorgeous as ever.  She plays a perfect Harley, an even better Mad Moxxi, and was a total sweetheart as always.  Check out her link and get yourself some prints.  Also met a ton of new people, my favourite of which being the Leutice Twins (Derrick and Lauren) – sorry everyone else, but you know I still love you. 

Amazing times came to an end.  The crowd needs Jay and Silent as much as Jay and Silent Bob need a crowd.  Saying goodbye to everyone, leaving my alter ego behind for a while, being alone with people that don’t get it?  That’s what post-con blues are about.

More Trader when I get settled back in.  

Lesson learned:  Never come at a stranger with a lighter.
Smokin' Ivy

Dallas Comicon

Headed to Dallas for the weekend, so don't expect any updates until Monday you bloodthirsty type peoples.   Pictures will be taken, good times will be had, Tommy will be fought for the title of Green Power Ranger, and I'm setting up for a charity auction at Dragon Con starting with the guitar featured here:

...which may or may not be a Guitar Hero World Tour guitar...

I feel like I've typed guitar too many times and now it looks like it is spelled wrong.

Oh oh oh, stats before I go!  Since I started posting again, we have viewers from Germany, Russia, South Korea, and of course the United States.  So uh, awesome.  Keep the hits coming and I'll do my marked best to keep you entertained.

Or at least dangle a carrot to make you think you're being entertained.

I'm sneaky like that.

The Natural World

For every Steve Irwin, there ought to be a Jeff Smith out there.  Instead of being a hardcore naturalist that jumps on crocodiles ten times his size, Jeff is just a practical, everyday guy that happens to have an Australian accent and is a total pansy.  He makes it up as he goes, but there’s none of this ‘Aint she a beaut!’ crap.

Because she’s not a beaut, Steve.  In fact, Steve, she wants to eat your goddamned face off.

Nope, Jeff will go into backyards with a team of cameramen and haphazardly bring us closer to nature, not much closer though.  “Oi!” he’ll say, pointing to a spider, “this here is the North American Arachnus Humungous or as it’s better known Big Spider.  They are supa aggressive, so I need to be extra careful to get in close,” he’ll say while standing three feet away, giving the camera guy room to zoom in on the confused, motionless spider.  “I would grab him, but he’s got these big fuck-off prehensile fangs that will pierce up to 7 inches of Kevlar, killing me almost immediately.”  And the spider, no bigger than a thumbnail will casually wander away in the opposite direction, completely unaware of the attention it attracted.  “By crickey!” Jeff will shout, jumping back like Jerry Lewis, “that was a close one!  Now let’s go find the extremely venomous Burrowing Owl, which I’ve been told is the deadliest creature in the Western Hemisphere.” 

I would watch that show with a vengeance.

Darwin’s Watch is the third book in Terry Pratchett’s The Science of Discworld trilogy.  The chapters bounce back and forth off each other with narrative and hard science.  The title is an homage to Paley’s Watch, which makes it clever on all sorts of levels.  Paley used the analogy of inferencing a watch maker from a watch to the relationship of God and Man in poor attempt to disprove evolution.  Current arguments use the irreducible complexity thesis in place of a watch, but fail to see that it’s the same idea only in a different context. 

We’re pushing back boundaries here people.  In the age of information, ignorance in a choice.   

Speaking of, Buzz Aldrin said, “Exploration is wired into our brains.  If we can see the horizon, we want to know what’s beyond.”  To that end, I’ll tie in M^6 with this quote:

            I've never been afraid of the dark, though I do have a touch of claustrophobia.  Sometimes when I go to the beach I stand on the shore, feel the hot sand between my toes, look off to the horizon and see the vast blue ocean carry off into the distance.  Then I think, huh, the land just kinda stops right there.  I'm literally out of land right now, there's not enough of it.  Then I look up and realize that our breathable atmosphere only extends out to seven kilometers, past that it's a vacuum.  Past that vacuum is the limits of our solar system, then our galaxy, and oh my god, what do they mean the universe is expanding?  There are boundaries?  It's not finished yet?  I don't care if I'll never live to see the edges, the universe is too small!

C-3PO postulated that the odds of successfully navigating an asteroid field are 3720:1.  We (that is to say, legitimate scientists that are not me or anyone I actually know) have crunched that number down to 100%.  Yes, the only time you’ll crash into an asteroid is if you are aiming directly for it and sometimes not even then.  Too much space is the problem.

Which makes space kind of boring. 

A Case of the Tuesdays

As we (yes, we.  This whole Trader thing involves everyone kind enough to put up with it.  Fist bump.) near the completion of a pre-revision manuscript, I can barely restrain my excitement.  Apologies in advance as less and less narrative makes into the blog, but how else can I keep you guessing and interested?! 

Anywho, there’s a major minor plot point coming up that I’m debating on how to write.  So sometime here in the next week, I’m going to put up both versions and let you deal with it.  Lazy?  No.  AWESOME.

Like I said, the sooner I finish Trader, the sooner we all get to move on to other stories. 

That’s all you’re getting for preamble.  I’ve already written a pretty decent one for my next post, I just have to finish writing the accompanying chapter. 

My Jungle Love, Oheeoheeoh

Barbara Hambly wrote Children of the Jedi in 1995 and was my first exposure to a visceral writing style.  Though intended for a younger audience (considering I was 10 at the time, it may have actually been intended for an older audience) it has stuck with me as an striking example of how to make your reader feel just as miserable as the protagonist.  It came in short and broken bursts and the details are rather fuzzy, but the generalizations are still there.

Later in life, the same thing was accomplished by watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.  More than once I had to stop watching because I felt physically ill.  Great writers beget great writing, so I’ve always tried to emulate that response from readers in the same fashion.

Some of the criticism I’ve received or have seen tossed at other writers is the argument of ‘You’ve never ____ so how do you know that’s how it would be?’  Well, that’s a fair enough contention, and strong writers get to bypass that by virtue of being strong writers.  I, on the other hand, do not get that luxury. 

Trader, as it has been established, grew up in an unspecified coastal town.  Having done the same, one of the observations I’ve been able to make with a fair amount of consistency, is that kids who grow up at the beach move on to be adults that are both respectful and not scared of nature.  When you see the vastness of ocean and understand the terrors that it holds and then make the conscious decision to continue swimming despite them, there isn’t much left in the way of fearing wildlife. 

And you can put a shark juxtapose to an alligator or a giant venomous snake and it’s about the same thing.  Leave it alone, don’t show fear, move away, then congratulations you’re still alive.  The ocean also removes the fear of the unknown.  You know just past the breakers there’s SOMETHING lurking.  It isn’t that you’re unwary, it’s that at some point, you just don’t care.  The main difference between country/ocean folk and city folk is that the former generally fair much better lost in the jungle than the latter.  If you don’t believe me, ask anyone in the Army that’s done a land nav course at night.

Trader isn’t a violent man by nature (necessity, yes) but he is resilient.  I’ve been lost in the woods and in swamps and jungles and rainforests and scrub, covered in bees and spiders, I’ve seen the reflections of thousands of hungry eyes at night.  I’ve been afraid but like Trader, I’m resilient.  You hit a point, about 5 hours in or when exhaustion sets in, where spider webs are less an impromptu karate lesson and more annoying scenery.  Fortunately I’ve never been shot, unfortunately I know plenty of people that have.  So, I’m not a strong writer, but I do have a superb memory. 

Hopefully I’ll become a better writer, thus negating the need for blunt force experience.  I’m getting too old for that shit.

Infinite Hope

Who is John Galt?  

I think the more important question here is:  Who gives a shit?

Atlas Shrugged may or may not be a horrible book.  I’ve never read it based on what I assume to be completely objective reviews.  Something about a rich guy being a dick in such a disconnected way that there's no possible way to care about the story.  

Frank Fontaine on the other hand...

As polar opposites go; People like Andrew Ryan have complete faith in humanity.  People like Frank Fontaine have absolutely none (or, at the very least are the reason why some people have none).  Between them there is zero compromise, the result being utter collapse of utopian society.  Un/Fortunately, there will never be such a thing as Utopia because humanity is neither perfect nor is it broken.  It is, at its very core, humanity.  We need boundaries and constraints as much as we need freedom and room for personal growth.  Denying us any of those elements results in not just Atlas shrugging, but everyone collectively complaining to him to stop moving around so damned much.  I think that's why Ann Raynd is so difficult to swallow.  While Bioshock (and by extension the book Rapture) presents us with an easy suspension of disbelief scenario, Atlas Shrugged is uncompromising in its reality, forcing the reader into a unbelievable view of the world.

We are, as a society of imaginative thinkers, moving forward to the point where a man that begs you to bludgeon him to death whilst saying the trigger phrase 'Will you kindly?' is somehow more believable than a railroad magnate pretending at being a social messiah.  And that, my friends, speaks volumes about people.  That is why, despite everything we throw at ourselves, is why we will never fail in the long run.  Video games are slowly saving the world.

Spoiler Alert:

Bioshock Infinite had the most tear jerking ending of any story I've experienced (sans Toy Story 3 or the episode of Futurama with Fry’s dog).  Not because of the way it ended, but because of how it tied everything (I mean everything, all the way from Rapture) together AFTER the story had been told.  What’s more, as a stand alone narrative it works.  With the addition of continuity eclipsing that narrative, it works even better. 

That’s a poor segue into what’s coming next, but please bear with me.

I’ve been trying, since I started taking Trader seriously, to find a way to avoid the cliché of ‘man falls in love with ship.’  Frankly it’s been done in sci-fi, fan-fic, and it’s a tool of writers completely tapped for ideas.  However, for the story to continue, Lily had to be … more than what she was.  She needed to be alive.  Then I played Infinite.

The first thing I worried about when Infinite began was that ‘the girl’ was going to be more Zelda or Peach than anything else.  Let’s face it, 9 times out of 10, when you’re sent to rescue someone of the opposite sex, your archetypal tough guy is going to fall in love with her.  Imagine my surprise when, as Booker Dewitt, I was confronted for the first time with Elizabeth felt none of the expected tension. 

Instead, she’s this innocent, seemingly fragile person that you immediately care a great deal about and DON’T KNOW WHY.  As you play on, you watch her grow, become emotionally attached to her, look forward to her off colour comments, even feel guilty for making bad decisions when she’s around. 

It’s not until the very end of the story that you realize she’s your daughter, at which point you want to gouge your own face off while you bawl in a corner for being such a shit parent.  But it also puts the other games into perspective, making them slightly more depressing.  There’s always a man, always a lighthouse, always a Big Daddy and a Little Sister. 

I was jealous of how well they told this story until it occurred to me that they did it over the span of the ENTIRE game.  I wanted to do the same thing without knowing that’s exactly what I had been doing.  Not actually playing up the story to anything great but it really is a strange moment when you recognize your subconscious actively playing a part in your writing.  I wanted to build a relatable, beloved character, and wound up doing it accidentally.  Hopefully. 

Not sure if Infinite taught me how to spin or just what to look for in what was already there.  It helped though.  Also, science.

 Earlier, I mentioned something about the concept of a Cargo Cult.  The point was lost as the train wreck that is my attention decided to take it in a completely different direction of what I originally intended.  What I MEANT to conclude was that writing (as well as the internet) works in the same fashion, though not always how one would like it to.  

Someone (It was either Kurt Vonnegut or Justina Robson) said that writing often doesn't make you a better writer, it just conditions you to be ready when your muse finally shows up, letting you squeeze as much as you can from it before it runs off again.  I'm inclined to agree.  Hence this blog.  Last night I wrote (read: typed) with my eyes closed, fingers accidentally straying from the home keys and came up with this:

Mtbw ir for swlTWS.  OE Mtbw qw miaaws ir.  No, rhwewa no ion reILA, QWLL, RHWEW’A AOMW Ewllt ols onwa, ao R Lwar qw knoq rhr QW ew in rhw eifhr plXW.  HOQ TOU DIFUEW?

Which, what the hell?  Literally several thousand words of that and it'll take the work of Batman to decode, but as far as bamboo and palm fronds go?  About the same thing.  

Cargo Cults and Roses

Terry Pratchett described Cargo Cults (though I’m sure he wasn’t the first, he just happened to be the best) thusly paraphrased:  A ship gets blown off course circa 16^th century and finds itself, after the storm has passed, within sight of an island.  Upon landing, the crew is met by the locals who are more than happy to be of assistance by way of livestock, water, and fresh fruits in exchange for priceless baubles (priceless here being synonymous with worthless), alcohol, and shiny iron weapons. 

The ship then sails away, able to complete its journey, while the indigenous population gets drunk and kills each other over bright rocks.  Eventually though, the booze runs out, the baubles lose their shine, the iron dulls.  So, what are the people to do?  Far removed from regular shipping routes, how do they get more ships to come?

           

Well, what attracts ships?  More ships, obviously.  They start building, from bamboo and palm fronds, a false ship.  And they wait.  And, here’s the important part, it works.  Whether from weather or word of mouth from the last crew, another boat sails by.  This time, they see the false ship but assume it’s the real thing, and if there’s a ship there, it must be there for a reason.  Two ships attract even more ships and so on.

An easier way to understand this whole concept is; If you build it, they will come. 

Point being is that the internet works much the same way.  Padding your own stats will work quite effectively.  However, I’m either too lazy, or too honest (money on the former) to claim that I’ve had exactly 1,123,234 hits in the last two days.  Word of mouth…word of computer, whatever.  Spread it.

On roses:

What’s in a name?  Quite a bit apparently.  A rather fantastic point was brought up by my new (official) editor of Trader: “I’m waiting for the astronomer to come back, because I care about her…  But I think her name should be something else.  Her name doesn’t fit what I picture in my head [sic].” 

Adrienne Bottom, Bottom being her maiden name as I cannot spell her ridiculously complicated Polish looking married name, a long time friend with a penchant for technical writing and engineering has taken up the mantle.  Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate the continuous stream of comments and corrections, she’s here for quality control.

What?  Where were we?  Oh right… 

It got me thinking about naming conventions.  Fox’s Firefly – the least subtle show when it came to naming its characters – had Mal the anti-hero, River the graceful kung-fu girl, Inara Serra the angelic space hooker, and Adam Baldwin. 

It begs the question of what a suitable name for a female astronomer that you want to come back should be.  I’m quite comfortable with Trader, Celeste, Keian, Jax, Lily, and Nala.  I was never any good at ancillary characters because if they weren’t coming back, I didn’t want to care about them.  But I suppose you should care about all of them, that’s what makes it a good story.

Whatever Juliet may have thought, names are, in fact, important.

Bet you weren’t expecting all that build up for just that.

Suck it.

A Leap Forward In Time

Almost completely forgot I had this page.  That's how things go though, isn't it?  Between a deployment and well, life, this was left to rot at the bottom of the internet.

One of my favorite bloggers of all time just made her...if not triumphant return...then at least her much anticipated comeback to the internet.  Allie Brosh is incredibly talented.  If you are not familiar with her work, GET familiar with it.  I think it's safe to say that we were legitmately worried about her (we being Allie's fans), and still are.  She's back though, in whatever capacity, broken but unbound as it were.  Allie's writing has gotten me through some insanely tough times, my hope is that we can do the same for her at some point.

Not going to tell everyone about the last few years in any great detail.  Love's labour was lost.  Lives were saved.  Helicopters were flown.  Comicon was discovered.  Dragon Con was rediscovered.  Hearts were broken.  Adventures were had.  I pulled a child out of a human-being, gross.  Met some awesome people.  In possession of incredible friends.  Long story short?  Life was lived with extreme prejudice.

Updates for writing?  I know it's been going on nigh 4 years-ish, BUT Trader is moving along swiftly now.  There's a light at the end of the tunnel and it has a page number in it.  57,000 words written for Trader, more and more every week.  Marcus and Marlin Mardis: Master Monster Murderers, of course Ariana, Pirated Gods (is never going to go away), and my latest with a wonderful new artist - Katherine O'Brien - My Name Is Not Alice; are all in the works.  Life isn't stopping me, I love what I do, but it's slowing me down... and somehow that isn't that much of a hinderance.

Before I get to the latest installment of Trader, check this out, Janice (pronounced Juh-neece) makes them herself like the beautiful badass that she is.