I had a rather striking dream last night.

Among other things, it involved a mouse.

While it wasn't clear exactly when or where this took place, everything I saw was written in English.

I was one of many, living in terrible conditions, of the sort one generally associates with a 1930’s-era Jewish ghetto, or USSR-era peasantry. Resources were scarce, and there was little for all: food and water were, naturally, the most contested for, and I watched those of us living in these horrible conditions fighting -- even to the death -- for even the smallest bits of our rations.

And our food and water WAS rationed: from a heavily armed military who kept their distance from us; to approach them, I knew, with that logic peculiar to dreams, meant death: to near their deployments would mean being shot to death. So, they would leave rations, and once they withdrew, we could approach...and then, the appalling fights would begin.

People scrabbling over the barest essentials was a terrible sight to behold, and no distribution incident passed without casualties, sometimes fatalities. There was never quite enough to go around...and this was, I knew, by design.

One day, huddled in what I can only describe as a decrepit room in a decrepit building, I chanced to see a tiny little mouse: eyes wide, ears alert, tiny and emaciated, I saw it, and, tearing off a bit of a bread-like substance and the mush which our rations consisted of, I offered it a tiny bit.

It was initially fearful, yet hunger soon overcame fear, and it darted out and took the food.

Over a period of days, it learned some amount of trust, to the point where I could feed it by hand, even. Some time later, it would even get onto my hand to take food, and finally, would permit me to pet it.

I knew if anyone else discovered I was giving away precious drops of water & valuable food to this creature, not only would it be immediately killed, I would be punished, as well: I certainly wouldn't be permitted to continue to receive rations, as I was "wasting" them, so even if the mouse was only crushed underfoot and I was left alone, I'd eventually starve.

And this -- THIS -- was from my fellow peasants: not the soldiers, nor anyone above them, but my fellow man. THEY would be the ones who shunned me, who would stomp the mouse to death (and presumably consume its remains): the intervention of armed guards was unnecessary for maintaining that order.

This continued. Despite the risk to myself, I kept feeding it, and I kept it alive.

Until, one day, soldiers came along and forced us to relocate. They began ordering us into buses, at gunpoint.

And it was then, I realized, I had to make a choice.

Go with all the others, to an unknown (yet, to judge by the force which was used, likely a far worse) fate; or remain, and starve to death (at best) with the mouse.

Even before, I had tried to tame it enough to conceal it within my clothing (we were all of us, save the soldiers, clad in rags, mere tattered remnants of former garments) yet I could not: it was, after all, still a feral creature, and was too fearful of things around it to obey the dictates of silence and stillness; even up to the last moment, as I was being herded into line, I was trying to do so, to no avail, and it fled, escaping back into what it believed to be the relative safety of where it had previously hidden itself.

It was then that I decided.

My choice was to no longer obey those doling out rations in deliberately inadequate amounts: those who had forced us all into a state of not just subjugation, but forced us into conditions where otherwise once-civilized people turned on each other like savage animals, and fought amongst themselves, turning our combined force against each other, presumably out of fear we would, eventually, all unite and turn against our captors.

So, I turned away from the line, and followed the mouse. Back into the hovel I'd been living in; where WE had been living -- all of us -- in this nightmarish ghetto.

I heard the shouting of the others, the urging, almost pleading, sounds of my fellow rabble, yet I chose to ignore it.

I then heard the shouted orders of those armed, and I chose to ignore it.

I next heard the sounds of gunfire, and was unable to ignore my body falling to the ground, and I fell, barely able to turn my head so as not to hit the ground face-first before dying.

As I died, I fancied -- just for the briefest of moments -- I could see the small yet wide eyes of that mouse, staring at me from beneath some hiding place.

Whether its eyes held compassion, fear, disappointment, or pride, I cannot say: merely that it beheld me as I died.

Then, I awoke.

On Cats (αἴλουρος φόβος)

"~The Hating of Cats is a Difficult Matter / It isn't just one of your Holiday Games~"

--T. S. Eliot

"OH GOD THEY'RE EATING MY FACE! I'M STILL ALIVE! OH GOD HELP ME JESUS! THE PAIN!"

--T.S. Eliot
(These words were heard after he'd finished 'Old Possums Book of Practical Cats' during his subsequent devouring by cat agents who, after having met in chambers, rendered a Lethal Finding, as they felt he'd outlived his usefulness to them.)

All right, so enough of this nonsense about how cute & loving & fluffy & sweet cats are.

No more lies: they're all Demons from Hell (which is the only reason they seem to like me so much: they're attracted to Damned Souls, I guess), and I'm positive the moment -- the very MOMENT -- polydactyl felines develop fully opposable digits, well, that's it for us chimps!

And -- not unlike many humans of historical prominence (e.g., Caligula Gaius Caesar, Torquemada, Hitler, and Andrei Chikatilo to name a few), the undeniable fact is cats are predatory, sneaky little beasts who dream about murdering us in our sleep and eating our still-warm bodies.

Got a cat? Go look at them RIGHT NOW -- of course, they'll be sleeping regardless of when you do this (without their 23-hour-per-day beauty sleep, they're just no good at all for those sixty remaining minutes of consciousness). Now, instead of waking the furry little buzzsaw up, just look at them.

Do they appear to be sleeping happily? If so, that means they're dreaming about savagely murdering and devouring anything smaller than they are. Their dreams are filled with blood, and anything which squeaks and bleeds when they bite 'em.

Do they appear REALLY happy? Chances are they're dreaming about YOU being smaller than THEM (vide supra for why).
 
I know MINE  thinks and dreams constantly about violent, bloody, brutal rodent-slaying, rabbit-brutalizing, murder in general and (of course) just how fond he is of blood. Also, being  exceptionally vocal (as Bengals tend to be), I'm increasingly certain his yowls, howls, and all the other bizarrely strangled noises he makes which, for lack of a better description, are what I'd imagine gargling evil must sound like -- are all simply audible manifestations of his loathing for humanity.

I don't think this cat actually has to consume food (canned or free-range) for any biological reasons, as he's perfectly capable of sustaining himself indefinitely on pathos alone, though he might need human tears to serve as liquid nourishment; anyone's tears will do, though children's are generally preferred by most felines. (Nota Bene: this is not necessarily true for all cats:  some actually prefer the tears of a mother who has just lost both children in a gruesome accident; others prefer the tears of a man in soul-flaying pain sans analgesia, and on and on:  each cat is different, and favorites differ by individual, as I've learned over the years I've been misfortunate enough to cohabitate with one or more felines...And I'm lucky I've survived long enough to discover even that much...).

*    *    *

I'm sure the curious (or even those possessed of reason) naturally have questions in light of the assertions made above, such as: "How does the ailurophobic (αἴλουρος φόβος) freak who committed this lunacy to writing know his cat hates him?"

First, he insists on sitting either on or near me whenever I'm stationary; while the less knowledgeable may think this is because of a desire for body heat, Occam's Razor suggests it is far more likely it is the feline way of placing "dibs" on their meat-constructed caretakers, so they can tuck in the second we die and become non-responsive.

Second -- and even more telling -- whenever I feed or even touch him, he makes an ominous, barely perceptible rumbling growl in his throat; from my own extensive experience with a variety of animals who threaten man (e.g., feral dogs), growling like that with so little provocation is invariably indicative of a dangerously maladjusted animal.

If you find yourself in the immediate vicinity of a cat growling in this fashion, SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES as well so the situation can be contained with a minimum of collateral damage. Any properly equipped SWAT team should be able to neutralize the offending creature with a minimum of fuss, and from a safe distance, as they usually have skilled snipers at their disposal.

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO NEUTRALIZE IT ON YOUR OWN: let the professionals handle it.

In the event even the proper authorities suffer a containment failure (cats are fast and sneaky little fuckers, make no doubt), there are really only a few failsafe solutions, and most consider the first too drastic. Either:

A) Call in dedicated airstrikes, or

B) Tent the premises, then flood it with Isoflurane for at least one (1) day, followed by the use of Halon for the same amount of time.


Once the latter has dissipated enough to support combustion and the proper precautions have been taken, the Final Solution may then be implemented: the entire building should then be demolished and incinerated at temperatures no lower than 4000 Degrees Fahrenheit (~2204 D Centigrade) in keeping with Best Practices.

Only once these steps are followed can the area again be considered safe.

*    *    *

If further proof of my cat's enduring hatred for Your Humble Narrator is necessary...That I wake up almost every morning with him underneath the covers, sleeping, more often than not, between my legs, is another warning sign, as I have no doubt he's biding his time while eying Yours Truly's Most Tender Bits (aka 'private parts') and will, when I least expect it, start going to town on my testes as if they were catnip-stuffed mice dangling temptingly before him. Of course, I have no concrete proof of this, though I am certain my logic and conclusion are entirely sound.

*    *    *

For Those Who Would Still Choose to Acquire a Cat

As a general rule, cats become more attached to their territory (such as your house) than the hairless apes who willingly provide for their every possible need. After consulting with a number of animal behaviour specialists, Military think-tanks, and having spared neither time nor expense in my own research, all are in universal agreement upon the following being the best course of action upon the acquisition and introduction of a new cat into your home:

• Buy at least a year's supply of those pellets cats eat (available at local grocers or pet store);
• Buy at least a year's supply of those pellets cats use for the toilet (available at same);

***IMPORTANT NOTE***

I have unconfirmed reports these are two entirely different sorts of pellets, so try not to confuse the two or mix them all up together. Or do. I don't care. The cat probably doesn't, either. 

Next:

• Stock the house with the appropriate pellets in the appropriate places;
• Do a short-sell on your home, purchase a new house with whatever money is left, and move there.

(Optional but recommended: abandon your old furniture to save you the risk of returning to the danger zone which your previous house has now become; I believe it was Thomas Wolfe who said, "You can't go home again. No, I mean for real, dude: there's a fucking evil-ass cat there now, so you can just forget about it.")

I sincerely hope this brief article, which was extensively researched and exhaustively fact-checked by a former Fox News staff-member, proves of use to anyone who is considering the acquisition of one of these fascinating if loathesome creatures, or for those poor souls who are already burdened with one (or, god help them, two or more).

Any complaints about the humorous quality of this squib should be directed, via email, to /dev/null :)

For those who found this useful, no need to thank me:  just trying to make the world a safer place for everyone. Humans, anyway.

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***LEST THERE BE FOLLY***

Absolutely EVERYTHING said above is a joke (well, not the part about Bengals being notoriously vocal, and that my cat invariably makes his way underneath the blankets to sleep with me in bed). The point is, NO, I do NOT actually hate cats, nor am I labouring under any illusions my cat hates me (given the average brain size of a domesticated feline, not sure their pecan-sized brains can even harbour such feelings :D).

Final Word:  anyone taking -=ANY=- of the above seriously should seek professional help IMMEDIATELY. Seriously.

Also, anyone who reads the above and actually does anything inhumane to cats should ponder the wisdom of the sign which said:

"Prosecutors will be Violated to the Fullest extent of the Law."

(Ok, I might have Spoonerized the above, though it still stands:  hurt a cat, prepare to be violated. Repeatedly.)



~J

The first in a number of public 'Thank Yous' :)

While I retain my exceptionally bleak views about writing and publication, that in no way alters the platinum-plated, uranium-cored fact I’m lucky to have so many helpful friends who have been kind enough to volunteer their time in wading through the perversions of the written word which I pass off as ‘writing’ :)

I just spent the last couple of hours collating and re-reviewing the feedback I’ve received to date, and while I'm still severely lacking in numbers when it comes to beta readers, I’m grateful to everyone who’s been willing to take the time to read my writings and provide feedback (whether written down or via phone while I take notes), and it’s nice to see both positive AND negative critiques -- even knowing 'friend bias' is ineradicable, it's nice to see people can still be objective enough to serve up negatives as well (and cogent ones, no less :D )

So:  to everyone who has assisted, here’s the first of many public thank-yous :)


~J




[N.B.:  I’m not listing people here by name, and won’t be doing so anywhere publicly without their express permission, though as promised, everyone who has provided feedback will be credited in the acknowledgments at the VERY least (and in whatever fashion/under whatever name they’d prefer).]

If things weren't so utterly insane right now...

...A WHOLE lot more would have already appeared here. So, to reassure my audience (both of you), at some point very soon, I'll be posting stuff here. Random stuff. Garbage off the top of my head.

Among other things, I have a rant about how I wish people who write action scenes involving firearms were to do some LIVE FIELD RESEARCH before they wrote about them. In fact, I've got an entire rant just for that point alone.

In the meantime, helpful hint: I don't care if you've got a character bustin' a cap indoors/in a confined space with even so much as a damn 9: try shooting off even a single 115gr field round in a reasonably sized room, and THEN see how well normal, conversational tones go down.

Contrariwise -- and I've always though this a useful fact to know -- with all other factors the same, one might find a 147gr (subsonic) round shot in the same room (same layout, etcetera) is not only less deafening, but is shockingly much less audible than one might imagine outside the building. Don't ask me how I know that.

Provided I make it to that rant, I'll lay down some figures for the different calibers and different weights (in grains and grams, even, if I'm so inclined) and why it is that subsonic rounds *ARE* so much quieter than supersonic rounds (as if the answer wasn't right there in the words themselves...I mean...Duh, right?).

Hell -- if I'm feeling particularly ballistically minded, I might even cover the yaw of repose (though I'm going to wager that's probably a wee bit too technical for even the most diligent realists among you (unless you're writing about longer-range stuff).

I just realized, given I haven't seen the American Sniper movie, for all I know, they cover that sort of thing there, and the job of educating tons of people who write action scenes where

A) Nobody keeps track of the rounds shot
B) People are magically immune to tinnitus, and
C) The characters seem immune to the simple physics which covers events like crowd waves

...Will have already been taken care of, and I won't have to drone on and on about it. That'd be nice, actually.

Of course, then I've got an entire essay I wrote in one sitting which is, coincidentally enough (no relation to the above, honest) about suicide. Given the particularly personal nature of that one, I remain uncertain that it will ever be published here, in this dim and dusty corner of the Internet, regardless of how infrequently it's visited.

I actually do have happy stuff to post. Honest.* Time permitting, it'll make it up here. Eventually.



~J
----
* I reserve the right to define "happy", naturally :>

On Abject Failure

While I harbor no illusions about the profitability of writing professionally (as in, writing enough to sustain myself financially: I think it highly improbable, at best, and utterly impossible, at worst), I can think of a couple of book-length endeavours of mine which, provided I had a good editor, adequate promotion/publicity, and proper management, could potentially do well; while I’d like to think they could do great, all it takes is a quick glance at what the majority of people consume these days for entertainment and I involuntarily begin regurgitating mangled Mencken quotes (such as how no one ever lost money underestimating the taste or intelligence of the American public), and how well some things do which are utter trash, while truly literature-quality gems languish in obscurity, and by this point, any vestigial hope of having anything I write become popular is flensed from my thoughts like blubber from a whale. A whale which is still alive, and writhing in agonies the likes of which would make Torquemada proud (at least if the whales were heretics, which from his point of view, they undoubtedly would be considered so).

Anyone reading the above will be -- at best -- rendered dubious of my claim, given the delightfully Byzantine sentence structure I seem inclined to favour, so lest there be folly, I’d like to state, once again, I have an innate tendency to overwrite; in addition, I often tend to write incredibly twisted sentences - a direct symptom of my own oftentimes hyper-abstract thought processes.

So...I’m bright, and have complex thoughts, and can get them down on the page. Big whoop. If the majority of people can’t easily grasp what I’m saying, or my style of writing is boring/too convoluted, well...as a writer, that’s a sure route to the bottom of the Thames, now, isn’t it...?

There’s a reason most journalism strives for such a disgracefully mediocre grade level (per, say, the Flesch-Kincaid, for example); it’s the same reason why Hemingway will, most likely, always eclipse John Updike or Vladimir Nabokov in the halls of Great Writers [tm], as the former wrote in a way which even a fourth or fifth-grade student can easily understand.

Given that the fundamental point of language is communication, I’m not arguing against writing so that one’s words can be understood by all; I mean, that’s great, and grants one a wider potential audience, at the very least.

And this is not to say that one absolutely must (to be an oft-read author) hobble oneself for the lowest common denominator, either; there is a middle ground, of course, and I’m aware of that.

While I over-write, digress, meander and wander, these are all things which can be addressed in one or more revisions of my own words [N.B.: nothing here on this blog is edited, or even proofed, to be honest, as I began it as an experiment in just simply writing stuff up free-form, without any thought to making it ‘acceptable’, much less ‘perfect’, which means it’s straight from my brain onto the page – ehr, well, the screen, I suppose...And, as always I digress yet again...]. Of course, fast-forward past a half-dozen revisions, and throw in a good editor, and I can actually write some stuff which is actually damned good.

Brevity being the soul of wit, I learned early on the easiest way for me to write was just to spill it all out onto the page, and then, if I wanted what I’d written to be *any good*, I’d promptly start to cut, cut, cut (hence my reference to six+ revisions). For me, writing is easy (I type slightly slower than I talk, and MUCH slower than I think), so blasting out kiloword after kiloword isn’t the issue: tightening it all up, bringing it together, ‘sanding off the suck’ (to purloin a phrase) -- now THAT is where the time goes, and that is what takes up the most CPU time for me, mentally.

As those who know me in real life are aware, it takes me less time to write a longer email/text/letter than it does a *short* one, for the reasons stated above. I generally don’t give the TL;DR nature of what I write much thought, given how easy it is to read: I mean, I haven’t timed myself lately, though I can say my optical information ingest rate hasn’t diminished significantly since primary school, which means I can still devour ~200 pages of a mass-market paperback in an hour (I can say this because I recently read three books which I enjoyed so greatly I did everything I could to slug myself: I kept my reading as slow and even as possible, savouring each word as if it were a drop of water and I were in a desert dying of thirst, and I *still* finished off the second in a few hours, and the third in under two). I suppose to be more rigorously scientific about this, I ought to take something I’ve never read before which is of a known word/character count and time myself, though honestly, I’ve better things to do with my time.

Back on-point (at least marginally), I know I am capable of writing in a way which is far better than that which is displayed here; it simply takes me a lot more work, which is why I reserve that effort for my actual fiction writings and essays: that is, my ‘serious’ writings, as opposed to what I’m spewing out here on the Internet without an actual care in the world as to who reads it or what they think of it.

While anecdotal, as a token proof of what I’m saying, I’ll say this much:

When I first began to cast about for beta-readers for the book I’m currently revising, I spoke with my friends, asking if they knew of anyone who’d be interested in reading what I’d written, and who, ideally, wouldn’t know me at all, and would know little to nothing about me.

Of course, I value my friend’s feedback, as well; I am also acutely aware they are the worst possible fill-ins for the beta-reader demographic, due to friend bias (hence my interest in finding others who were at least a degree removed if not more).

Naturally, I invited some of my closest friends to read what I’d written as well, and invited feedback there as well (while qualifying it as what it was, of course).

While I’ve noticed some patterns emerge, one of the early comments (from more than one person, which is why I’m giving it more credence than the opinion/feedback of any single individual) was the difference between what I’d written and what was expected. I’m aware I can come off sounding like an encyclopaedia; I’ve got a head full of stuff, and most of it is on speed-dial, so for me to recall information about anything I’ve read or done is generally easy, and in a conversation, if someone asks me about something even outside my field (such as "Why do scorpion’s exoskeletons fluoresce under UV?" Answer: Methylcoumarin -- IIRC, and no, I didn’t Google that or look it up elsewhere) I can usually answer it. This is not to say I’m all-knowing, as there are numerous and entire fields of which I have little to no knowledge of, of course, however, I can claim a certain level of erudition and experience in a reasonably broad number of subjects.

Pardon the long prologue, though it was kinda necessary to illustrate the point: people were surprised that I’d written something which didn’t come across as hyper-knowledgy and where the characters didn’t all sound like miniature versions of me :D

...Which is to say, I *am* able to write in a way which is comprehensible to the majority of people, I am able to write credible (even good) dialogue with different characters having realistically different voices, the whole nine; of that, I am confident.

So why I am dubious as to the possibility of success for myself as a writer.


It isn’t because I’m incapable of writing;

It isn’t because of a dearth of ideas on my part;

It isn’t because I don’t have anything to say;


So what then? Let’s pretend, for the sake of charitable interpretation, that of the few books I’m sitting on, one of them is a knock-it-out-of-the-park doozy of a blockbuster; what would stop it from succeeding?

Me.

That is, I suspect, the sad truth of it. There’s no one to blame but myself: I should have stuck with writing back in the days when I was snail-mailing in submissions to magazines, making sure to include an appropriately sized SASE, formatting printed copies out precisely per each editor’s guidelines, etcetera.

While the large publishers take an inordinate cut of whatever one’s work published via them makes, they also -- ideally, at least -- take care of the minutiae which is so vital to the success of a book: things like publicity (without which, the book dies); having professional editors (without which, the work suffers or risks being sub-par); having professional cover-designers (people *do* judge books by their covers -- don't think for a moment they do *not*), and the list goes on.

Simply put, I am talentless when it comes to graphics/visual art; I am in dire need of a good editor (the length of the words here alone should be ample proof of that) and last but most CERTAINLY not least: while I am many things, a salesman is NOT one of them.

I’ve never been in the position of being a salesman in my life. Were I to be one, I’d be awful at it.

"Then how do you make it through a job interview?" I think is the most obvious first question. "One has to be a salesman then: you’re selling *yourself*."

This is true, of course, and, in the course of my lifetime, there aren’t a lot of jobs I’ve interviewed for which I haven’t got; there are a few, of course, but those are actually in the minority, which means, if I make it to an interview, I *generally* get hired. But this is due less to me being a salesman than simply being competent, and being myself. If one has skills, is honest about them, the rest generally takes care of itself. At least in my experience.

Of course, it could easily be argued that I am, at least subconsciously, selling myself, and I’m willing to concede that possibility.

Even if that were the case, though, my issue is most easily summed up thusly: I just simply can’t generate even the smallest amount of excitement at the thought of enduring the required amount of shameless self-promotion which is likely necessary to popularize one’s book in this day and age (a time when SFAs are no longer a joke, and the large publishers are crumbling). I can’t see myself endlessly posting about What I’ve Written on Facebook & Twitter; I can’t imagine playing digital door-to-door salesman amongst friends/acquaintances/unknowns; I *can* see few other ways to render myself an annoyance to the world at large, in fact, than by engaging in just that sort of thing.

Yet without promotion, publicity, even the most promising works of art languish, remain unseen, unread. Enough publicity, and even the most blighted bit of trash can bring in millions of people, curious, if nothing else, to see what all the fuss is about. To paraphrase Sun Tzu, I’ve seen clumsy, artless turds become bestsellers and generate millions of dollars for their authors, though I’m only rarely aware of truly great works receiving the recognition they deserve without a phenomenal amount of effort on the part of not merely the author, but an entire cadre of people dedicated to that end.

Even thinking about the above is discouraging (to say nothing of seeing it). So, much like Rimbaud, I’ve preferred to simply withdraw: I have written, am writing, will continue to write, and remained entirely uninterested in publication...Until it was too late :)

If I cannot serve as a good example, perhaps I can, at the very least, serve as a cautionary tale.

Don’t fall into the same despair-filled mindset as Your Humble Narrator ;D


~J

Proof I Am Not a Poet

I recently came across a slip of paper embedded in an old book of mine which contained a poem I'd written.

Kindly note, this is strictly Juvenilia, and as such, isn't very good. In point of fact, much as I love poetry (and even wrote my fair share), virtually none of it was ever worth the paper it was written on.

I suppose it ought to sadden me to admit that this is likely the best poem I've ever written, given it's little more than doggerel. Still, if I cannot serve as a positive example, perhaps I can still fulfill my role as a cautionary tale of how *NOT* to write. The following is an example. And no, I'm not proud of it; nonetheless, I decided to post it here. Feel free to make fun of it: my skin is exceptionally thick at this point in my life :D

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Oh what shall I do with the thousand desires
          That scream for release from my flesh?

Oh what shall I do with their motivate fires
          Which seek with their endings to mesh?

For the love of their songs, Resolutions I spurn,
          For conflict is the Song of my Spirit;

As within my poor breast, my heart overturns,
          And I write of it so you may hear it.

                                                                    ~JM (circa 1992-3)
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Not Insane (...?)

Is it not the sign of the sheerest insanity that, while reviewing the notes I’ve made in my Farley file of characters for reference purposes (I confess I’ve done this: despite the enormous size of my head, not even IT can contain the encyclopaedic amounts of information generally shelved therein…which is to say, even the size of MY head has its limits*, so I do make notes and reference sheets for complicated novels, plots, ideas and even entire worlds) I find myself going off into entire tangents about each character, including their origins, experiences in their life which demonstrates what made them the ‘people’ they are today…To the point where there is literally another entire book/story/set of stories contained therein? For each character of note? It’s unending, and mind-wrackingly so.

While the ideas may be unending, my time is most certainly not; when looking around my brain, my first thought is, ‘I wish I could get a good editor in here’.

(Just like that, see? [points to the period/comma above])

To look at it another way, this is all either the blathering word-salad of a madman, or the ravings of brilliance.

While I remain unconvinced I’m possessed of actual brilliance, the alternative is far less attractive to me, so I prefer assuming the latter, while fearing the former is actually the case.



~J
--
*Hard to believe, I know.

On Characters

Creating original characters is, at least for me, fundamentally very easy:  I've read too much, known such a large number of different people from such disparate walks of life (including different countries, 'social classes', what-have-you), to say nothing of all the garbage rattling around my dark and dusty mind that I've always got ample material to create fictional characters, no problem.
Creating original, INTERESTING characters is another story entirely: I am capable of doing so, and have done so (and will likely continue doing so, at least until my mind gives out entirely), though I don't see it as easy or difficult (it's both); and for a writer of fiction -- aka 'a storyteller' or less euphemistically a 'liar' --  it's a bit of a must, as writing about boring characters is, well...Boring. And who'd ever want to read it?

I suppose one of the benefits/hazards of having led an interesting life is (at least for a fiction writer) that it renders most of the characters one could think of sometimes rather tame, in comparison; of course, this, in turn, forces one to populate one's mind (and writing) with characters who are 'over the top', as it were; riddled with flaws which even I would check myself into a psychiatric facility over, people who have strange beginnings and (sometimes) horrifying ends...

And, well, to be entirely honest, I don't know how some of the characters I've created truly came about, so, like Poe's explanation for how he wrote The Raven (which no one, to the best of my knowledge, actually *believes* is how he wrote it, being merely a dissertation using logic to serve as a footpath for his true creative genius which he couldn't name), this particular essay of mine is bound to be just as disappointing (more so, given it wasn't penned by Poe :D).

I can say my favorite (and, I think, most interesting) characters come to me either entirely or mostly fully-formed, leaving very little for my conscious mind to do; therefore, I cannot give anyone much advice as to the creation of characters.

Of those which are not 100% formed, I've found that writing a few pages as that character quickly fleshes them out; one time I dashed off at least 10-12 thousand words which was merely a conversation between two characters, the writing of which revealed to *me* more about them than would ever appear in any story.

I suppose one thing I can say is when creating a character, know *everything* about them. I can think of one character I created who (partially) survived the Great Famine in Ireland in the 1840s by resorting to cannibalism; I can also tell you about his relationship with his parents, when he first kissed a girl, and who he had a crush on, though (almost) none of those things are even remotely pertinent to the story he is in, and therefore won't ever appear in writing.

I have another character I could easily write a book solely about (actually, I have a number), including his innate acrophilia, which led him to fly an Albatross for the Luftstreitkräfte in WWI, and (while never an Überkanonen, given his avoidance of combat wherever possible) his eventual ditching of that particular make (either a BII or CII -- my mind dims with age, obviously) only to fake his own death and pop up flying a Sopwith Camel for the opposing side -- and not because he had any desire to shoot anyone down, really gave a shit about who won or which side was 'right', nor was he eager to engage in aerial combat -- merely because he wished so very badly to be able to *fly*, and went to what would be, to any sane person, incredible and dangerous lengths to do so (particularly given that period of time). That little to none of the above information appears in writing connected with him is...What it is.

My point -- were I to have one, which I'm certain anyone reading this drivel would argue vehemently against -- is that, to make *real* characters, they must be real to the *writer*, first and foremost.

'If you're writing in the first person, you must be that person' and all that jazz. Obviously, if one is writing a story and one has two-dimensional characters, the reader will sense this *immediately* -- I know I have -- and when one has created compelling, interesting characters, that can make for an enjoyable read, even if the plot isn't as good as it should be (even if only from a purely Aristotelian perspective), while the reverse is not true: even the best plot will put most people to sleep if the characters are trite knockoffs/boring/garbage.

Perhaps the 'secret' to creating compelling characters, fully clothed, born in one's mind as complete and whole as Athena was when she sprang from the forehead of Zeus, is to have an overly full mind ;)

Purpose of Fiction...Or Fictional Purpose...?

While my own opinion of my writing is I write very well (and, when it comes to things such as technical documentation, articles, and the like, the consensus has always seemed to agree with me), when it comes to the fiction I've written I confess to being entirely incapable of making a sound judgment as to its value or worth.

Of course, when discussing the 'value' or 'worth' of fiction, I know that's a broad enough area that each person could think of and probably has their own definition(s), and I'm not one to argue that, as I've little desire to get lost in the endless terrain of general semantics.

When I refer to fiction as having value, what I mean is how well it serves the purpose of entertaining. Period. Conveying lessons, espousing philosophies, etcetera etcetera -- sure, one can stick some of that into fiction, if so desired, though if it's not organic to the work itself, the reader will spit it out in annoyance much as a cat will a pill which is hidden so ‘dexterously (if ineffectively) in their favorite food’, which brings me back to my main point, that being the primary purpose of fiction is to entertain, with the pinnacle of achievement being to write something so enjoyable the reader cannot put it down, and which they find themselves blissfully immersed in, so much so, ideally, that they are likely to bother reading it more than once.

As a reader of some years, when I think of my favorite fiction books, regardless of genre, those are the qualities which define the truly great books from all the rest: the ones I can read and re-read, and never tire of despite knowing how they end; the ones I happen to glance at and, within minutes, am utterly swept back into; the kind I’d love to simply step into and never leave. 

Kindly note my visual memory is exceptionally acute, to the point where I can generally quote lines of text verbatim (or nearly so, though no, I do not have an ‘eidetic’ memory) directly from books I've read, even many years later; that, combined with my disdain for any story regardless of medium which I can figure out where it’s going/how it ends within the first few minutes of reading it, and that should illustrate what I mean when I say for me, to read a book I’ve already read before is one of the surest signs I enjoyed it above all others.

I remain unconvinced I've yet to write anything which meets the above standards, which is to say, I'll just have to keep trying.


~J

I do so wish I had even the faintest vestige of graphical talent; if I could draw merely a fraction of the things in my head, Holy Fucking Mother of bat-piss!

If a picture is a worth a kiloword, then I’ve a head crammed full of photos jammed every-which-way which makes a trillion-petabyte drive seem little more than an over-exposed Polaroid - you know, one half-ruined along the diagonal because it was left out in the sun by a couple of under-aged retards after they were done sucking fuzz-encrusted day-old gummi-bears off the bottom of it.

There’s just so much I don’t even know where to begin; I mean, really - pick a Galactic branch, an arm, a cluster, a system, some planets, and we’ll go from there.

But I don’t think that’s where it’s at, at ALL; nosirrebob. Not when I’ve got a whole mess of characters ready to go, so let’s line up ‘em up, and I’ll go from another direction entirely.

More Later...Of that, I feel most certain.


~JMB

"Accordingly, the [author] should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded; or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play […].

“The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity.”




                                                                                       --Aristotle (Poetics)



I was considering documenting some of the strange thoughts which go through my head, yet I find many almost too strange to be properly documented; just in the sense that a picture says a thousand words, a single constructed universe, complete with characters, peoples, places, even a visual reference which remains in my head -- it would take me untold thousands of words to begin even describing it (which is precisely what one should NOT do when writing fiction); to set it down here, or even elsewhere, in print, would be a phenomenal waste of time...Wouldn't it...?


I suppose that's the point of my writing, here, in this poorly light, dusty little corner of the Internet; perhaps some of what I may come to say may serve someone else, or find purpose which others are yet to discover.

Still: it remains that, as I am doing writing elsewhere, less will be done here, and the reverse. Given I have a finite amount of time, that cannot be helped.

While it is tempting to comment further, I still await to hear more, so I shall attempt to exercise the virtue of silence, preferring neither to damn myself with excessive criticism nor false praise, both of which are equally pernicious if opposite sides of the same filthy coin.

There is something to be said for writing in silence; that is, creating in silence, free from critics, whether one's own internal one or critiques of others, and writing into a file (or into an otherwise quiet, audience-free blog) satisfies that well enough. Once creation is done, however, one must have criticism. That, or -- I suppose -- supreme confidence that everything one has created is perfect in every way. I am positive countless number of people have had such confidence; I am equally certain the larger share of them were wrong. For every William Blake, there are millions of us with nothing particularly useful to say.


~JMB

I was just experimenting with Google Plus (hereinafter known as "Gargle Pus" -- at least to me), and saw there was a way to link one's blog postings to it (presumably to help jam them further down people's throats, as every time one made a posting, it'd show up in X-tuplicate all over the place on one's friends/acquaintances/whatever timelines).

I considered doing so until I saw the warning about it not being "adult" material, and having to comply with their TOS (https://www.google.com/intl/en/+/policy/content.html).

Now, don't get me wrong: I neither have nor had any intentions of posting anything pornographic, links to warez, KP or the like; my point was merely to have a stream-of-consciousness type of writing which was recorded and available for others to view, and by that very definition, it's unfiltered, uncensored, and could possibly contain something which, I am positive, can and will be deemed offensive by someone, somewhere, at some point time.

Given the thoughts which the mind of Your Humble Narrator is able to produce sans stimuli of any sort...Well, to call them 'evil', wouldn't necessarily be too far off-track (not saying I believe in 'evil' in any moral fashion, absolutist or otherwise, but I digress). Suffice to say, I've got all manner of things, both fair and foul, in my mind, and I'm certain by the time I've finished shaving in the morning, chances are I've already entertained a half-dozen thoughts which would horrify most ordinary people into an ischemic attack.


Given some of the unbelievably terrible shit I've seen, endured, been witness to, and (perhaps) even engaged in throughout my life, add that level of horror to this particularly original squirming brain, and an entirely new dimension of mental disturbance is born. The only reason I've refrained from sharing that manner of things here is I'd prefer to reserve it for a larger stage (i.e., books and the like, which are just large enough and therefore just the right environment for the foul spawn of my disordered brain to spread their wings to their full span and, given room to maneuver, take flight) rather than here.

Even reserving the best (or worst, given one's opinion) of that manner of thing for a more appropriate place, I am reasonably certain the lesser offspring of my mind are the sort of things guaranteed to not merely leave a stain on your soul, but likely unto that of the generation beyond the next, which is just a fancy way of saying I've got things rattling around in my gulliver so heinous they'll ensure your grandchildren's grandchildren are born deformed.

Given that this is to be uncensored, off the top of my head stuff, having to invoke the internal critic while writing stuff down seems, at least to me, to defeat the purpose, so I suppose I'll be taking a pass on that.

TL;DR Summary: 

If I have to choose between self-censorship and a narrower audience, I'll take the latter.


~JMB
--

Post scriptum: Lest it needs be said...for the record, No, I do NOT have thoughts of child molestation in my head (having seen the bit in their content restrictions about KP and the thought of people reading this and immediately deciding I'm to be kept far away from their children, I wanted to make it clear that I am, strangely enough, child-safe. Some have even said I generally have a decent rapport with children, though honestly there's nothing to getting along with kids...And again, I digress). Honestly, while I could be accused of many things, being into KP is not one of them: I personally find it repellant on a number of levels.

You know what, though? If it were my thing, then by gh0d, you can be sure I'd damned well be talking about it! Now THAT'S committing oneself to some real liberty-limiting honesty right there, eh...? :D

-=SPOILER ALERT=-

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I tend to overwrite...horrendously so. Writing a volume is easy; pruning it down into something worth putting before others is that which I find more time-consuming (if no less enjoyable, in its own way).

Being too lazy to Google the exact quote, I'll simply cite off the top of my head what Pascal (if memory serves...) once said in correspondence to someone else:

"I would have written less, but I lacked the time."

Such it is with me. And such it is with what I'm putting up here. None of it is edited, proof-read, or the like, and any typos/inaccuracies (which I'm sure the quote above falls squarely into the category of) and the like are entirely due to my lack of revision, as I wished this to be a more stream-of-consciousness sort of thing.

My assumption, of course, is that characteristic alone will be adequate to render everything written here unreadable and likely too boring for the general public, as it will all invariably fall into the "Too Long; Didn't Read" category :)


~J

Some thoughts about my motivations regarding my new-found willingness to deal with writing

Finally decided to actually to engage in some blogging. I am of mixed feelings about doing it, admittedly, having been one who has, for the majority of their life, stuck to the shadows; however, if I am truly going to move forward with actually letting other people into the worlds I've created, the inescapable truth is I'm going to have to engage in self-promotion...To say nothing about taking my first steps out into the light at all.

I'm a writer. I have been my entire life. Not professionally, unless one counts technical documentation done for systems I've designed (which I don't), and while there was even a time I bothered submitting things to publishers, and even had some things published, for the most part, I've written entirely without much thought to sharing the majority of it with anyone else.

Kindly note that when I say I have written literally thousands of pages in my life, this is no exaggeration; nor am I including technical documentation, non-fiction articles, or even my overly verbose email correspondences with friends. That the majority of what I've written never saw the light of day was not because it was explicitly rejected (id est, not because I submitted it to others who rejected it, or that I was rejected so often it made me not care to write -- I assure you this is not the case) but because I simply didn't care to share it...with anybody.

Harlan Ellison once said that "writing for the trunk is masturbation" -- implying that 'real' writers have to be egotistical exhibitionists. I both agree and disagree with him there, on a number of points, though this is hardly the place to cover that topic in detail.

What I am taking away from that idea (which implies stripping everything he said on the matter down to the merest shreds) is that, given I've written a lot of stuff, provided it doesn't damage my lifestyle by sharing it, there's no reason not to do so. While I don't feel very strongly about much of what I've written, there are a few bits and pieces which I suspect others might find of use, or at the very least, as a pleasant distraction from the horrors of unabridged consciousness (that's certainly one of the reasons I read).

Having reached a point in my life where the amount of harm which can come to me by sharing some of the wonders, horrors, the beauty, tragedy, ugliness, pain, and far too many other things to condense into a single blog post with other people is, I'd wager, increasingly limited, so here I am: finally ready to share. Having created entire worlds within my head and on paper, some as fantastic and uniquely beautiful as some others are mundane, I've decided to purge the last of them from my aging and tired brain. My mind is so terribly overfull, like a desk with papers heaped precariously atop it, each stack seeming closer to reaching the ceiling than the last...And, like the periodic cleanings one must undertake to clear off one's workspace to free it of clutter, so, too, is my mind in such a state: long over-due to be emptied. (Yes, I know the Zen tea-cup reference is hackneyed...which is why I wasn't originally going to make it, but hey, this is purely stream-of-thought writing for me).

As quantity is by no means a measure of quality, the question then becomes, "Is what I've written worth reading?"

I am aware I am an excellent writer; at times, I've even been an exceptionally good writer. Whether or not any of what I've written is actually any good from the standpoint of other people is something which I am, regrettably, utterly incapable of accurately judging.

As with any flaw which I am unable to remedy, I acknowledge it openly, not being one for pretense. I therefore leave judgments of 'quality', and whether any given thing I've created is 'good' or 'bad' entirely within the hands of you, the others, the not-I who might happen to read my words.


~JMB