Unified Field Theory

Ask me why I write and I treat the question like a riddle. And riddles make me suspicious and defensive. 

I've yet to find my own satisfactory answer to the "why do you write" question. Christopher Hitchens got close with his Descartian "being a writer's what I am rather than what I do." Hitchens at that time was facing not just his own morality but the ability to to the thing he loves even before his body succumbed. I don't have either problem, so I don't view it so starkly. Orwell also provided a decent answer, but no one asking the question wants an essay-length response. And I don't want to give one. And he did it better than I could, anyway. 

This is all to say that the follow up to my first aois21's Creative Speaking video (viewable here) sees me squirm a bit before getting comfortable enough to offer a take on my favorite definition of writing: playing with the scribbles on the page. I'm happiest when parsing ideas and thoughts and phrasings to within an inch of their lives. Some people follow those passions all the way to law school. Luckily, I've had some excellent guidance in my life and avoided that trap. I use my powers for good, dammit.

And, growing up, as I read more and more--Orwell, Lewis, Moore, others who did well for themselves playing with scribbles--I decided that that was what I wanted to do with my life. As though a particularly ambitious sea slug watched Michael Jordan play basketball and said, "hey that looks like fun." Some people want there to be a grand and deep-sounding philosophical approach to the why of writing. Or at least I want that. It would be comforting to me. But the truth is that I write because I can and because it's fun and because it's consistently occasionally rewarding. Like drinking. And that, dear readers, is the origin of the name of this blog. 

These videos will continue to trickle out over the next year/few months. I'll let you know when they debut.

In Which I Look Awkward on Camera

As part of my partnership with aois21, here is the first of several promotional videos for Nos Populus and The Half-Drunken Scribe. For regular readers, there's not a lot here that's new, but you get to see my t-shirt with its stretched-out collar and hear my Tracey Ullman-era Homer Simpson voice* talking about my writing. And blinking... so much blinking.

My apologies to aois21 for not having prepared for this any better. I could've at least worn a decent shirt. I can't take myself anywhere. If I had prepared more, I would've had more to say, but I'm not all that eloquent when on the spot. I tend to just let syllables fall out of my mouth and hope for the best.

I'll probably definitely think of some more footnotes later but just to start: I was glib in talking about the difficulty of making politics seem more absurd than they are. I'd shudder if I heard that kind of oversimplification coming out of someone else. So if I can be given a chance to explain (which, hey, I have been): Congress is terrible. We all agree? Good, moving on. No, I don't choose difficult targets. But my fear while writing Nos Populus was that transcribing real speeches and documenting real events (which might've been possible in this context) wouldn't have translated and probably would've come off boring, instead of clownish and nauseating. So I decided to amplify the inanity that already was/is, subsequently creating more work for myself.

Second, in an upcoming video, I mention Sinclair Lewis as an influence. For completeness' sake, this is the book that first sparked the idea that would become Nos Populus, an influence I've mentioned before. Sad to say, that book is not one of Lewis' best (there's a reason it was out of print for so many years). Instead, I'd suggest starting with Main Street, a book that got Lewis into some trouble, forcing him to create the fictional city of Zenith, Winnemac, so he could have a setting for his yarns that didn't offend the thin-skinned reading public of the 1920s (we're bigger than that now). 

That's it for now. More videos to come.

*The voice was initially based on Walter Matthau, but it always sounded to me like Matthau talking into a dimwit filter. Which, in a way...

Gotham

Far be it from me to lay into a series that hasn't yet aired.

There's so much that might be good here.

A Gotham Central-esque show could be fantastic. A slowly crumbling city, served by a still barely above board police department, that can work as a conduit for any crime story you want to tell. It's also some fertile soil for original stories and ideas because pre-Batman Gotham remains fairly well uncovered. I'm not sure audiences realize how amazing a character Jim Gordon can be, but he is well worthy of a central role in a TV show. And people love procedurals--just give viewers sixteen of those every year while slyly feeding us an overarching tale of decay. Like The Wire, but with occasional hints of Batman. Plus, Donal Logue as Harvey Bullock? Bill Rawls as... someone?! Yes, yes. Oh God yes.

And it could still be all of that. But.

Just after the one minute mark of the trailer, we see a freshly-orphaned Bruce Wayne hanging out, talking to Gordon. Nothing alarming so far. But then he's... standing on the roof of Wayne Manor? Prepping his rooftop posing routines? No. What? Why? Now those "occasional hints" are brushing against the backbone of the story, which is worrying because Batman's origin is a story that's not only already been told, but has already been told very well. It's precisely because we know what's coming that we don't need to dive into it immediately. There's something original and unique waiting to be told and it's very quickly succumbing to familiar yarns. Or worse, dull ones. Pubescent Bruce is about as un-Batman as Bruce gets. Maybe we'll delve deep into his goth phase.

(Fan-fiction idea that nobody wants: season one's finale opens with the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne and closes with Detective Gordon--a few months into his tenure in Gotham, a little less naive and a little more prepared to drag his adopted city out of the sewer--comforting young Bruce. If we have to wait to see that, it means the show has enough other things going on that it hopefully won't be using Lil' Batman as a crutch.)

Meanwhile, foreboding text shouts weird promises at us: "before Penguin," "before Catwoman," "before Riddler," "before Poison Ivy" in between smash cuts of the junior rogues because Fox is grittily rebooting the definition of "before," apparently. I wouldn't even mind, since these characters are a part of this universe in one form or another. An up-and-comer on the black market named Oswald Cobblepot, for example, could very easily be the focus of a strong season one plot line. But inside of two minutes we get written confirmation of four future villains, with Batman still some ten years from debuting in Gotham. Stay tuned for season two, when Joe Kerr, an albino child with a flair for card tricks and purple suits, confounds the GCPD's psychological profilers.

Why is thirteen-year old Selina Kyle dressing up as a cat burglar and standing on the edge of a rooftop (more rooftop brooding--is nothing sacred)? And what does it have to do with Jim Gordon? I'm going to have to watch to find out, aren't I? They're going to make me watch this thing, aren't they?

All we have is a trailer and already the Easter eggs are cloying. Like the worst excesses of Smallville (except Clark already had his powers). Or the shaky foundation of needless foreshadowing that the Star Wars prequels were built on. There is an assumption that we care about these characters from the start when in fact we need to be given a reason to care. And even when we do care, cramming them all together gives no one time to breathe and makes a lush, complex world achingly small. The more disparate elements you drag in, the less it resembles Gotham Central and the more it resembles Batman Babies.

Comic book mythologies are bloated because they've been developed over decades by dozens or hundreds of creators. The best stories pick a single conceit (or a couple of simple ones) and follow it to a new conclusion, inadvertently creating more mythology. They don't throw everything at the wall, desperately reminding fans that they haven't forgotten about everyone's favorite corner of the canon. They also don't shout out to the casual fans: "hey, don't worry, you already know this story," because they understand that those fans can sometimes care, even if they don't know exactly what's going on from the outset.

(Fan-fiction idea that nobody wants: GCPD Cyber Crime specialist Eddie Nashton grows slowly disgruntled as his efforts go unappreciated and starts a few elicit side projects trying to earn a name for himself. Casual fans get caught up in his slow turn from smarmy good guy to obnoxious quasi-villain before realizing who he's going to be. Meanwhile, diehard fans shit themselves upon recognition of his name--that's the kind of balance the Marvel movies excel at.)

Am I a pedant for reading too much into a trailer for pilot that's only just been picked up for a series? No. I'm a pedant for other reasons. Since this show is going to happen anyway, I can make but a simple request to an uncaring universe. I'm looking at something that could be a landmark for Batman storytelling getting bogged down in canon-service. Good Batman stories have already been told. Good Catwoman stories have already been told. Tell a good Jim Gordon story. Tell a good Harvey Bullock story. Tell a good Gotham story. And let the fans wind that into the rest of the mythology on their own.

I'd Call Myself "DVR-Man"

Please tell me that Nos Populus' description doesn't read like this:

The Clueless Dead is written as a vampire story from the male perspective and to counter a large number of annoying themes that have become prevalent in several works of vampire fiction. My character is an ordinary guy, a professional musician (but not a rockstar). He is transformed into a vampire as a result of a series of coincidences. He then must deal with the consequences of having vampire powers as well as the temptations involved in possessing the ability to mentally manipulate people, besides the spiritual quandary of being a vampire and a Christian.

To the guy who wrote that, to Keith Greenwood, author of The Clueless Dead: well done. Seriously. You put yourself out there, didn't pull your punches. Me? I draped myself in inches-thick armor and tried to look just enigmatic enough for surely-jaded agents and publishers. They're not as cruel as the Internet, but they have a fair bit more power over your dreams, so the way you carry yourself ends up looking just as awkward. Only weeks after self-publishing Nos Populus, I realized the vampiric route might've been more successful. At least then I could say I had really gone for it.

No one wants to read something written by a 25-year old. I get that. I spent seven years on Nos Populus and if it wasn't in shape to publish at that stage, it was never going to be. But if after seven years of work, my only other option was to let it rot on a flash drive that will itself be outmoded inside of ten years... well.

Self-publishing, like writing, is an honorable and demeaning bitch goddess. No reasonable person would ever say that the people who do it deserve more respect than proper-published authors. But they go for it, knowing full well that lesser writing is getting obscene advances and that they themselves will probably never make it. It's a special kind of delusion and they're doing everything in their power to materialize a goal that would've been far more absurd just twenty years ago.

I have few regrets about publishing my practice novel. A few syntax errors. My plot structure wasn't ideal, either. But I don't think it's bad. Sometimes Frequently, the most noble option is to keep walking. Worry about finding a direction later. I'm not done with Nos Populus just yet (still for sale) and I'm going to be trying something new with it; I'll let you know about that. But close to two years on, I have to focus on what's next.

Now if only I could freeze time. Ooh, and maybe I could also reverse time. And make it go forward. Just manipulating time in minor chunks, basically. On the order of a couple of hours each direction. Not enough to truly screw things up, but enough to stop (cause?) crime. That would be so sweet.

... Tangents like these don't help the writing process much, do they?

At This Rate, I'll Never Shoot Lincoln

Today I am as old--to the day--as John Wilkes Booth was when he shot Lincoln. At this rate, I'll never shoot Lincoln. Steve Bartman was roughly my age when--ten years ago this week--he entered a strata that, in the eyes of slightly stupider Cubs fans, is roughly Booth's moral level.

I don't believe in quarter-life crises; one of about sixteen reasons I don't work for Buzzfeed. I enrolled in grad school to reach toward better, happier life. And I'll make it there, I'm starting to think, even if if 2016 seems years away. As I inch closer to 27, a quiet and dignified jaunt to 30 and beyond seems less shameful.

My writing was not a ticket to premature fame. Maybe it's the Dogfish Head Raison D'Etre talking, but for the first time in my life, I'm entirely okay with that. I was always at least mildly comfortable with it, or I'd never have gone the self-publishing route. I've made my peace with all that. I was never built for public scrutiny, anyway.

If it happens one day, if I explode out of here, well... it happens. And it'll be unfortunate for me and for the rest of the universe. But I'll be better prepared for it than I was at 25, when I self-published Nos Populus, when I started this blog. If it doesn't happen--if this poorly-named blog is all the outlet I ever have--that might be better still.

Buy Nos Populus here. Or don't. Up to you.

Or You Could Take Everyone With You

"To everyone who has ever emailed to ask me for advice on writing, my answer is: get a deadline. That's all you really need. Forget about luck. Don't fret about talent. Just pay someone larger than you to kick your knees until they fold the wrong way if you don't hand in 800 words by five o'clock. You'll be amazed at what comes out."
-- Charlie Brooker

But I use my knees every day.

Productivity's a funny thing. Too little and you feel like you've wasted a chunk of your life. Too much and you wind up tired and groggy, less capable of appreciating your production with an appropriately rested eye. It even makes weekends daunting: do I do something valuable or do I rest for the week ahead? Damned either way, aren't you? And three-day weekends do not solve the dilemma; they just give you more time in which to enact your bad choice. And don't you dare think about striking a healthy balance by doing some of both. I can see you working it out in your head right now. Just stop. Stop it immediately.

This is to say that I've started grad school. Hopefully that won't hold up productivity here too much. If I get some free time, it'll be between the wife, video games, and you lot.

Character Allignment (explained via The Wire)

I played Dungeons and Dragons once, in high school, and I haven't had the desire to replay it since. I was too fat to be beat up over playing the game, so that wasn't it. Some have suggested I had a bad dungeon-master, which is possible (I don't even remember who the dungeon-master was, even though I remember most everyone involved). But for me, D&D is too much like writing on the fly in a group, which is never ideal for producing stories. Teamwork and imaginative problem solving, sure, but not so great for a narrative, which I somehow came to assume was the point of the game (it's not). And then there's characterization. While many imaginative players can and will create interesting characters, it's all too easy to wind up with characters who are dull, single-dimensional, and monomaniacally focused on a quest or a single, vague character trait, like being greedy or noble or drunk. I blame the D&D alignment chart.

As fun as the chart can be for we nerds to play with, it's a seriously flawed tool for character building. No real, live human being can fit into one square perfectly. Abstractly, one's personality might be most at home in a particular cell, say Lawful Neutral, but will tend bleed out into adjacent cells (Lawful Good, True Neutral) as the pressures of the world force different, non-dice controlled reactions out of them. Be honest with yourself: do you fit into one of those nine paradigms every day of your life? Do your friends?
 
And if a real person has no comfortable home on the chart, what chance does a compelling, realistic character have? Or at least a character that a writer wants to be compelling and realistic. Batman, for example, after seven decades of different creators and continuities, can be made to fit into all of the alignments at once. Superman can do it, too, but you have to stretch a bit more.

Then you have something like The Wire, one of the most compelling dramatic narratives ever allowed by the powers that be to grace our television screens, with characters based on real world drug dealers, cops, and politicians. Those who have seen the show (otherwise known as The People Who Should Be Allowed to Vote) know that many of the characters contain staggering shades of complexity, shifting back and forth as the crushing reality of the Baltimore drug wars impinge upon them, playing off of each other like characters in a really good novel. It shouldn't be possible to do an alignment chart of The Wire characters, right? Probably not, but here it is:

That's... actually not bad. I wonder about McNulty, though--Chaotic Neutral seems to fit him just as well, but as much as a self-destructive fuck-up as he is, he does typically work to benefit others.

Also, if Avon is Chaotic Neutral, I'm tempted to slide Stringer into Lawful Neutral; but then I get to thinking about D'Angelo and suddenly Stringer's placement here works a bit better. For balance, you could drop Avon into Chaotic Evil, since he's just as much a part of Baltimore's rot as Stringer, but no one beats Marlo Stanfield for that title (except maybe Snoop).

And Omar is about as True Neutral as they come ("It's all in the game."), but seems to me to slide across the middle, into Lawful ("A man's gotta have a code.") and Chaotic ("Well, you see Mike-Mike thought he should keep that cocaine he was slinging, and the money he was makin' from slingin' it. I thought otherwise."). Recall season two's "All Prologue," in which Omar casually obliterates Maurice Levy.

Real people, and realistic characters, have no true alignment. Fans are welcome to have fun guessing, but writers and creators must note that, for the same reasons that their creations can never be their own, dynamic character relationships will always be too messy to fit into the alignment chart. And that to try is to needlessly diminish a character's potential.

By the way, I did run Nos Populus characters through the alignments, after finishing the book. James Reso is generally Chaotic Neutral, with forays up and down the Chaotic wing. I'll let readers decide where they think the rest of the characters fall.

Nine Billion Copies!

Over at The Writer's Circle, Mia Siegert has penned a piece on the philosophy of "writing for oneself." She argues that such a claim augurs a kind of narcissism and that many writers use it as a way to avoid having their work peeled apart by others. She says, in part:

I’m not saying nor suggesting that one should write with the sole purpose of gaining audience approval, but observing that the mentality behind writing for one’s self can be and often is problematic. Those writers with too much self often don’t deal well with criticism, if they can cope with it at all...

[t]he way one deals with critique is critical to a writer’s future successes and ability and willingness to improve.

All true. Though, how many people genuinely enjoy criticism, even the constructive kind? By the way, appreciating and valuing that part of the process in helping to improve writing is not the same thing as enjoying it.

Certainly, "I write for myself" can be and is used as a hedge, covering anything from insecurity to laziness. But isn't that also where writers tend to start? How about ultra-personal diary-type material, (though I'd think that a person probably wouldn't discuss such a thing in public)? And what are writing exercises if not "writing for oneself?"

Maybe it's a matter of degree. If a writer claims that all of their writing is for their eyes only, it will sound lame. But, in addition to not having to listen to that person, we should remember that any decent writing will typically start "for oneself"--writing as practice, or therapy--before evolving into something the writer feels will fairly reflect on themselves and their skills in the larger, harsher world. Nos Populus was a combination of the two, vacillating back and forth over a few years until I decided it was ready to hand over to a couple of people I trusted to edit it. Then a few more years until I was girded enough to publish it.

Figured against my costs for publishing, I'm actually still in the red. Not by anything significant, of course, and I don't mind that part. Writing to finance writing is about all that I aspire to, money-wise. And anyway, my dreams of acclaim and royalties were more like outlandish fantasies; almost certainly not going to happen, but "stranger things... " sort of situation. It was about finishing the book, getting it out there, and avoiding the trap of editing it over and over again for years, driving myself irretrievably mad while negligibly improving upon a project that never sees the light of day. For myself, in a way.

Or take self-proclaimed "self-publishing failure" John Winters. He had a book, got frustrated with the query-agent-publisher stage, took his book to Amazon, found the process amazingly easy, didn't sell much, experienced a mysterious sales surge that disappeared just as mysteriously, and sits at the end of it all with a little-noticed, less-sold book. Hits close to home for me and (I shudder to think how many) millions of others. Would you take "for myself," away from him? Then again, Winters also managed to garner a five star review at Amazon; more than I can say for Nos Populus (no reviews is kind of like a perfect rating, right?). He also got to write a piece for Salon, so he's got that going. You can purchase a copy of Winters' book here. And here's his blog.

People sometimes ask me how my book sales are going. It reminds me of when I was unemployed immediately after college and I'd hear "how's the job search going?" They're making me think about this draining, demoralizing, seemingly futile process. And they can't think it's going well, or they'd have already heard about it. It takes whatever remaining socialization skills I still possess not to scream back, "Haven't you heard? I've sold nine billion copies! I'm the McDonald's of self-publishing!" But that's not fair to them. Is it? No, probably not.

I am sorry to sound bitter. Although in a world where Snooki gets to have multiple books published (she can use the words "my new book;" think about that), Paris Hilton gets a record deal, and Grumpy Cat is in talks for a film, one can't be totally surprised when creative-types who bust their asses to realize the same dreams just want to shove a shard of broken glass into their respective jugulars.

The point is, in a field as punishing as trying to write for others, having "the personal" to fall back on is as much a crutch as it is a parachute made of sanity. Just try not to overuse it.

NaNoWriMo

A post about National Novel Writing Month would've been timelier a week or so ago. But this blog was focused on something else. 

I'm of two minds about NaNoWriMo. In the first corner is the sick, contrarian part of my brain, the part that balks at anything smacking of booster-ish trendiness. The cutesy portmanteau is enough to readjust the relative position of my eyebrows. And I'm not sure what writer needs Internet-based camaraderie to get them to write. Also, if you're going to pick one month in which to write a novel, wouldn't a thirty-one day month serve you that much better?

While finishing one book that no one wanted doesn't entitle to me to a lot of elitism on the subject, I can say that books are generally not written in a month. A person may be able to write 50K words in thirty days' time (and good on them for doing so), but then there's the editing. And the re-writing. And then the next few rounds of editing after that. It's neither pithy nor romantic to say so, but these are the forgotten elements of writing. The site says--apparently seriously--that the program values "enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft." I blacked out when I first read that one. Woke up a couple of days later, wearing blood stains on an otherwise clean, white smock that I had never seen before. Since I've lost so much time, I'll keep this short: enthusiasm is good, perseverance is great, but it's the painstaking craft that stitches them together.

On the other hand, I really do appreciate anything that encourages people to write more (or any). Writing has usually been a rewarding experience for me and it's something I recommend to anyone who thinks they have might have something to say. There's nothing better for organizing one's thoughts than writing them down. The subject of writing is the closest I've come to proselytizing for anything, if only because advocating for the healing powers of alcohol remains a touchy subject in many circles. And though I'm not sure if everyone has a book in them, as is often claimed, you never know who does until they try. Meeting NaNoWriMo's goal leaves a writer with 50K words at the end of the month, words she can expand upon, or perhaps cut down for a short story. Or even re-purpose altogether to something else that can begin anew in December. That's the test of a writer: knowing how and when to continue or start over and seeing it through regardless. If NaNoWriMo can give people the impetus to start exorcising a long simmering dream, letting my intrinsic distaste for pithy methodology stand in the way seems, well, douchey.

Don't write because this particular month happens to make for some neat alliteration with which to advertise the project. Don't do it because other people are doing it. And don't stop on November 30th (likewise, come next year, if you think up a great idea for a book on October 26th, start then). Write because you have a story you want to tell. If you start with the hope of writing a novel and find that you have a much better short story in the works, run with that: the quality of your output means a hell of a lot more than the quantity. And if your project isn't working out and it's November 25th and you don't have time to start over, start over anyway; nothing is more arbitrary when it comes to writing than start and end times.

Essentially, if you're going to write, write.

Hard Work: You're Using Those Words Wrong

Some of the oldest advice most of us can probably remember getting is that one has work hard to get ahead. Or, in many cases, to get anywhere. And it's good advice. Outside of a lucky few, none of us will get the things we want without first putting some kind of down payment of our energies into the pot. And hard work--done right and when remotely rewarding--often carries benefits that are purely for its own sake.

The trouble is that, as with any words in the English language, frequent repetition chips away at meaning and eventually relevance. The concept is replaced with a mantra. It becomes civic religion--a matter of unthinking faith. Before long, we're working ourselves to death and killing our own productivity for the sake of getting to say that we're working hard. We mistake being busy for being productive or, worse still, for being valuable and fulfilled human beings. How many monomaniacs do you know who are fully functional and satisfied people? Work--something we do for the benefits it brings in time of idleness--has become a raison d'etre unto itself. 

Hard work--divided from things like skill and knowledge and devotion--is only a partial virtue. It's sadly become a simplistic, almost solipsistic platitude. It is, of course, a part of the equation. Talent and know-how can get a person decently far on their own but to go much further, one needs to put in grunting, sweaty effort. That's what we mean most often. Physical application, what some still call "elbow grease." This must be paired with an investment of resources--time in particular, but also money and, yes, luck. These elements are what, boiled down, we call "work." And this is fine, as long as we bear this in mind when we talk about "work" and "achievement," rather than turning solid advice into derivative cant. 

As with most things, this misunderstanding was incubated by the Puritans. They loved work. Funny thing there is that the Puritans also liked punishment. Pleasure, that was a dirty word. Idleness, too; that's when the Devil found you. "Joy" in general--a wretched concept. But work and suffering and the banality of martyrdom: that was where salvation lay. We continue to embrace this philosophy long after we've developed things like central heating and indoor plumbing to ensure a quality of life the Puritans could never imagine (and would likely shun us for, anyway--witchcraft and all that). Work, in our language, is now separated from pleasure. They are different spheres entirely thanks to our deeply messed up fore-bearers and we, perhaps understandably, value the more productive sphere even at the expense of its natural balance.

It's become such a singular value that it's taken on meanings that are actually harmful: modern day corporate go-getters, whose eagerness can become catastrophically dangerous. The rest of us are told to keep up, whether we reasonably can or not. Now we have the phrase "workaholics;" how many cues do you take from other -aholics? Eventually "hard work" reaches the end-of-life-cycle for any phrase: political platitude, tailor made for all-star bloviators. It's become such a catch-all for any discussion on success and merit that it's taken on bizarre proportions, even being used to rehabilitate Auschwitz's original motivational poster. 

An unsuccessful person must not have worked hard enough, it is said. But this conveniently ignores the fact that some people have to work a lot harder than others to get to the same ends--and that there's no scientific measure for "hardness" of work, anyway. It coldly dodges the reality that even the hardest fought battles can be undone with relative ease by an uncaring universe. And it just plain forgets that while hard work is the most egalitarian key to success, it is one among several necessary keys. 

One person endeavors to transport a boulder from a quarry in Colorado to Mars' Valles Marineris. Another creates a new, trendier, less invasive social networking site. By any measure, the boulder-moving was harder work while the network-building was smarter work. And the networker almost certainly reaped greater benefits from her task than did Sisyphus. So you see how the phrase "hard work" can lack real meaning when used inappropriately. A convenient phrase with vague applications and even vaguer implications.

Most of us have probably been told at one point or another that we've worked hard at something. And it might be true. But verifying hard work is awkward: different tolerances for work loads, tasks that look harder/easier than they are, extenuating circumstances, etc. I received such praise from family and friends when I finished Nos Populus. Trouble was, I rarely considered the book to be "work" while writing it. It only became such when it was hard-going and my output was either lousy (qualitatively) or negligible (quantitatively). When I was actually making progress on the book and proud of what I was doing, it was a hobby that I loved and so it never felt like "work." I may never be fortunate enough to experience something like that in what I do for a living. But at least I can supplement my day job with it, giving me the balance of productivity and joy that the 21st Century office job often eschews.

How It Works Now

Patton Oswalt is a comedian.  A very funny one.  Here he is taking time out from a very solid bit in order to tear a heckler a new scream hole.  Last week, Oswalt gave the keynote address at the Just For Laughs Comedy Conference, which is a thing.  You can read his address here.  And I recommend reading it in full, but I want to highlight this:

I need to decide more career stuff for myself and make it happen for myself, and I need to stop waiting to luck out and be given... I’m seeing this notion take form in a lot of my friends. A lot of you out there. You, for instance, the person I’m writing to. Your podcast is amazing. Your videos on your YouTube channel are getting better and better every single one that you make, just like when we did open mics, better and better every week. Your Twitter feed is hilarious.

Now, Oswalt is on a much higher plane than I.  Even aside from his being in a different artistic field, he is so much more talented and successful than I am that it's insulting for me to even make a comparison that ends in his favor.  In fact, I think I have to retract the "plane" analogy.  He's scaling a redwood in California while I'm floundering around the mouth of the Mariana Trench.  And, no, he's not directly speaking to me here.  I've not done a podcast.  I don't have a YouTube channel.  My Twitter feed is not that hilarious.  And, as already mentioned, I'm not a comedian and the things that are useful for up-and-coming comedians aren't necessarily useful for me (though there is some overlap). 

That said, it hits home.  I've covered this previously when talking about my decision to self-publish.  More generally, it's about the niche-ification of pop culture as a whole.  Closer to home, it's about publishers having a harder go of it than they'd gotten used to and there's not a lot of reason to suspect the good times will return.  Not exactly as they were, anyway.  And as with everything else do to with the wrecking ball that is the Internet, this is simultaneously depressing and hope-inspiring. 

In deciding to self-publish, I accepted that my dreams of glory quitting my job to write full-time may be just that: a dream.  I tested my mettle against the gatekeepers and wound up on the same side from which I started.  That's not to say I'll never try again.  Or that some kindly gatekeeper won't give me another shot--a vanishingly small possibility, that one.  The end of "luck" that Oswalt speaks of is a little overblown; there's always a pinch of luck in any successful (or unsuccessful) venture.  But luck is a smaller part of the equation than it used to be.  Or, at least, luck's focus has shifted and the concept of "being given" opportunities doesn't mean what it used to.  The odds of my being magically transported into Writer-dom's Great Beyond are dimmer than they might have been ten-to-fifteen years ago.  And I'm fine with that.

Nos Populus has sold a few copies.  That means a few people have been interested enough to check it out and that they've absorbed at least some of what I had to say there, if I did my job right.  And that may not be humbling in the way that a few thousand readers might be, but it's pretty cool nonetheless.  It's not about money.  It can't be.  I'd drive myself mad if it were.

This blog is getting strong, mostly-steady readership.  I don't know why my stats say that I'm especially popular in Russia, but who am I to complain?  Thanks for the support, Russia!  And if a few people like what I have to say here on THDS, that's also pretty bloody fantastic.

The Internet requires everyone to shift their expectations.  There will still be superstars whose success stories fuel writers all around the globe, most of whom will never taste that kind of notoriety.  But those who believe in what they do and who genuinely love doing it will persist.  Because they want to make it and know that they can.  Because they know that writing--done well--is its own reward.  The impetus will be both.

If all I ever amount to is a decently read blogger with a miniature cult-following in Russia and a couple dozen book sales to his name then, well, this is a damn fun hobby.

Women in Comics: This is Why Women Don't Talk To Us (Possibly NSFW)

When DC Comics launched their "New 52" series last fall, the idea was to create a safe space for new and casual fans to come into the books without the headaches that come with the confusing and convoluted back stories of seventy-year old characters.  And DC had reason to believe that new demographics would be interested in giving these books a look, if box office returns for the summer superhero movies are anything to go by.  Among these demographics were women, long a difficult market for the comics industry.  But DC was game to try and so for the cover of the first issue of Catwoman, arguably the most recognizable female superhero in comics, they gave us this:

And in case that didn't get the blood flowing appropriately, here's page 1:

This, gentlemen, is why women don't talk to us.  Or, put another way, it's why we're not perceived as being able to talk to women.  After all, how do you talk to a person when this is the way you picture them?  More of an immediate problem for the comics medium: how do you write them? 

Writing female characters can be hard for many male writers.  Outside of any hangups they may have with women, it's daunting to write for someone from a different background.  Be it gender or race or creed, writing for someone else presents pitfalls and challenges that can drive a lesser writer mad.  But it's what all writers sometimes have to do.  Not being able to empathize with your subject is a one way ticket to shitty writing.  And it will show through.  You could try and write only from perspectives similar to your own, but that quickly limits your storytelling possibilities.  And people start to notice.

People notice a lot quicker in visual mediums, like comics.  The eye will catch and process artwork a lot quicker than it might with large chunks of prose, which have to be parsed and balanced against concepts like irony and satire.  A book set in the 19th Century will have a very different context for the lives and attitudes of female characters than will a book set in the early 21st Century.  In a visual medium, however, the context is out in the open and, usually, unmistakable.  Someone with no familiarity with the book in question, or any of the work of the writer or the artist (if they're separate people), or the characters, or even the medium as a whole, can pick up that book and and experience the purest visceral experience that those images--or even a single image--instills in them. 

Some argue that male characters are often drawn to the same absurd, impossible proportions that women are.  This is true.  Larger than life fantasy characters tend to be envisioned as, well, larger than life fantasy characters.  But this is also not the point.  When male superheros are posing something like this:

...we'll have an egalitarian industry.  And a more consistently stupid one.  Some brilliant person drew this chart, featuring the male members of the Justice League in the exact same pose as Wonder Woman had been depicted in one of the promo sheets for the New 52:

That last image, if you're wondering, is of the Wonder Woman redesign, her relatively-recently added pants exchanged for the "classic" or "canon" panties she'd long worn.  This change followed an uproar on the part of the fanboys.  If you're not beginning to see the problem, maybe Namor (the Sub-Mariner!) can convince you?

I'm going to give some rare props to Marvel Comics: that is some fantastic egalitarianism.  However, this particular image did not appear in any of the comics but in a one-off Marvel swimsuit calendar (yes, that happened).  So it's probably not fair to consider it on the same level.  Still, you can imagine the state of the industry today if more of the male superheroes looked more like Namor (the Sub-Mariner!) does here.  And you'd of course have to imagine a near total reversal of the real world gender relations of the last century in order to allow for this sort of thing.

And as women in the real world have assumed more high profile public and private roles outside the home and generally become less, you know, second class citizens, women in comic books have responded by becoming ninja-like ass-kickers of the same semi-decent character development as their male counterparts, albeit with considerably more sex appeal.  Many are still the damsel in distress (Lois Lane, even with less focus on her need to marry Superman, remains, all too often, fodder for villain capture--a hack adventure writer's best tool even outside of the sexism).  Still others exist solely to exhibit that particular style of pseudo-feminism known as waif-fu.  And all of them, all of them, eventually establish a relationship with a major male character because any time you have a never-ending series, constantly demanding new story material, you run the risk of slipping into soap opera territory.  And of DC's New 52 books, less than a dozen star female characters or feature female characters as a central part of a group, ala Wonder Woman in Justice League. 

There is another argument for this sexual depiction of woman that I feel I must address.  It goes something like this: in these universes of thousands of characters, some women are naturally going to be more sexual.  After all, it makes sense that Emma Frost would walk around in her underwear most of the day: if you're focused on her body, you're less likely to notice her rifling through your head with her telepathy (though it begs the question: are gay men and straight women immune?).  On the more consistently villainous side of things, Poison Ivy dresses like this to enhance her hypnotic appeal, earning her yet more male slaves to do her bidding.  In her own way, Ivy is a reflection of the comics industry's hold on men for illicit gains and I've long wanted to see a more aware and ambitious writer tackle that head on.  This apparent need for sexualization, however, does not seem to hold for the male characters.  Well, aside from Namor (the Sub-Mariner!) up there.

And how do you explain this significant tilt toward the extreme end of the sexual spectrum?  Why don't comic book women run the gamut, from hyper-sexual, to casually sexual, to sometimes sexual, to asexual as real women do and good characters would?  There's lazy writing and derivative artistry, yes.  There's also the economic need to sell monthly books to the same people who've always bought them, a group of people usually perceived as being sex-starved teenagers.  That group doesn't help itself when it continues to buy the books month after month, even after they may have long lost interest in whatever the writers are doing; it's habit more than anything.  And the nail is pummeled into the coffin when the less imaginative of that group go on to write the characters, mostlyyearning  to recreate and revisit the stories and characterizations of their youth.  And the only evolution the medium sees is that of one-upsmanship, where every month demands new extremes of over-the-top sex and gritty violence until we get something like the 1990's. 

It's not merely the comic book geek image I wish to throw off.  I'm more or less at peace with that.  It's the fact that a medium that could be one of the most sophisticated and effective in all storytelling is so saddled with sexual iconography that it can't mature beyond early adolescence.  When the talent pool will remain permanently shallow, no one from outside will have reason to take it seriously enough to elevate it to the level of art that it can be and the medium can stagnate.  The depiction of women is just the most glaring example of where these comics go wrong. 

This has gotten a little better.  Part of it is that some people--among them prominent female writers--have started getting louder about it.  And as more women--like Amanda Conner--become very big names in the industry, we can hope for a sea change.  But it's going to require a more concerted effort, treating all of its characters with the same seriousness that we expect of some of the better books and movies and television shows.  It can be done.  It has been done.  It just requires some more serious attempts at solid and interesting writing, the way Scott Snyder is in his current run on Batman and, to a lesser extent, as Brian Azzarello is on Wonder Woman.  The world needs more comics with the depth and maturity of Watchmen, not Watchmen prequels.  Thirty years after the early breakthrough works of Alan Moore and Frank Miller, it's time to move past the Rob Liefeld's and latter day-Frank Miller's and make good on all those old promises. 

Isn't that right, Namor?

The Sub-Mariner!

Intro to Sympathetic Characters

Community is one of the most clever and creative shows on television today.  It's certainly the most ambitious sitcom going, perhaps ever.  And it has John Goodman occasionally.  Commercially, it's been rough, yes, but I'd rather get a handful of seasons of an Arrested Development than another nine-and-counting seasons' long sludge pump of Two and a Half Men.  I love the show.  And I hope it gets its six seasons.  A movie?  Eh, maybe.  But I'd see it regardless. 

That said...

I want to like the show more than I do.  Part of it is that I'm more of a Parks and Recreation guy (oh, Ron Swanson) and the stupid, baseless competition between the two fan groups has been hard to totally stay out of.  But most of it is the bear-hug embrace by its fans.  Pop culture nerds and Internet-shackled geeks (among whom I count myself and a number of friends) worship the show and I get why.  However, that sort of thing also runs into a neurosis of mine: the contrarian streak.  If I don't already adore something--and sometimes even if I do--it's hard for me to hear constant praise of it without wanting to become a dissenting voice, even if I have no real desire to dissent.  I call it the Joss Whedon-effect.  It's unfair, irrational, and entirely my problem.  I'd like to say it makes me a stronger critic of writing, both my own and that of other people, but it has very little practical application and is kind of dickish.  And it forces me to obsess over cracks that may not be a big deal otherwise.

Very few shows work well when their characters are hard to sympathize with.  Everyone knows All in the Family made a horrible and unlikable person basically sympathetic by showing why he was the way he was (it helps, I think, that most every family has an Archie Bunker).  Cheers' Cliff Clavin was generally more obnoxious than horrible, but fans knew there was a good guy in there--he just happened to always be trying too hard.  Some shows get away with making characters bad people, but work because we understand--and maybe even share--the badness and because it's funny: Seinfeld is still the king there.  I already mentioned Arrested Development, where the lack of sympathy is probably part of what doomed the show, but the regular watchers whom the show rewarded (much as Community does its die-hards) saw enough glimpses of humanity underneath the cartoons; and for shows where the cartoons are funny enough (see 30 Rock in its prime), this works.  Then there's the professional wrestling model, where as long as the heel gets his comeuppance every so often, he can sink to any depths.  South Park can get away with having Eric Cartman do vile, vile things, so long as he's appropriately beaten down a couple of times a season (it also helps that he's nine).  Which brings me back to Community and Abed Nadir. 

At the end of last October's "Horror Fiction in Seven Spooky Steps," we see that a series of personality tests taken by the group--tests which had previously been assumed to identify one member of the group as a "psychopath" and are then shown to be interpreted backwards, producing six psychopaths and one "normal"--has revealed Abed to be the most normal of the group.  Now, ignoring the fact that if any of them is normal, it's Troy (a friendly, likable, eager guy who's maybe a little dull-witted at times but that's about it), this still seems disingenuous.  Season Two's "Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas" was one of a few that has highlighted how deep Abed's psychoses go.  Now, a character as thoroughly screwed up as Abed can still be a decent person, and in a sitcom setting may even be charming.  But when we're also supposed to swallow that he's the sane one?  With that revelation, I began to suspect that Abed may be the show's way of rationalizing the socially awkward behavior of its nerd fanbase (of which I am one).  That what's most important to be yourself, at the expense of anyone and everyone around you.  "Digital Exploration of Interior Design" from a few weeks ago features Abed refusing to compromise on something so trivial as blanket fort versus pillow fort, in a literary reference no one could miss: of course it would be the show's resident manchild who would demonstrate the most John Galt-tendencies, even moreso than the resident industrialist.  And at least Pierce Hawthorne is acknowledged as an asshole in the show's universe.  

Then came this week's episode: "Virtual Systems Analysis."  In it, Abed descends to the lowest point that I think he can for me.  In the beginning of his fantasies, he describes his mission as Dr. Spacetime to protect "innocent unremarkables."  He later huffs and wants to give up playing when Annie doesn't play exactly as he wants.  Remember: we're presumably supposed to like this guy; this guy who makes everyone stop what they're doing to indulge his fantasies.  His roommate and best friend Troy tells Annie that she has to be careful around him, not to "break him."  This seals it then, doesn't it?  Abed's a fragile, selfish child that the others put up with because the point of the show is that friendship trumps everything.  Well, if it trumps everything...

But then, the show did something less expected and very welcome.  Go see it if you haven't already, but for the first time since October, it breaks Abed down and admits angrily points out that "there is something wrong here" and more remarkably, Abed appears to accept it.  He is given comeuppance and comes out a tad healthier--he gains empathy.  He may or may not still be the sane one, but at least that can no longer function as armor. 

Series creator Dan Harmon has announced that he, like Abed, has Aspergers and frequently has trouble empathizing with people.  In that light, Abed's recent arc makes a lot more sense.  A writer can come up with some very powerful stuff when working through personal issues.  With this, the former rationalization of horrible selfishness and childishness becomes Dan Harmon hitting a wall with his own issues, which lends itself to Abed's revelation.

Abed probably hits a little close to home for me.  Not just the aforementioned contrarian streak, which causes me to start picking apart the most mundane things in an attempt to understand them (much the same as Abed does, albeit coming from a different place).  Nor the occasional social awkwardness.  My empathy sense fails on occasion, too, and while it's again coming from a different place (my WASP-yness, his emotional trauma) the fall backs to pop culture tropes in place of genuine emotion (sci-fi television in his case, The Simpsons in mine) strike a chord.  But also because, perhaps like Harmon, I created a character who is too much like me for my own liking.  All of my characters are me, some more so.  James Reso actually became easier to write when I accepted that, had a dozen or so things gone differently, he could be me.  Or not too unlike me. 

So it was all the more troubling when I was having friends read early drafts of Nos Populus and a common note was that James could often be childish, irritating, or even cruel (sound familiar, Abed?).  And, it's true, he can be those things.  But for the book to readable, I needed to pull back and show James' human side, how he got to where he was, and how he could also be a decent guy when he understood what he was doing.  If I could do that, then the reader's reaction to the bad things he does later is more in line with what I wanted.  Or at least, the reader's reaction is something other than "couldn't have happened to a more deserving son of a bitch."  Did I succeed?  Read it and tell me. 

I'll give Community the benefit of the doubt and assume they'd been working Abed to make this turn all along.  And, like with Pierce last season, they needed to push him to his worst in order to redeem him (even if Pierce's payoff never totally happened).  But it required a good long stretch of Abed being near unbearable.  And maybe they can "put him back together" as Annie seemed to this week.  But if they can't, and the demands of an ongoing television show bar them from making that kind of permanent change, is it deserving of it's fans, it's viewership?  Was the character--and it's creator--ever worth our time and investment?   

Well, maybe for now I'll just hope that Community can do it.

The Hunger Games and book-banning

As you're probably aware, The Hunger Games author Suzanne Collins has earned (in addition to what must be a stupidly large literary fortune) one of the most prestigious and enviable honors in literature: a place on the most banned books list.  Lord knows I've dreamt of making the list and I applaud Collins for doing so.  But back to the banning: look at the reasons given in that link.  Or just look here:

"anti-ethnic; anti-family; insensitivity; offensive language; occult/satanic; violence."

"Violence" is last on the list.  And though the reasons do appear to be listed alphabetically, we're talking about a book where child-on-child murder is a central plot point.*  And when you draw up complaints like this about any book, you should probably lead with the most egregious offenses, no?  Of course, it's not as though violence is the most serious sin in American art.  Not even when it involves children.  Just ask the MPAA.  And this is not to diminish the severity or horror of child-on-child murder.  But there's a marked difference between not wanting your kid to read that and deciding no one should be allowed to read. 

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*Full disclosure: I've only read the first two Hunger Games books.  I've been meaning to get around to the third for the last year or so, but was told that semi-central character and all around wet blanket Peeta Mellark (SPOILER) does not die.  I was told something about him having a surlier demeanor and possibly trying to kill main character and reluctant teenage dynamo Katniss Everdeen, which might finally give him something to do aside from get in Katniss' way and generally be a useless slug.  But then I was led to believe that this was more of a hypnosis thing, rather than a scorned would-be lover thing (please alert me if any of this is incorrect), because why should a crucial character ever be interesting?  (END SPOILER)  So, as you might've surmised, my interest was slightly dampened on an otherwise terrific pair of YA books and combined with an ever growing wishlist on Amazon to attend to, I haven't gotten to it.  Yet. 
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I also notice that Satan (finally managing a bit of luck) was on the list of reasons for Hunger Games' inclusion.  Not that I remember him being heavily involved in the story, unless he's a stand-in for the evil that is done by the villainous government upon the children and, thus, their families.  In which case, couldn't we argue that drama and conflict are impossible without Beelzebub?  And therefore shouldn't we be thanking the Lord of Flies for his contributions to millenniums' old tradition of storytelling?  As long as I'm applauding Collins, I might as well save some energy for the paranormal entity that not only makes every banned list, but has made those banned lists possible.

On a similar note, "religious viewpoint" shows up a lot for a lot of books on the list.  I'm not even sure what the hell that means.  Depicting religion, maybe?  So are holy texts out, too?  But then, this is a specifically American list, so the offense is more likely related to depicting something that is seemingly counter to whatever narrow, thin-skinned, thick-headed version of fundamentalist Christianity a few bored parents in PTA meetings are huffing at the present moment.  That is to say: the dramatic depiction of anything remotely interesting.  And, again, it's not to oppose parents' deciding what is and isn't right for their kid; that is their purview.  But they don't get a blanket ban for everyone. 

Lastly, I want to point out that one of the reasons given for the banning of one my favorite books from high school--Aldous Huxley's Brave New World (and if any teenager/pre-teen liked Hunger Games, Brave New World should be one of their next steps)--was "nudity."  Nudity.  In a book.  Without pictures.  Here's the thing: if a kid can read depictions of nudity or sex and comprehend them, then he/she is psychologically and emotionally mature enough to deal with those depictions or otherwise decide they don't want to read them.  And you should be, too. 

This sort of thing is nothing new (that second link is about the banning of Anne Frank's Diary.  Anne Frank's Diary.  A fifteen-year old made the list, which means that I have officially wasted my life).  And these lists aren't going anywhere, either.  I'm not going to make the case that banned lists are stupid.  Not because they aren't, or because other people have already said it, or because they often have the reverse effect of making a book more popular, or even because saying "ban banned lists" sounds odd.  I'm not going to say that because when you take that honor away, the only thing you leave writers is the hope of making some money with their work.  In other words, it leaves us with false hope than we already had.

If Collins were looking for my advice (she's not), I'd say take the honor with joy and aplomb.  Do you have any idea what some people would give to be in your position?**

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**I killed the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives in my book!  Ban me!

On Self-Publishing

So I had a book.  Now what?

Well, I could've gone straight to the publishers on my hands and knees, but after some research, I discovered that literary agents are as solid an in as one can get.  The agent thing also seemed less daunting in general.  Maybe it's my lack of a go-getter nature, or my uncertainty in the various negotiating and legal issues and general selling myself that is an agent's job.  I would've been more than happy to lose some of the big money I thought I was going to get (why lie to you or to myself?) to someone who could do that for me, better than I could.  Plus, there are a thousand great resources (three, I found three) to help aspiring authors find who/what they're looking for.  For someone like me--who had a book and nothing else--this was invaluable.

I found it a relief that most agents were very nice people.  I know this because their rejections were mostly very polite.  Save a few, the rejections were peppered with "this seems like a fascinating/interesting/engaging project, but..."  This might be because they were sending form letters, or because the ones who are inclined to write back just want you to keep trying.  They know better than you or I that the industry is in trouble.  E-books, the fragmentation of options for people's leisure time, the niche-ification of reading interests.  Basically, the Internet.  It was hard enough to get in when the industry was thriving.  It's their jobs in the lurch, too, so they offer all the encouragement they can. 

And that was good, because I got a lot of rejections.  Seventy-something in total (which, from what I understand, still makes me an amateur).  And that was out of the 150-odd agents that looked like they might take my query seriously.  I twice had the enormous thrill of being asked for a partial of 50-100 pages.  One rejected me after that, while the other... well, only they know for sure (call me... please?). 

After a few months of this, I started to accept that this may not be happening for me and to continue to try was the definition of insanity. 

My dad tried self-publishing once (pre-Internet era).  A friend/acquaintance/guy I hung out with a couple of times did it.  And we all know it can be done very successfully, at the extreme end of the dream spectrum.  And all that stuff about the industry being in decline?  That stuff helps self-publishers; it's all interconnected. 

After sifting through some good advice, I decided to use Amazon's CreateSpace, mostly because I was familiar with Amazon and because I would have access to their store immediately.  And--at the risk of sounding like a shill--it could not have been easier.  They walked me through every step, letting me control the process at my speed.  Remedial self-publishing. 

And here we are. 

I don't feel comfortable instructing anyone in the How's of publishing.  I don't know what you want out of your work, you do.  I do know that the industry is rough, that I wanted my book out there, and that they didn't want me.  Maybe Nos Populus will sell twelve obligatory copies to friends and family and then die a quiet death.  But I'll have tried.  And I'll sell a few copies while coming to terms with the fact that my first novel may just be practice. 

Coming next: Something Completely Diff-- no... no Python quoting.  I have to make some rules, don't I?