InkShard: A Compendium of Essays
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Copyright © 2019 Eric Muss-Barnes. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved under the Universal Copyright Convention and the Berne Convention For The Protection Of Literary And Artistic Works. The author of this book, Eric Muss-Barnes, secures all rights to this book, including the right to reproduce this book in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, and extends such privileges to absolutely no other parties, individuals or companies. With the exception of historical text, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, in whole or in part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means including, but not limited to, all existing and yet to be invented information duplicating, storage or retrieval systems, without specific permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.

Published by Eric Muss-Barnes at Dubh Sith Ink

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Hardcover, paperback, and ebook editions of this story contain the complete and identical text. Not one word has been altered or omitted.

Address all correspondence and order inquiries to:

www.DubhSithInk.com

Cover designed and created by Eric Muss-Barnes

Author photo by Star Foreman, July 2006

PRINTED AND MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

First International Printing: June 2019

Table Of Contents

InkShard: A Compendium of Essays

by Eric Muss-Barnes

Title
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
Books by Eric Muss-Barnes
Proem

I. LOVE & LOSS

Death By Shyness
Threesome
Mothers Say The Darnedest Things
Irritated With People Who Are Irritated
Growing Up
Behind Every Great Man
Curvy = Good, Stinky = Bad
Fucking Easter Eggs
Can I Find A Woman Who Is Not Psychotic?
Back Away From The Nice Guy Slowly
Revenge Of The Exotic Dancer
Me, Me, ME
Integrity & Devotion
I Bet You Think This Song Is About You
In Praise Of Girls Under 25
Mister Sandman Bring Me A Dream
Best Text Message Ever
My Fair Lady
Thanks To My Ex-Girlfriends
Why I Eloped At An Elvis Chapel
You Can’t Have Lloyd Dobler!

II. ETYMOLOGY

The Focal Length of Perspective
That’s What Christmas Is All About Charlie Brown
What Does “Bigotry” Really Mean?
What Does “Hate Speech” Mean?
Why “Tolerance” Is A Terrible Thing?

III. CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS

My Fellow Americans
Queer Weddings & Those Who Hate Them
How To Change The Second Amendment?
Dear Nicole Arbour And Her Freedom Of Speech
The Declaration of Independence: The Most Punkrock Essay Ever Written
Gun Violence Does Not Exist
Why Patriotism Matters
The First Amendment & Censoring of Alpha Phi Sorority
Keep & Bear Arms in California Constitution
Dear Hillary Clinton Supporters, This is Why You Lost
An Open Letter to Everytown Authors Council
Invention
The State Flag of New California

IV. BOOK & MOVIE REVIEWS

BOOK REVIEW: “The Essential Ellison” by Harlan Ellison
BOOK REVIEW: “Mind Fields” by Harlan Ellison
BOOK REVIEW: “Ariel” by Steven R Boyett
BOOK REVIEW: “Illusions” by Richard Bach
BOOK REVIEW: “The Killing Joke” by Alan Moore
BOOK REVIEW: “The Secret Garden” by Frances Hodgson Burnett
BOOK REVIEW: “Faerie Tale” by Raymond E Feist
BOOK REVIEW: “The Neverending Story” by Michael Ende
BOOK REVIEW: “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach
BOOK REVIEW: “The Stone & The Flute” by Hans Bemmann
BOOK REVIEW: “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” by Gary Gygax
BOOK REVIEW: “A Voyage to Arcturus” by David Lindsay
BOOK REVIEW: “A Little Princess” by Frances Hodgson Burnett
BOOK REVIEW: “The Crow” by James O’Barr
BOOK REVIEW: “The Catcher in the Rye” by JD Salinger
BOOK REVIEW: “Faeries” by Brian Froud & Alan Lee
BOOK REVIEW: “Our Movie Year” by Harvey Pekar
MOVIE REVIEW: “Zero Charisma” by Andrew Matthews & Katie Graham
BOOK REVIEW: “Herding Tigers” by Daniel Philpot
MOVIE REVIEW: “Sucker Punch” by Zack Snyder

V. ALL THE NEWS FROM LAKE ERIE

September 11th
Bob With No Hands
The Runs
Ten Imaginative Years (aka "How I Wrote My Novel")
All Relationships Are Temporary

VI. THE ANGELIC METROPOLIS

Los Angeles really IS full of flakes... who knew?...
Time Is Of The Essence
Drums
How To Stop Image Thieves On MySpace
Perspective on Tsunamis (a.k.a. “Surf’s Up!”)
Eric’s Series of Unfortunate Events
What Are Friends For?
I Am Morrissey
Lame Surveys
The Blank Canvas
Missis Moon & The Drought Of Employment
Back To The Future
Learn To Ride A Skateboard
The Dumbest Girl In The World
Is It A Celebrity Sighting
To The Homeless Dude Shitting On Chandler Boulevard
How Much Did That Cost You
Why Motorcycles Are Pretty Badass
What’s With The Mickey Ears?
Something Wonderful This Way Comes
Kindness Over Honesty
Function Before Fashion
Just A Gigolo... No, Really...
Sexy, Mean & Stupid... But Doing It With Style
When You Come Close To Selling Out, Reconsider
Emo Gangstas?
Green Living is for Assclowns
A Friend To All Is A Friend To None
Seriously? What is WRONG with you people?

VII. THE CRAFT

Welcome to InkShard
TRON Fights for The Users!
On The Stupidity of Book Genres
The Love of Language Goes Beyond Definition
What’s in a Name?
Too Stupid for Their Own Good
Who Wants to Live Forever?
The Dreamery Company
Harlequin, The Ticktockman, And The Master Timekeeper
The Bad Reputation of Self-Publishing
Authorphobia
Do You Struggle And Lack Focus?
Art of The Vampire Noctuaries
Only Walt Disney Believed in Me
Play by the Rules
Sorry for Sequel Writing
When Should You Judge Books By The Cover?
The Suaveratu History of Vampires
Oh, no! Not Another Vampire Story!
An Author Picture is Worth 1000 Words
10 Ways Publishing Has Changed Since My ’97 Debut
The Only Thing We Have To Fear
Are You A Total Book Geek?
When Is An Artist A Sellout?
26 Pathways to Everything
We Are The Music Makers
The Genesis of Birthing Dawn
What The Heck Is BookTube?
The Bile Of Apathetic Critics
The Illiterate Readers
Most Of You Authors Are Dictators
There Are No Adults Or Children
How Did Walt Disney Make Me Rant About Levi’s Jeans?
Today’s Date Will Be On Your Tombstone
Dungeons And Dragons is Evil!
To The Readers Who Discovered My Writing After I Died
McKayla Didn’t Come For Silver (The Maroney Factor)
Born Of The Night
Why Do Book Reviews Matter So Much To Writers?
Faithless Fortitude
World’s 7 Best Tips For Writing A Novel
Books Are Only Imaginary The Second Time
How Does Writing Evolve In Various Drafts?
How To Find Time To Write A Novel?
Now It’s Time To Say Goodbye
Everything Counts In Large Amounts
The Chosen Ones
The Most Common Writing Advice Is The Worst
You Have Been Lied To About Storytelling
With Enemies Like That, Who Needs Friends?
Something You Don’t Know About Book Covers
Don’t You Forget About Me
How Do You Write A Book?
How A Firefly Browncoat Changed My Life
Why Should Writers Use Verisimilitude?
The Night I Had Dinner With Harlan Ellison
Why Are Novelists Terrible Boyfriends?
Why Gen X Is Pissed Off
Learn To Be More Offensive
An Open Letter to The First AI
Your Dreams Will Never Come True... Unless...
Bad Time For An Epiphany
Being A Novelist Should Never Be Impressive
Biography
Other books by Eric Muss-Barnes
Colophon
Back Cover

Dedication

my tenth book

InkShard: A Compendium of Essays

is dedicated to my late mother

Judith Ann Muss

without whom my opinions could not exist

for my life itself

would have never been

Books by Eric Muss-Barnes

Speculative Fiction & Novels

The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries

Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries

The Page of Wands

Voodoo & Loveshadow

Grandpa Steiner Saves the World (from Illegal Aliens (from Space))

Sheriff Jedediah Spade's Catalog of Netherworld Monstrosities

Non-Fiction & Memoirs

How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree

Schooling Your Boss to not Suck

InkShard: A Compendium of Essays

The United States of America Founding Documents

Short Story Anthologies

Tales from The Dark Tower: “Born of the Night”

The Skateboarder’s Journal - Lives on Board 1949-2009: “Origins”

Horrible Poetry He Wrote As A Teenager

Forever Loving You

Proem

When I was about 8 years old, my maternal grandfather, Paul Adolph Muss, told me I was going to be a writer someday.

At the time, I thought his prediction was utterly ludicrous.

I was not a bookworm child. I didn’t enjoy reading. I wasn’t one of those kids devouring books under the covers with a flashlight. Reading was boring and tedious. Books were incredibly difficult to digest.

The notion of writing a book was beyond my capacity to fathom. Reading books was unpleasant enough. But writing them? My goodness. That would be far more torturous.

Why would anyone aspire to be a writer!?

What a stupid and masochistic ambition to have.

I thought my grandfather was absolutely crazy for making such a suggestion.

By the time I was 11 years old, I began to develop a real love for reading, thanks to Mrs. Moose, my 6th grade English teacher, who would read books aloud to us in class. I have fond memories of her taking us through A Wrinkle In Time by Madeline L’Engle.

Once I turned 14, the idea of being a novelist was all I wanted to do with my life.

Grandpa was right after all.

As I approached my twenties, I started to realize the value of embracing numerous styles and genres of writing. When I began writing as a teenager, I just wanted to write fantasy novels, because those were my first love. But in due time, I began to appreciate poetry and plays and essays and journalism and autobiographies and every sort of category between. Most of all, I realized gaining proficiency in all types and styles of writing could only serve to improve the other writing endeavors. Everything informs the decisions and knowledge in the alternate forms.

By the time the Internet and social media came around, I could see the value in blogs and essays and commentaries like never before. This was rich and fertile ground to experiment and whet the blade of my abilities. Not only was writing in these outlets a rewarding exercise, but commentary allowed for instant feedback.

In due time, I had such a large quantity of content, and old social media websites (such as MySpace) began to quickly vanish, so I decided publishing my verse in printed form was the most sensible fate for my writing, which was no longer available online.

Hence, this book was born.

A compendium of 14 years, covering all the non-fiction I had published online, starting in 2004, up until 2018.

- Eric Muss-Barnes

22 November 2018

Death by Shyness
17 July 2004

Did you ever watch Star Trek: The Next Generation?

There was a character on that show named Lieutenant Barclay. He was one of my favorite characters. He was a balding, middle-aged nerd who was utterly crippled by shyness, and he would spend countless, unhealthy amounts of time, acting out fantasies on the Holodecks. Fantasies where he was brave and dashing and heroic and suave and debonaire. Everything he wanted to be, but never was.

In one episode, Barclay explained, he was the type of person who would go to a party and “stand in the corner and pretend to look genuinely interested in a potted plant.”

To this, another character replied, “Oh, come on, Barclay. You’re just shy.”

And Lieutenant Barclay’s face changes. His brow rumples and he looks downright angry and says, “Just shy?... Just shy?.... You say it as if it’s nothing. No. You have no idea what it’s like... You have no idea.”

In that moment, he became one of my favorite characters. Because I knew exactly what he meant. I know exactly how he feels. That inner rage. The disappointment in oneself. The frustration. With those simple words, “you have no idea”; I knew exactly the things he has gone through.

Tonight, I went out to a big, beautiful masquerade ball. While I was there, I saw a girl I have had a crush on for an entire year. I’ve only seen her twice in my life. Tonight was the third time.

First time I saw her, we never even spoke.

She and I have only really met once, at a wedding last fall. So tonight, we were talking in the crowd, while she awaiting the arrival of her new boyfriend. While we were standing around, she asked me if I came with anyone. I told her no. I didn’t. She seemed surprised.

“You’re really hot,” she said, “why did you come alone?”

I was stunned. She thought I was hot!?

“Well,” I said, “I tried to ask you out.”

“You did? When?”

“Back when you were single a few months ago and we talked on the phone.”

“You did? I thought you just wanted to hang out and stuff. Oh my gosh! You need to be more overt. I would have totally gone out with you!”

I froze. “... What!... You would have?”

“Yeah!”

“... Oh. Well... I... uh... Oh.”

Gee, great. What do I say to that?! A woman that I have desired for over a year. One I was far too shy to be “overt with”; as she put it. One of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Totally out of my league. No way she’d like me or want me in any way... But she thinks I’m hot?... And she would have gone out with me?...

Oh. My. God.

In that moment, I felt like such an ass. Just like Lieutenant Barclay.

Oh, Eric, you’re just shy.

Just shy?... JUST SHY!?

No. You have no idea what it’s like... You have NO idea...

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

She was a liar, of course. Now that I’m a bit older and wiser, I know better. Looking back, obviously she was just being nice to me. If she had truly found me attractive, and was willing to go out with me, she would have never turned me down when I asked her to spend time with me. Her berating me that I had to be “more overt”; was nonsense. If she truly liked me, she would have accepted my invitation. Period.

At least I am no longer foolish enough to regret mistakes that I never actually made.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

Threesome
22 September 2004

A friend and I went out to dinner recently and she told me she would never have a boyfriend again. “From now on,” she announced, “I am either married or single.”

And I understood her point. There reaches a point in life when you see that emotional or sexual “exclusivity” feels rather illogical. Wouldn’t relationships founded on openness and freedom and strength and confidence be better than jealousy and possession and insecurity and sorrow? Isn’t there a glorious beauty in saying, “We don’t own each other. We are free to do anything we want and be with anyone we desire. I love you and trust you and support you and believe in you enough to know that you will always return to me. I am confident in my worth and know that I will never be abandoned by you, even if you love people other than me. And if you ever do choose to stop seeing me, I will be okay with that. Because I know that I am still a loveable person and I don’t need our romance as a validation of my self-worth.”

Maybe the notions of “betrayal” and “cheating” and “jealousy” should be avoided simply by eliminating the notions of “exclusivity” and “monogamy” and “devotion” until you get that ring on your finger. You know? As my friend said, married or single. Period.

Of course, I haven’t always thought that way. And sometimes, the principal of such an open “freedom” is certainly easier said than done.

In 1994, I had an incredible girlfriend whom I was madly in love with.

She cheated on me.

The funny thing is, she tried to wriggle her way out of the “technicality” of cheating by breaking up with me and making out with the other guy on the same night. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. If you are in a committed relationship, and you fall for someone else, you can’t break up with your significant other, go fool around with the new person on the same night, and pretend you are not cheating. You may not be breaking any promises of physical intimacy that way, but you were cheating emotionally for weeks prior. I mean, cripe, the corpse of the relationship is still having the chalkline drawn around it at that point! While I was in my bedroom crying my eyes out, she’s off making out with some other dude? No. That’s cheating. You don’t get to clear your conscience on a technicality. Breaking up with me 15 minutes beforehand does not absolve you from that sin.

So, anyway, I didn’t find out about the cheating until about 6 months after it happened. Thankfully, her cheating just consisted of making out and kissing. No sex. Years later, I had all that confirmed through the grapevine too. I mean, sure, it was still hurtful, but at the time, it would have hurt a lot more if she had fucked him. Looking back, to some degree, I almost wish they had. But I’m getting ahead of my story.

Sure, I suspected about the cheating. I mean, I knew. We all know. When our lovers betray us, we know. We see it. We feel it. We just lie to ourselves and deny it. Rationalize it away. But it doesn’t take much to find out. All you need to hear is some tone in their voice. You can’t quite describe it. But you recognize it when it’s there. Your lover can say something as innocent as, “We talked on the phone this afternoon” and there is something about the way they say it - you know they are interested in this other person.

So, yeah, I knew. And I denied it.

The guy she cheated with was a friend of hers, and an acquaintance of mine. I actually introduced them to each other.

At first, of course, I hated the guy when I found out. Bastard. How dare he!? This prick knew she was my girl. He knew me! And he pursued her anyway? What a dishonorable asshole! Why on earth would my girlfriend be attracted to some worthless jerk like that?

Naturally, I was even more angry with her.

After all, he was a dishonorable asshole, but he owed no loyalty to me or to anyone. He wasn’t betraying anyone’s trust. My girlfriend was dishonorable and she was a betraying, liar, slut-whore-bitch from hell. Right?

I’m such a victim here! I am the innocent, nice guy who got his heart broken by some scumbag bastard and a sleazy tramp! Right? What did I do to deserve this!? Why me!? How dare they!? I hate them! Self-centered assholes! They deserve each other and I hope their genitals rot off! That’s what they should get! Right?

But as time went on, I had to look at things a bit differently.

Maybe I simply asked “why me” one too many times. And once I started to see the truth and face the honest answer to that question, I had only one choice to make.

I forgave them both.

No. No. More than that. “Forgiveness” implies wrongdoing. Not only did I “forgive” them but I began to realize that they never really did anything so terribly “wrong” in the first place.

Could I blame my girlfriend? How could I? Clearly, she wasn’t happy with me. If she were happy, she would never have been tempted to cheat in the first place. Right? If I was fulfilling her needs, she wouldn’t have felt any desire to find that fulfillment in someone else.

And in that case, how much of the blame falls to me?

Was I being good to her?

No. Not really. I was a bit distant and wasn’t very giving during that period of our relationship. Does that justify her looking for attention elsewhere? Yes. Absolutely. Why should she be expected to stay with a guy who wasn’t bringing joy into her life and was neglecting her?

Could I blame the guy she fooled around with? How could I? My girlfriend was an amazing person. Beautiful. Bright. Fun. Intelligent. Spirited and vibrant. Of course he would be attracted to her. How could I despise him for being interested in her? Should I fault him for being too weak to do the right thing and keep away?... And, honestly, was “keeping away” from her truly the right thing for him to do?... After all, as I said before - why on earth would my girlfriend be attracted to some worthless jerk like that?... Well, maybe because he was being less of a worthless jerk than her boyfriend was being... Maybe he was a good guy who truly cared about her, and just wanted to make her happy, because he knew I wasn’t bringing her the joy she deserved. After all, if she was complaining about me to him, telling him all my faults, talking about how unhappy she felt, could I blame him for wanting the opportunity to be good to her?

In the end, I saw that we were all to blame.

No one was completely innocent.

All of us were a little bit guilty.

Or were they?

Was he wrong for pursuing her? Perhaps. But not really. Not if she was unhappy with me.

Was she wrong for pursuing him? Perhaps. But not really. Not if she was unhappy with me.

Was I wrong for neglecting her? Yeah. Hell, yeah.

So who is really the person I have to point a finger at?

That is why I said that I almost wish they had slept together. After all, it would have been nice if she was feeling that deeply desired and wanted by someone, since I wasn’t doing enough to provide her with that sense of worth.

Ironically, after feeling like the “victim” for so many years, the truth is, if I’m brutally honest with myself, the experience was something I brought upon myself. I may have been more responsible for what happened than anyone.

Now, a decade later, it is all so much water under the bridge. I have no idea what became of him. She’s happily married to another guy. And ultimately, I can now see the experience for what it was; we were just three people in a mess, and none of us did anything that was horribly unforgivable.

The truth is, hey, none of us had rings on our fingers. Right? So, really, did any of us do anything terribly immoral or cruel or dishonorable? No. Not really.

Can I honestly say, “My girlfriend cheated on me?”

Yes. Technically. But you don’t get to clear your conscience on a technicality.

I can more accurately say, “I was neglecting my girlfriend and someone else was making her happy, so she temporarily decided she’d rather be with him than with me.”

How can I be angry with anyone but myself for that?

Considering that I cheated on her about 6 months later, she might have been better off staying with the other guy instead of me after all... But that’s another story.

Mothers Say The Darnedest Things
12 February 2005

So, I’m on the phone with my mom today and she shocked the hell out of me again.

“You know I love you. And no matter what you say, I will never think less of you. But there is something I need to ask you,” she said.

Lately, she has often been talking about coming to visit me. So, I figured she was leading up to asking if I really wanted her to come or not.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” she paused. “Are you gay?”

Oh, dear God. I have been single for way too long.

If I hadn’t already been laying on my bed, I might have fallen over into it. “WHAT!?”

“Well, you never mention any girls. You never talk about seeing anybody. I was just starting to wonder.”

“Mom! I couldn’t be any farther from being gay. And I just went out with a girl last night!”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Now I feel embarrassed. I’m sorry.” Then she got all defensive, “But you never talk about girls!”

I was not offended or embarrassed. Honestly, I was laughing and rather speechless, because I was so shocked by her assumption.

“Well,” I replied, “that’s because I’m not in a serious relationship. If I had a girlfriend, I would talk about her. But if I go out with someone once or twice, there isn’t much to talk about. I go out with girls all the time and they are around for 2 weeks. So, most of them aren’t worth mentioning.”

Good God.

Since when does being “single” translate into being “gay”!?

So, it’s time for me to come out of the closet. It is so hard for me to say this in public, but here goes:

Yes, I am a flaming heterosexual and I love to have sex with... women. I know it’s perverse and wrong. Disgusting to imagine. But no matter how much it is accepted, I will never want to touch any penis but my own. I know. I know. I’m a sick and deranged deviant. But what can I say? I’m straight and proud and faaaaaaaaaaaabulous!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This little story also appears as a longer scene in my novel “Voodoo & Loveshadow” but I figured I’d include the original version, as I told it on my blog, many years ago.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

Irritated With People Who Are Irritated
26 February 2005

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION:

I was going to exclude this essay, because it is so brief and meaningless. In fact, it makes references to the website MySpace, which doesn’t even exist anymore.

But, then I got to thinking, for the sake of posterity and history, it can be an interesting little insight into an attitude of the times.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, October 2018

I have a few friends on my friends list and I have NO CLUE who they are.

Now and then, some random person asks to be my friend and I approve them.

Why? Because they’re cute? Because I want to appear popular? Because I’m lonely and want to delude myself into thinking I have more friends than I actually do?

No.

None of those reasons.

There is only one reason that I add total strangers: Because it is kind.

So to all you fucking fucks who complain about friend requests from people whom you don’t know, here’s a tip - Stop being a fucking fuck. WHO CARES!? It’s just a silly website. It’s just MySpace. It means NOTHING.

So, if some disillusioned soul thinks it DOES mean something and approving a friend request helps that person feel better about themselves, I’m going to do it. Because it takes about 0.5 seconds out of my day and it is nice.

For those of you who feel compelled to comment on this and say things like, “But I get 500 a day and it takes forever and it’s annoying and blah, blah, blah . . .!”

Again, I say, it is MySpace. It’s just a website. If you are too cool and too important to approve friend requests, get over yourself. Be nice to people. Or go fuck yourself, you self-centered scumwad.

And for the record, I’ve never had a single friend-request denied. So I’m not venting over a personal rejection. I’m venting over fucking self-important primadonnas.

Thank you. That is all.

Growing Up
10 April 2005

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION:

This essay amuses me, simply because it exhibits a juvenile mentality I had forgotten I still possessed at the age of 34.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, October 2018

§

So, I finally fixed the flat tire on my mountainbike.

I’m out riding the oval trail in the park near my place where people jog a lot. The trail is only about a half mile long at most. So, once you start, you will often pass the same people 3 or 4 times going in opposite directions as you loop around for a few miles.

So, I pass this really hot girl.

And for a split second, I think, “Whoa! Okay, time to turn around and hit on her.”

The best part was - she was out to meet someone. She was wearing makeup. Perfume. Late 20’s perhaps. Blond hair, pulled-back in a ponytail and tucked under a cute baseball cap. Huge bolt-on boobs with a grey, tight t-shirt that read “ANGEL” in gold lettering across her chest. Painted-on black shorts. Jogging weights in her hands.

She looked so hot, stylish and... stupid.

Little voice in my head said, “Eric, would you ever TRULY want to date a woman who wears perfume and makeup when she goes out jogging?”

Good point. She wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Probably because she didn’t want her makeup to run.

I smiled contentedly to myself, feeling slightly more mature. Slightly more grown up. And a little proud of myself.

It was a nice feeling.

(pause)

CRAP! WHAT WAS I THINKING!?

The OTHER “little voice” in my head was screaming, “Dude! The bitch is wearing perfume and makeup when she’s out jogging!? No respectable woman does that. She’s a dirty little whore! You know she puts out! Go hit that shit!”

(sigh)

Yeah.

Growing up? I don’t think so.

Behind Every Great Man
9 July 2005

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION:

When I wrote this essay 13 years ago, I had a very different attitude toward romantic relationships. It is strange to look back at different eras in life and see how your values and priorities have changed. I have not preoccupied myself with silly philosophizing about love and romance for years. And I certainly do not think romantic partnerships are a prerequisite for a successful and fulfilling life. But, apparently, that was exactly what I believed in 2005, foolish as that seems in retrospect. Publicly chronicling an embarrassing philosophy is a great way to remain humble.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, October 2018

§

Women love successful men.

These days, women want men who have accomplished things and have money and stability in their lives. Women expect that from men. They want a man who is a “somebody.”

I’m too old fashioned.

I always believed that old phrase, “Behind every great man is a great woman.”

I think I believe that phrase so deeply, and have taken it to heart so strongly, that I have convinced myself of the further implication that no man can ever become great without a great woman supporting him in the first place. Even though countless men prove they can do it on their own, I have long held the belief that I can never get anywhere without someone behind me. A self-fulfilling prophecy at it’s worst.

Hence we get to the irony.

I have come to believe that the only way to attain greatness is through a mutual support with someone. A partner in crime. Someone who is constantly there for you and supporting you and whom you, in turn, will constantly support. Two against the world.

That’s not what women want.

Women want to be strong and self-sufficient and independent and they expect their men to be the same. Two successful individuals. Not partners. Not a team. Two separate people who pull their own weight. The new paradigm might be, “Behind every great man is his own ambition.”

That sounds terribly isolating to me.

Years ago, I once saw a movie where one character said of another, “I will tell you something about my grandson. And I say this with love - He has been a failure at everything he has ever tried... Except life.”

Those lines resonated within me. My whole life flashed before my eyes and I thought, “Yes! When I am laid out in my coffin, THAT is what I want people to say about me. That I did not fail at life. The hell with money and business and career. I just want to get to the end of my journey knowing that I had LIVED.”

Somehow, I fell into a faerietale that has never existed.

The old faerietale was the knight in shining armor, rescuing the princess in the tower. That was how the old world worked.

The new faerietale is a king building his own castle and a queen building hers, and they meet at a ball. That is how the new world works.

But my faerietale is the knight on the battlefield, back-to-back with his shieldmaiden. The two of them fighting as a team. Equals. Against the world. That is how I always saw my own world.

But there are no shieldmaidens. There are no women who will fight bravely on the field. There never were. There are only princesses (women who need to be rescued) and queens (women who don’t).

So I fight.

Unable to rescue the princess.

Unable to build my castle.

Just fighting. Hoping that I might get some backup before I am overcome.

Curvy = Good, Stinky = Bad
21 July 2005

A few weeks ago I was at the Labyrinth Masquerade in Hollywood.

As I stood on the edge of the dancefloor, at the start of the night, a rather plump young lady asked me to dance.

Immediately, I had a flashback to that scene in Braveheart, when William Wallace is just about to ask his lifelong love to dance, but he gets interrupted by the young girl who asks him to dance first. And he smiles at his love, smiles and the young girl, and says, “Of course I will!”

You knew he didn’t want to. But, then you knew he elected to do the right thing instead. And what’s more, you got the impression that he was genuinely glad to do it. Not because he was phony, but because he was just a damn good-hearted man.

I loved that scene.

So, when this girl asked me to dance, I hesitated for a moment, thought of that scene, and immediately said, “Of course I will!”

She was very sweet and quite flirty. Lets just say her dancing often veered away from being “ladylike” and her true intentions were being made VERY obvious. Sounds good, right? Meet a cute girl at a masquerade ball, dance, take her home, fool around. Right?

Well, maybe.

Except for one big problem...

How to put this delicately?

Now, here was the problem...

The girl had some majorly stinky breath.

Yes, she was a bit curvy too. But I honestly didn’t mind that. Being a bit plump is not a turnoff for me. I have no problem with a full-figured girl. But I really can’t abide the raunchy halitosis, you dig?

My question is - don’t these people think? You’re going out in public to dance! Brush. Floss. Take a freakin’ breathmint. SOMETHING for the love of God!

Bad breath is an unavoidable dilemma when you are dancing with someone. No matter what you do, you are never more than an arms-length away from them. There is no escaping the cloud of their personal hygiene. And if that cloud smells like a satchel of rotten rat penises, you just have to deal with it.

I was polite and cordial, and we danced to about 2 songs before a band came on, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I respectfully excused myself and went in search of some fresh air.

Too bad too. She was kinda cute.

Ladies, please don’t forget that Listerine is your friend.

§

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This is another type of story that I hesitated to include. I’m not very happy with this. I do not think it is particularly well-written. However, I think it can be important to reveal work that is less than our potential, because it shows an evolution in the quality of what we can produce. I view this book as a bit of a retrospective, so I can still include work which may not be all that great today, but I was doing my best at the time.

Plus, for whatever reason, this event is one of those strange moments in life which I recall very distinctly, even 13 years after it occurred.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

Fucking Easter Eggs
25 August 2005

I just found out that a girl I’ve had a crush on for like 2 years, but has always been in a relationship, Erin Layne, is no longer with her boyfriend.

Good news!

So, wasting no time, I immediately asked her out. After all, it’s been 2 years. No way I’m gonna let this chance slip away, right?

Oh...

I forgot to mention she’s seeing someone new already. Consequently, she pretty much totally shot me down.

It’s the fucking Easter Eggs all over again.

My grandfather was in the American Legion. When I was about 4 years old, I went to an Easter Egg Hunt at his Post. So, the adults went around hiding those plastic Easter Eggs all around the grounds of the building. In the grass. In trees. In bushes. On fenders of cars lining the parking lot. Wherever. You know, a freaking Easter Egg Hunt.

And of course, there were tons of children there, all armed with the intent of gathering as many of those plastic Easter Eggs as they could get their grubby little mitts on.

So, I had my basket and my calm and patient demeanor and when they shouted “GO!” I proceeded to walk to the nearest Easter Egg. Which, of course, was snatched away from me far before I ever got to reach it.

This was a bit rude and insulting, I thought. After all, I had clearly seen the egg first. Therefore, it was mine! This was a hunt after all. Hunting means finding and seeing an egg means you found it. Right? Who did this little brat think he was, stealing away the egg I was about to claim!?

But, no problem. I spotted another.

I began to slowly meander on over to that new egg, among the throngs of shrieking, running children. I couldn’t understand why they were so darned frantic about the whole ordeal.

Well, before I could grab the second egg, some little chick came along and stole it! Just like that first little jerk!

This whole process repeated over and over throughout the hunt.

And in the end, I was in tears. Walking back to my grandfather, feeling totally humiliated and defeated and hurt. I was literally the ONLY child who had not ONE egg in his Easter basket. I was the ONLY kid who came back with nothing.

As I grew older, I never forgot that day. It became kind of symbolic for my whole life. I move too slow. I take my time. I think I’m all set to plan things out, and spot my goals and ambitions, well in advance. But the truth is, someone always comes in and sweeps things away from me, before I have a chance to grab what I have spotted. I’m not aggressive enough. I don’t push people aside. I stroll.

And in the end, what happens?

I end up with nothing and I hate and resent everyone around me... because I didn’t knock them down and move faster and take things before they could.

You would think, by now, I would have learned my lesson. Especially since radiant women are a lot more rare and special than plastic Easter Eggs.

I’m not giving up on this one. I saw this egg first and I’m running as fast as I can. And I’m going to knock aside any little schmucks who get in my way. Because for the first time in years, I’ve found a woman whom I would actually want to pursue.

Men with my attitude used to be called “suitors” but now I think “stalker” is a more common definition. To quote Wayne from Wayne’s World, “She will be mine... Oh, yes... She will be mine.”

5 September 2005 Update:

I now know more details. It wasn’t the Easter Egg Hunt after all. Someone already had this egg in their pocket... Who knew? Ah well, plenty of other fish in the sea... and eggs in the bushes...

Can I Find A Woman Who Is Not Psychotic?
12 October 2005

Okay. Now you have to see this and tell me that I’m not crazy.

I was talking to a lovely woman on the phone tonight. We met several weeks ago. We were flirting and kissing in a nightclub. She called me tonight. I asked to get together with her this evening. She turned me down, but said she’d like to see me tomorrow. Then our phonecall was disconnected before we could finalize plans. So, I emailed her. This was our exchange.

Dear Girl,

Well, either you hung up on me or your phone died.

I’ll assume the phone died. (smirk)

I’d love to go out with you tomorrow evening, as you suggested. I typically get home by 6pm or so. I will call you when I’m leaving work (around 5pm or thereabouts) and we can work out details from there.

I will gladly come pick you up and we can go hang out and grab dinner or ice cream or whatever.

And allow me to be clear - yes, I see this as a “date” with each other. No ambiguous “hanging out” or undefined time where we don’t know where each other stands. I like you. I want to date you. So let’s see where it goes tomorrow.

;-)

Looking Forward To It,

Eric

Now remember, we were making out the night we met. Kissed a few times in the club. In fact, she kissed me. I didn’t go for it. She was making moves on me. I want to be very clear about that. I was not the aggressor. She was. She hit on me and made the first moves.

So, I wanted to be upfront that I like her. I am interested in her. I am reciprocating the feelings she obviously initiated with me. I didn’t want to do the “let’s hang out” crap and have us not know where each other stands. Right? I wanted to be an adult and make it clear that my intent was to date her and not to be “just friends” or have that awkward, ambiguous malarkey that happens when you’re 23 years old. I hate that nonsense. If I want to date someone, I tell them. If not, I tell them that too. I’m never mysterious about it. I don’t play games like that.

Also keep in mind that SHE CALLED ME tonight and it was HER IDEA that we get together tomorrow.

Her reply:

My phone didn’t die, I just lost signal.

No, I don’t have people pick me up at my house, especially under the current circumstances.

Also, I am very unclear on what you mean by this “date” thing? If that is your way of making sure that there is some form of “action” that takes place then let me save you some time and tell you right now that you are talking to the wrong person. I am getting the impression with you that there are a lot of assumptions here and it is not very comforting to me especially at the current place I am in.

I am thinking that maybe this is not a good idea, I am just not in a neutral frame of mind right now.

The Girl

EXCUSE ME!?

Now, was I out-of-line in any way?

Did I say, “Hey, I can’t wait to fuck you tomorrow?”

Did I send pictures of my penis and a swordfish up my ass?

No.

To me, I thought I sounded like a fella who liked a lady and was looking forward to seeing her.

Apparently, in her mind, I sounded like a sex-maniac who assumed that I’d be gettin’ lucky... Who knew?

This was my final message to her:

Dear Girl,

Some form of “action” that takes place?

I’m not clear on what you mean. I’m a very blunt and upfront person. What you see is what you get. I don’t play games.

When you say “action”, if you meant sex, then I can assure you I was not assuming that at all. I have no intent or desire to dive into bed with you. That’s not my style. That isn’t what I was looking to do. When you say “action”, if you meant a goodnight-kiss, then, yes, I was thinking that. Because we’ve done that already.

I’m sincerely sorry about your current ordeals with your ex-boyfriend whom you claim is supposedly stalking you. That sucks. I understand that it would be upsetting. I’m even more sorry that you are allowing those issues to upset you so much that you are choosing to reject the chance to get to know me by canceling our plans for tomorrow.

But, rest assured, I had no assumptions about you whatsoever. I’m just a guy who met you, liked you, and wanted to spend time with you. You said “I am very unclear on what you mean by this 'date' thing.”

Well, “dating” is what men and women do when they like each other and want to know each other better. I wanted you to know that I liked you. I wanted to be clear and not bullshit you or play games.

I really thought you’d be a great choice as someone to get to know and date. It saddens me that you have elected to reject that opportunity before it even got started.

As blunt and honest as I may be, I also don’t pester people. So, if you think it’s a bad idea to go out with me, then that’s fine. I won’t bother you or ask you again. I genuinely wish you well and hope things turn out for the best with all you’re going through. Take care.

Eric

Needless to say, I never heard from her again.

Nor did I want to.

That settles it. I honestly can’t ever make the effort to date anyone again, as long as I live. All women are psycho. Truly. They are. Not worth the trouble.

§

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Holy cow.

This one is humiliating. How embarrassing to see I was such a desperate weirdo.

What a complete jackass I was!

I am glad she stayed away from me. Smart lady. I was a jerk.

I never should have emailed her in the first place!

What I should have done was call her back, and when I got her voicemail, left a simple message:

“Hey, we got disconnected. But, in answer to your question, yes, I would love to hang out with you tomorrow. Thank you so much for inviting me. Just give me a call back when you can. Talk to you soon.”

That’s it.

Nothing more.

Man, I was an idiotic asshole.

The worst part is that her “alleged stalker” was not alleged at all. I know, because he later contacted me, thinking I was dating her. He sent me a few weird emails, detailing a lot of personal things about her, and I informed him to leave me the fuck alone, because I barely knew this girl, and hadn’t spoken to her for 6 months.

I felt even more guilty after that. Poor chick. She was scared of her psychotic ex-boyfriend and I made her totally uncomfortable too. What an idiot I was.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

Back Away From The Nice Guy Slowly
27 October 2005

Dear Single Men & Women,

There is no such thing as a “nice guy” and both men and women need to learn this simple fact of life.

We all know the drill; Women date “assholes”, while secretly longing for “nice guys”, while the self-proclaimed “nice guys” sit at home alone, wondering why they don’t have dates.

Well, sporto, I can tell you why you don’t have any dates. You ready for this newsflash?... You are NOT a “nice guy” at all. In fact, you are sort of a deceptive sleazeball. Women instinctively (yet subconsciously) sense this, and that is why they won’t date you. The “assholes” guys are easy to figure out. They are safe. Because women immediately see the guy is an asshole. She knows what she’s getting. But the repressed deception in you self-proclaimed “nice guys” scares the bejezzus out of women because they don’t know when you just might go postal and break the neck of her cat.

What makes you a deceptive sleazeball? The fact that you want to fuck all of your female friends, but you feign being a “nice guy” who wants to be “just friends” just so you can be close to them. You know that you’re a pathetic loser with no hope whatsoever of winning over the love or the poon of these fine women. So, you pretend to be a friend and hang around, all the while masking your desperate longing and thinking “maybe someday” the chick will notice you.

Well, she notices. And you’re not getting any. You’re an idiot if you think your patience will pay off. She isn’t into you. It ain’t gonna happen.

Ladies, you are playing with fire by letting these guys hang around. Because one day, they will either daterape you or piss on your toothbrush. Every man has his breaking point. How far he goes when he reaches it, no one knows...

I will tell you what kind of men exist out there for you. There are only two types.

Nice guys and assholes, you think?

WRONG.

ALL men are assholes. There are just “shy assholes” and “outgoing assholes” and that is all. Every man falls into one of those two categories. It’s those “shy assholes” who lie to everyone (including themselves), and convince people into thinking they are “nice guys”... and THOSE are the dirty bastards you have to watch out for.

Why?

Because “shy assholes” don’t know how to get what they want from women. That is why they are so shy - because they have no backbone or confident determination. They talk a good game. They have lots of female “friends” but they never have girlfriends. I’m telling everyone reading this, both men and women, STAY AWAY from these shy assholes! They are dangerous people. And I do NOT mean cool, “Indiana Jones-dangerous” men. No, I’m talking, “Hannibal Lector-dangerous” men. These are the men who will snap and go postal. These are the serial killers who are “quiet guys who keep to themselves” and are just waiting to roast your liver.

Why?

Because they are constantly rejected and repressed. They are quiet and shy and reserved and alienated from society. Women befriend them, but never fuck them. This only makes things worse. Because, although they may START as genuinely decent human beings, they begin to slowly and gradually build an unmitigated rage within themselves. Left too long, loneliness turns into a seething anger and animosity. Resentment. Cruelty takes root and begins to fester like mushrooms in a dead mans ass.

Now, with an “outgoing asshole,” you know what you’re getting. Sure, he’ll lie to you and fuck other women. He won’t call when he says he will. He’ll blow you off to hang out with his buddies.

But guess what.

You KNEW that ahead of time. Sure, ladies, you can pretend that his actions surprise you. You can cry on your “shy asshole,” er, I mean “nice guy” friends shoulder and ask them WHY your boyfriend is so shitty to you.

But the truth is, you already KNOW why he is shitty. Because he’s a real man. And that’s what you want.

And all the while, the shy asshole will sit there confused, agreeing with you. Not knowing that the more he agrees with you, the more you see him as a pathetic pansy of a male whom you will never fuck in a million years.

So, girls, remember, a “nice guy” is a like the Knight in Shining Armor... he doesn’t exist. Stop looking for him.

Instead, just live your life. Have fun. Do the things you enjoy. Do what makes you happy and what you love. And along the way, you’ll meet some great friends. And if you happen to befriend a good man and start hanging out with him all the time because he is so cool that you don’t really want to hang around anyone else - THAT is your knight. That is your nice guy. And sure, he can be kind of an asshole sometimes. But he’s fun, and outgoing, and a great confidant without being a pushover, and you’ll love him for being a real man.

Signed,

A Shy Asshole

§

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Reading this kind of psychoanalytical relationship nonsense is very difficult for me these days. It just reads like, “Blah, blah, blah, blah...” and my brain kind of glazes over. This kind of topic just feels so irrelevant and so pretentious.

Reminds me of that television show “Sex And The City”, which I used to watch religiously, and I loved every single episode... until one day I woke up, and realized every single character was a vapid and worthless shell of a human being, and each and every one of them was a miserable blight on the human race.

That is how lame I feel for writing tripe like this essay.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

Revenge Of The Exotic Dancer
19 November 2005

In my day, I’ve dated a lot of strippers. Yet, at the age of 34, I’ve never been to a stripclub in my life.

Now, these facts always raise a few legitimate questions.

1. Why do you date strippers?

2. Why have you never been to a stripclub?

3. What, are you freaking gay?!

Let me answer them one at a time.

No! I’m not gay, for cripesake! Would I date strippers if I was gay? Next question, jackass.

Why do I date strippers? Well, that’s the irony of it; I never seek them out. I don’t go looking to find strippers that I can sleep with. I just randomly meet and go out with beautiful women, and then I find out later that they happen to be strippers. It’s just a strange knack I have for finding these girls. Don’t ask me how. Strippers just seem to land in my lap... No pun intended. It’s a bizarre cosmic-fate-thing that I don’t pretend to understand. I’m not proud of it. I’m not happy about it. I’m not bragging about it. I wish it didn’t happen, quite frankly. Because I don’t like strippers. But I date them all the time. It’s just something that happens to me inadvertently. It’s weird.

Why don’t I like strippers, you ask? Because, I must say, in my experience, all the stereotypes about strippers are true. For one, they want to be called “dancers” and not “strippers” most of the time. And, strippers are all completely insane and crazy. Seriously. They were all molested by daddy or uncle Joe or their big brother. If you are a man who dreams about dating strippers - don’t. It sucks. And honestly, they are not the wild sexual dynamos that you fantasize about anyway. Quite the opposite, actually. The fact is, most of them are either frigid or bad in bed, because they have more wacked-out sexual baggage than you would EVER want to imagine. Not kinky, cool baggage. No. I’m talking about deranged-in-the-head, creepy-psychotic baggage. Do you really want to screw a girl who starts having flashbacks to being raped in the janitors closet by her gradeschool math teacher? No. Not really.

Why have I never been to a stripclub?

Well, think about it. First of all, I have dated tons of strippers. Most men go to stripclubs because they want to fantasize over these women. Now, I’m not trying to brag, but, the fact is, women of that level of beauty are the kind of women I date. So, I don’t need to go to a club and slip them $10 bills to fantasize about them. I just make out on their couch and take them to their bedroom. All it costs me is renting her a movie from Blockbuster and buying her a pizza.

I’m also a photographer. And sometimes I shoot erotica. Hence, another reason I don’t see much appeal in stripclubs is because if I want to see beautiful women completely naked, I just call one of my models and we shoot photos all day.

All that being said, why would I ever go to a stripclub? For someone like me, it’s truly a waste of time and money. Because I can be with women like that for free, and for much longer periods of time than the duration of one pop song.

All that changed tonight.

Tonight, I went to a stripclub for the first time ever. Why? Because Mary Carter, a good friend of mine (yes, she is a stripper too), was moving out-of-town and was having her going-away party at her club. Okay. Fine. I decided to show up.

Now, first of all, let me clarify. This club was “technically” full of “dancers” and not “strippers” per se. These girls were not nude. Not even topless. They were just in bikinis, lingerie or g-strings. But who are we kidding? It was still a stripclub.

So how was it? Well, being in that club was undoubtedly one of the most pathetic and depressing things I’ve ever seen. Seriously. I mean, WOW! What a horrible experience! It was truly one of the most depressing nights of my life. I felt like some empathic alien in a bad Star Trek episode, picking up on the unmitigated loneliness in the place.

How so, you ask? Let me paint a picture...

You have this club full of smarmy customers; All old, fat, unattractive men. The young men were were just plain weird and freakish-looking with unkempt hair and Coke-bottle glasses. In other words, men who could never hope in a million years to hook up with these girls.

All my life, I’ve always fallen for the bullshit lie that dancers preach; I used to think that dancing was empowering for women and they were just using their assets of physical beauty to get ahead in the world. I thought strippers/ dancers/ escorts/ hookers/ whores/ prostitutes were VERY different things. But after tonight, I see that strippers/ dancers/ escorts/ hookers/ whores/ prostitutes are all the identical line of work.

The only difference between them is what the customer will get for his money.

The ONLY difference.

So, back to the stripclub...

I’m watching these girls writhing around on their stages, and leering men are throwing them dollar bills. Yes, dollar bills. Now, I’ve never been to a stripclub, but I thought the stereotype was that you slip $20 bills to strippers. Nope. Not this place. One lousy dollar at a time. So, the girls are dancing to crappy music and when the music ends, the girls desperately scrounge up the $14 in singles they have been given, and hastily get off stage to make room for the next girl.

The haste and desperation to scrounge up such meager cash was disheartening to a level that sucked every ounce of joy from your soul.

Just visualize that humiliation.

Mostly-naked women, snatching up scraps of paper off a stage, to earn enough money to buy some pancakes at the local diner.

Heartbreaking and pathetic.

I honestly wasn’t sure if I felt more pity for the girls or for the customers. It was like this nauseating symbiotic relationship of men and women using each other, not for “sex” and “money”; but for the “illusion of sex” and for “insultingly-miniscule-amounts of money.” These poor girls, who are desperate to pay rent, get all dressed up and looking hot, so they can implore men who are desperate for companionship, to give them some cash. It was honestly one of the most depressing things I’ve ever seen.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I am being too quick too judge. How do I really know what they are going through? Maybe the dancers and customers were genuinely happy and enjoying themselves. Right?

No. That is my whole point. It was a vibe. A feeling. An emotion hanging in the air. The emptiness and emotional void was so overwhelming it could not be denied.

No one looked happy. No one looked like they were enjoying themselves. I mean sure, the girls smiled. The girls were friendly. That is their job. But their eyes were just hollow pits of absolute nothingness. Empty. And the customers, these men full of yearning, were just as hollow inside. Shells of human beings, pretending to have a good time. But in their eyes, all I saw was anguish. I used to think the men in stripclubs would be obnoxious jerks who objectified women. I had visions of rowdy frat boys yelling, “Show yer tits, baby!”

That stereotype was so far from the truth.

In truth, I saw tortured, lonely souls who were starved for attention and intimacy. These grown men all looked ready to cry.

I stayed for about 30 minutes. I honestly couldn’t take it any longer. The countless vacant eyes of strippers and customers were breaking my heart in a million pieces. I was getting sick to my stomach.

But wait. That’s only half the story.

I didn’t get to the punchline yet.

So, this past summer, I met a cute redheaded model on the Internet. As I mentioned earlier, I do a lot of photography, mostly as a hobby. So this model and I exchanged a few emails. We discussed shooting photos together. We flirted a lot too and wanted to meet each other in person. She wanted to go for a ride on my motorcycle, but wanted to meet me first.

(Can you see where this story is going already?)

So, this hot little redhead and I decide to hook up at a cute little coffeehouse with an outdoor patio. Based on our flirting, the intent was obvious - to see if we wanted to shoot photos AND to see if we were sexually interested in each other. Call it a “pre-date” if you will. Sort of a “professional meeting with personal undertones” you might say.

So, we meet. She’s gorgeous. Her eyes are vibrant and alive and sparkling. We seem to be getting along. I often screw things up by saying something completely freaking retarded and not realizing until after-the-fact that I just made a complete ass of myself. But this time, I didn’t. To my knowledge, I hadn’t said anything too terribly inane this time.

But then...

About 20 minutes into our conversation, some old dude shows up on the outdoor patio with his dog. Next thing I know, this chick starts talking to the guy about his pooch.

No big deal. Right? In fact, I sort of liked the fact she was so sociable and friendly. It actually made her more attractive to me.

But then she kept talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Suddenly, she’s ignoring me completely and carrying on a 10 minute conversation with this 57 year old dude about his freakin’ mutt! It went from being something that was “impressively friendly” to being “incredibly damn rude.”

I know what you are thinking.

Why did I stay?

Why didn’t I get up and leave?

Why did I tolerate my lunch date ignoring me for 10 minutes?

Because there reaches a point when some is so rude, so selfish, so inappropriate, their behavior becomes fascinating. Like you are watching a sociological experiment and wondering, “How much longer can this girl possibly behave so badly? Two more minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes perhaps?”

I watched myself evolve beyond the fury of being ignored, into being intrigued by the wonderment of her malice.

Make no mistake, the bitch elevated rude behavior into an art.

To make matters worse, as she finally winds down her conversation with the guy after talking to him for like 19 hours, she tells me she needs to get going. She didn’t even try to make it up to me by focusing her attention back to me! She just talked to him and decided to split!

Excuse me?!

Okay. Fine. So at this point, I’m still trying to be polite. I get up and walk with her and offer to walk her to her car. That’s when she explains to me that she isn’t leaving to go to her car yet. She wants to walk to some of the little shops and “go window shopping” first. And she then offers out her hand for me to shake. No hug. No kiss on the cheek. A goddamn handshake.

Oooooooookay.

Does she invite me to windowshop with her? No.

So I’m getting blown off for windowshopping... with a handshake? That was our first and last “pre-date” right there. I’m not too good at taking hints, but WOW, she gave a hell of a hint with that crappy behavior.

Granted, there might be a chance that I misread things. Right? Maybe she wasn’t blowing me off. Maybe she liked me and I totally misinterpreted her being cold and distant.

Well, no.

Because I never spoke to her again. I didn’t call her. Didn’t email her. Nothing.

And she never contacted me again either. So, clearly, she wasn’t interested.

So, that was it. That was our one and only time meeting. We never communicated again after that. Not one single time. This all happened over the summer, about 6 months ago.

Now we get to the part where these two stories come together.

The minute I walked into that stripclub tonight, guess who was dancing on the main stage...

Yup, you guessed it. My coffeeshop redhead; Those sparkling eyes glazed-over into emptiness; Shutting off her emotions so she could portray her stripper persona.

Yeah. That’s right. Unbeknownst to me, she was yet ANOTHER stripper that I almost dated. Er, tried dating... Or something like that.

You know, as I said earlier, I didn’t know if I felt greater pity for the customers or the strippers tonight. But after how rude she was to me, I do know that a certain bitter and cruel facet of my personality felt a grim satisfaction when I saw that redheaded girl up on stage.

My dark-side wanted to toss her a penny, just out of spite.

But honestly, I was far too depressed to bother.

As I walked out of the club and went back to my motorcycle, I was smiling with the comfort of one thought; “Hey... At least I didn’t make the mistake of dating a stripper again.”

Indeed, her farewell-handshake was a blessing in disguise.

§

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Off all the essays in my “relationship section” of chapters, this remains one of my favorites. To this day, I am still stunned at the astonishing serendipity of seeing that girl in that strip club. I mean, this is Los Angeles, California! There are about 9 zillion strip clubs. What are the chances I would end up in the club where that girl worked, on a night she was working, considering I have never been to a strip club before or since? The odds were staggering.

I got sweet revenge and she didn’t even know it.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

Me, Me, ME...
22 July 2006

Isn’t it odd how clear things become with the proper perspective? I finally figured it out. Why didn’t I see it sooner?

Here’s the deal...

I’m surfing around on MySpace and I came across a profile for a cute woman. More accurately, I merely saw a photo of a cute woman. Her actual profile wasn’t so cute, once I began to read what she had to say.

Here are some of her vile highlights:

“I want a man who thinks of me all the time. Who opens the door for me - always, not just at the beginning. I want a man who respects me. I want a man to be a man! Not a man who is needy or whiny! I want to feel special. I want a man who, all on his own, sends me flowers just BECAUSE he is thinking of me and gets excited that I am a part of his life! I guess I want the impossible. :(

But if its out there, that’s what I want! And I don’t necessarily mean I want a man who is loaded with money or anything like that. Money doesn’t make the man!!! Money only makes a man more egotistical! Stop being so insecure, guys, and overcompensate by being a jerk. Just be who you really are. Have compassion.

Be witty and charming - SINCERELY! Don’t pretend to be someone you’re not! The charade can only go on for so long before the real you comes out. Just be you, perfect and perfectly imperfect at the same time. Do you understand? If this doesn’t make sense, don’t bother.”

Okay.

Stop right there.

That doesn’t sound unusual. Right? I mean, she’s blunt and honest and talks about the things she really wants. I can respect that.

However...

Something just didn’t sit right with me in reading that. She sounds like a million other profiles on MySpace, and on dating sites, and personals ads, and there is just something about her attitude that really bothers me. But up until just this moment, I was never able to figure out what the hell it is about these people that upsets me so much.

Finally it hit me.

I was reading about her and I thought, “What about YOU? What are YOU like? What do YOU bring to the table? What can YOU provide? What makes YOU appealing? Why should someone take an interest in who YOU are?”

I finally figured it out!

This is why these people are single.

Because their perspective is all about themselves. What they like. What they expect. What they want. What they desire. What they are looking for. Me. Me. ME.

Here’s a thought...

Maybe, if a woman wants “a man who thinks of her all the time”, she first needs to pay attention to him. If she wants him “to open doors for her - always, not just at the beginning” - then she should first possess the grace and charm that would compel a man to be so chivalric. If she wants “a man who respects her”, maybe she should first be respectful. If she wants “a man to be a man”, maybe she should first focus on being a decent woman. If she “does not want a man who is needy or whiny”, first she should work on being confident and assertive. If she wants “to feel special”, maybe first, she should be special. If she wants “a man who, all on his own, sends her flowers just because he is thinking of her and gets excited that she is a part of his life”, maybe first she should show him how excited she is to be a part of his life.

However, I highly doubt her capacity to ever figure that out and look beyond herself.

Many years ago, I was dating a girl with the same attitude. She desperately wanted kids and talked about it all the time. One day, I finally asked her, “Why? Why is it so important to you? What is it about having children that matters so much to you?”

Her answer terrified me.

She said, “I just want a child that I can love. I want a baby that I can take care of. I want to have the family that I didn’t get to have. I want to have children while I’m still young, so I can play with them, and enjoy being their mom. So I can connect with them and be a friend to them.”

Disgusting.

Never once did she mention the dad.

Never once did she mention the kids, outside of the context of what they would provide to her own personal life.

Did she mention wanting to share the experience of parenthood with the father of her children? Did she mention wanting to bestow the gift of life to another human being so they might grow up to make the world a better place? Did she mention the happiness that her family would experience by being made grandparents and uncles?

No.

Nothing like that escaped her lips.

Every thought was focused on what it would mean to her to be a mom. Not the kid. Not the father. Not her family. Not the world. Just herself.

That was when I knew, I could never stay with her and I was really lucky she wasn’t the mother of my children.

As the great social commentator George Carlin once said, “Narrow, unenlightened self-interest doesn’t impress me.”

Integrity & Devotion
27 August 2007

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This one was originally posted on MySpace.

At the end of this essay, I have elected to include a few of the comments my friends wrote. I suspect you will enjoy them.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

§

“This is a song about a couple of adult people who have spent, oh, quite a long time together, until one day one of them gets restless and decides to... leave. Whether it’s the man or woman who left is unimportant. It’s a breakup.”

- Frank Sinatra

Once upon a time, a friend said unto me, “Eric, you always live your life like it’s a movie. One day you’re going to realize that life isn’t like that.”

To which I laughed gently and replied, “No, my friend. Life is a movie. It is only those who fail to see that who live unhappily.”

- CUT TO -

Devotion and moral fiber are topics that have been on my mind a great deal lately. Over the past few weeks, the universe seems to be playing out these topics like crazy in my life. Read on and you’ll soon see what I mean.

Principals such as integrity and character often manifest in self-sacrifice and the willingness to commit it.

Hold that thought. I’ll repeat it a lot.

A few days ago, I was having a conversation with a female friend who separated from her husband. She told me she thinks it is entirely inappropriate for a woman to spend time alone with a male friend, if she is already in a healthy and fulfilling romantic relationship. Admitting her viewpoint was very old-fashioned, she explained, “It’s disrespectful to do otherwise. If you are in a committed relationship, you owe it to your significant other to only maintain an emotional intimacy with them and no one else.”

While I disagree with her opinion, I sincerely admire it. The notion that in this day and age anyone would even consider such a level of devotion to another human being is really awe-inspiring to me. As I said, I disagree with her. But, damn, I admire her way of thinking.

Although, I do see her point to some degree. For example, if a romance is on thin ice and ones significant other is sneaking out of bed at 3:00am to call their opposite-sex “friend” on the phone, they are definitely “emotionally cheating” on their partner. Even if nothing sexual or physical is going on, it’s not proper to maintain such emotional ties behind your partners back. You just don’t do that sort of thing. Not appropriate. Not respectful.

Of course, if we wish to play a cynical Devil’s Advocate, we can also nitpick a bevy of negative facets in her attitude. Does such a viewpoint truly stem from devotion, or does it stem from a horrible insecurity? Are the motives for such commitment spawned by a desire to show respect for your partner, or is the motive a fear of losing that partner? Wouldn’t true emotional intimacy be founded on the trusting confidence that your partner is just out enjoying life, not the presumption they are cheating emotionally or physically? Wouldn’t a truly healthy couple know with unwavering belief that their partner is not spending time with friends of the opposite-sex out of a need to seek emotional intimacy with others? Or would a truly healthy couple never wish to give their partner the slightest reason to mistrust them?

I honestly don’t know the answer to any of those questions.

Depends on the couple, I guess. Right?

Yet, as I have already said, it seems principals such as integrity and character often manifest in self-sacrifice and the willingness to commit it.

Okay. Okay. Who the hell am I kidding? Her husband cheated on her and fell for another woman. I doubt my friend is being old-fashioned out of devotion. More likely she believes it out of a justifiable fear and mistrust. Can’t blame her for having trust-issues with men. And since she has the wherewithal to not live by a double-standard, she has to be willing to emotionally distance herself from other men, just as she now expects her future lovers to distance themselves from other women.

Not noble at all. Heartbreaking.

But she’s heartbroken. So who can blame her?

I have another friend who wants to set me up with a girl. Said matchmaker has been my pal for 10 years and has never once tried to set me up with anybody. Ever. I’ve actually requested that she do so countless times and she never has. So, since she is finally ponying-up after a decade, naturally, my curiosity had piqued. Who is the dashing young lady my matchmaker wishes me to court?

Although I have a girlfriend to whom I am happily loyal, I checked out the MySpace page of my potential doxy out of pure curiosity... and let’s just say I wasn’t too impressed. Why?

It certainly wasn’t because of her looks. She is gorgeous (bears a striking resemblance to Raven Simone actually) and I freely admit - I am shallow. So, it wasn’t her physical-appearance that turned me off. Not at all. She’s definitely alluring.

But, I was put off by her projection of being a “strong independent woman” who boasts about inner-strength and identifying “motives” of others. Those who voice their ability to identify motives of others tend to surround themselves with a lot of unscrupulous people. As for being a “strong independent woman”, well, those who boast of inner-strength usually lack it.

Don’t get me wrong. I loathe prissy girls and absolutely love women with moral fortitude and grace. However, those who truly seize such traits, never speak of them. Los Angeles breeds many naive women who think “strong” equals “bitchy” and fail to recognize that “bitchy” is a sign of immense weakness.

As the song says, “Real gangsta-ass niggas don’t flex nuts, ’cause real gangsta-ass niggas know they got ’em.”

People who maintain genuine inner-strength never need to profess such to the world. Moral backbone is simply a part of who they are and speaks for itself. No need to brag. No need to point it out. No need to draw attention to it. Hearts worn upon sleeves are vastly more tender and resilient than ones beating behind armor.

I require a soul of light and vibrance. One of laughter and joy. Someone who is alive. Adventurous. Passionate. Bold. Daring. And above all, funloving and devoted. (Resembling the likes of Alyson Michalka would help too.) The kind of girl who lights up a whole room. The kind where men and women will look at me with envy and say, “Sure, he’s one of the greatest guys I know, but even he shouldn’t be able to land a girl as incredible as her!” Loyal and honorable spirits harbor overwhelming bravery and power that is self-evident. There is an aura about them which doesn’t need to prove a thing.

But I digress and ramble. I didn’t like the girl because she tried too hard to project her confidence.

As another song succinctly puts it, “Don’t be afraid to be weak. Don’t be proud to be strong.”

Okay. Okay. Who the hell am I kidding? Despite everything I just said, I’d totally date her once I’m single again. I know better than to judge people based upon MySpace profiles. Besides that, Raven Simone look-a-likes don’t grow on trees, you know!

Another woman friend in my life recently revealed an adulterous long-term affair that is quite shocking. While I find it improper to air details, I will say my nickname for her has become Mrs. Robinson. The fact that she is secretly involved in a relationship with this specific person is truly the stuff of a soap opera and not something I would have imagined her capable of in a million years. I’m truly bemused by the whole thing. The most hilarious part of all is how it explains so much of her quirky behavior over the years and how it changes my opinion of her.

I had a crush on her for years. And honestly, that crush vanished quite some time ago, because events happened between us that really hurt my feelings. Nevertheless, as a friend, I still love her and care about her very much. Although I have not been attracted to her for a long time, knowing what I know now, I am about 10,000 times less attracted than ever. Now I wouldn’t sleep with her using a stolen penis!

Damn, women are freakin’ lunatics.

But, here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you will know... Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

A sister-like young girl I know spent an hour on the phone with me this past weekend, overjoyed about the fact that she may be getting back together with an ex-boyfriend whom she deeply misses and loves. The very next evening, she informed me that she slept with a married man that afternoon. The very next afternoon! After going on and on about her lost love! BAM! Nails a married dude! She also says it was a great experience and she really wants to do it again.

What in the world is goin’ on lately!?

Hello? Integrity? Character? Devotion? Honor? Respect?

Do such traits exist in any woman on the face of the Earth?

About a week ago, yet another girlpal of mine contacted me after losing touch for 2 years or so. She is pregnant with the child of a guy she has been dating a mere 8 months and is moving to Florida with him to raise their kid. One more interesting tale of devotion and commitment. She’s an admirable woman. All the years I’ve known her, she’s lead an adventurous and outgoing life. Always on the move. Constantly filled with cool stories and neat experiences. She’s gonna have great tales for the grandchildren, that’s for sure. The fact that she is willing to have a child and build a life with a guy she hardly knows is totally crazy and absolutely wonderful. That is precisely the passion, boldness and daring of which I wrote earlier. Knowing her, it’s just another grand adventure.

Walking away from Los Angeles and traveling to Florida to start a family is quite an amazing change.

But principals such as integrity and character often manifest in self-sacrifice and the willingness to commit it.

My latest girlfriend has lost interest in me. She denies it. But her actions of being emotionally distant and aloof for the last few weeks speak otherwise. Not sure why. Interested in someone else? Bored with me? Eh. What difference does it make, really? Knowing the reasons behind her change of heart won’t rekindle her feelings. So the “why” isn’t something I care about very much.

I told her when we first started dating, I never judge people by their words - only by their actions. The reason is simple. It’s like the old joke, “I can always tell when a woman is lying because her lips move.”

I couldn’t care less what people say. I care about what people do. Along with her lack of words, her actions speak volumes.

Oh, well. No big deal. That’s life. Lovers come and go. All relationships are temporary. Bummer that it didn’t continue a few more months though. I honestly thought we had the potential to maybe last half a year at least. She was a fun girl and I genuinely enjoyed her company more than anyone I’ve met in ages. Too bad, really.

What would my separated-friend say?

What would my matchmaker say?

What would Mrs. Robinson say?

What would the sister-like friend say?

What would the pregnant Floridian say?

The separated-friend would say my girlfriend is disrespecting me. Some would consider my lax attitude a weakness and call me a pushover. Perhaps. Perhaps I am. But pushovers stand in place to be pushed around. I do not. I merely walk away without looking back... Awaiting the day someone (Alyson Michalka?) has the intestinal fortitude (and desire) to accompany me on my path.

The matchmaker-friend would say I deserve better. She is right. I do. Principals such as integrity and character often manifest in self-sacrifice and the willingness to commit it. True self-respect and self-sacrifice means leaving my once-wonderful girlfriend as soon as possible.

Mrs. Robinson would say nothing. I do love her, but that chick is crazy. I told her I value her input though, so I could make sure to do exactly the opposite of whatever she suggests. Coo coo coo choo, Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for those who pray.

The sister-like friend would pretty much say exactly what the matchmaker would. They are a lot alike. For example, both of them have sex with married men. One sleeps with the man she married, while the other sleeps with men other women married... Sheesh.

The pregnant-friend wouldn’t say much. She is embarking on a new life, in a new world, and starting a family. The drama experienced in my interpersonal relationships and breakups should ideally be behind her. I hope so. She deserves freedom from the melodrama. She is far too brilliant a bird to be caged by these silly concerns. She must fly free.

And come to think of it...

Fly free?

Therein lies my answer.

So must we all...

So I broke up with my girlfriend. Last week.

No yelling. No arguments. No tears. I simply told her that all I ever wanted was to bring her life happiness. Since it was obvious she wasn’t happy with me anymore, there was no point in remaining together. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t ask to work things out. She didn’t say anything about wanting to stay together. She barely said a word at all. She just let it go. And so it was. She simply said she “didn’t know what she wanted” right now.

Uh, huh. Yeah. Sure.

Woman says, “I don’t know what I want right now.”

That translates into, “I definitely don’t want you anymore.”

Okay. Fine. There’s the door.

No tears or yelling, but I did have misty eyes and a trembling voice, when I thanked her.

“For what?” she asked.

“Everything,” I replied.

“I don’t know how to respond to that.”

Smiling, I kissed her cheek and said, “I know... I know you don’t... But you’re supposed to say, ‘You’re welcome.’”

“You’re welcome,” she said after a pause.

With that, I walked away, we bid one another goodnight, and I went to bed.

I warned her when we began living together 2 months prior - this time of her life in California is a turning point. She has to be very careful about her decisions. Whom she befriends. Where she hangs out. The jobs she accepts. How she spends her time. The beds in which she sleeps, alone with her thoughts at the end of the day. If she chooses wisely, decades from now, she will joyfully look back on these years as the moment in her life when everything began changing for the better. This is when she transformed her life. If she chooses poorly, she will remorsefully reflect on these days as the moment when she squandered her greatest opportunities. She will find herself burdened with regrets, knowing she threw away so much goodness, so much potential, that was laid before her.

She once told me that she has a hard time trusting people and thinks everyone has an ulterior motive. I asked her, “What possible ulterior motive could I have for being with you? You’re a young, hot, fun girl and I love your company. That’s my motive. I’m not hiding anything. Someday you’re going to leave me, and get in some bad situation by picking the wrong friends and lovers, and you’ll look back on our relationship and realize that I was always honest and true. And you’ll feel awful because you’ll see that I had no ulterior motives, I genuinely cared about you, and you threw it away.”

I told her that shortly after we met. Far before we broke up. Her reply? “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

I can not see the future and have not the arrogance to predict which journey she is taking. Time will tell. But I know some creatures she has begun befriending and bedding, and rest assured, they walk the alley of shadow, even though I warned her numerous times not to take that road. Now I can only pray she will eventually find her way back to the path of light.

As we all know, Los Angeles means “City of Angels” and is populated with countless spirits both light and dark. You can be uplifted to the Heavens or dragged into Hell. That is why this is the town of dreams and nightmares - the world in which you awake depends upon the inertia of your own spirit. When one chooses to walk out their door, they must exercise caution over which side of the road they elect to walk upon. I kept a rent-free roof over her unemployed-head and food on her plate. I let her see whomever she wanted, whenever she wanted, with no jealousy, insecurity or possessiveness (a freedom she specifically thanked me for and said no other boyfriend ever gave her). I never hurt her, never lied to her, never disrespected her in any way, took her out all over town to dinnerdates, dancing, movies, gardens, parks, museums and photoshoots, was always attentive and affectionate, supported her emotionally and financially, drove her wild in bed (evidenced by her compliments to me and complaints about past lovers), brought her on a romantic vacation to an exotic island, paid for doctor visits, treated her to her first trip to Disneyland, and brightened my already light and airy home to make her feel even more comfortable and welcome... With the innumerable Fallen Angels in this town, ’tis unwise to take the rarity of a Guardian Angel for granted.

Yet guardians cannot shelter those who reject our hand.

Ah, well. Her loss. Poor girl. Despite her choice to scoff at my advice and nurture friendships with unscrupulous people, I hold no animosity towards her. How could I? She’s still a child. She’s irresponsible. She has a lot to learn. She makes a ton of mistakes. And that’s okay. That’s what all 20 year old girls do. I knew that when I started seeing her. I had no illusions. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into.

Friends have asked stupid questions like, “What did you expect? She’s only 20 years old! You didn’t think it would last, did you? She was just using you.”

Using me? Ha! Are they insane!?

As the good old Bob Seger song says, “I used her. She used me. Neither one cared. We were gettin’ our share. Workin’ on the night moves.”

Come on! I was living with a drop-dead-gorgeous, bedhopping, little minx... I had an absolutely wonderful time! She was fabulous! Are you kidding me? What was I thinking? I was thinking, “This is gonna be awesome!” And it was! I had a blast! What on Earth do I have to complain about? It was fan-freakin’-tastic! A whirlwind summer-romance full of fire and passion that moved incredibly fast and burned itself out in a flash. How fun! That rocked! This was far from a heartbreaking experience. It was rapturous!

Although short-lived, our love-affair brought me unsurpassed joy and happiness and laughter, for a little while. Just as I knew it would. In the end, one can never ask for more than that. As I said earlier - all relationships are temporary. I have not one regret and don’t take an instant of it for granted. She has a noble heart buried within that lost soul, and I have every faith she will eventually mature into a considerate and gracious woman. As condescending as she would deem that sentiment, I say it with loving sincerity, and not one drop of belittlement. She may have started treating me rudely and become inconsiderate and selfish, and I cannot deny, for that I was hurt. I was angry. I was bitter. I have every right to be, because I certainly deserved better. But my resentment didn’t last. She’s just a kid and that’s what kids do. By her actions, my life is still enriched, for I was learning to move past being judgmental to accept her with her flaws. What a glorious lesson to be taught! Can you imagine? I am given a chance to advance my thinking and evolve my spirit, because of all our relationship was teaching me about myself. Wondrous!

Sometimes, we learn the most about integrity, character and devotion by the respect we show not to others, but to ourselves.

How could I be anything other than grateful for being blessed with knowing such a soul?

She returned my keys and moved all her stuff out a few nights ago. And so it ends. Another chapter comes to a close.

- FADE OUT -

Thanks for everything, kid. It was fun. May your life be filled with laughter, love and illumination.

Blessed be.

Fare thee well.

§

Posted by RoAnn to Eric

on Wednesday, August 29, 2007 at 8:09 AM

Wow Eric you sure surround yourself with some interesting people:) As always another great reading experience that rings oh so true. I could have so many comments on this as you covered so many interesting obsevations of people.

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Posted by Eric to RoAnn

on Friday, August 31, 2007 at 5:50 PM

Why thank you, RoAnn. After all the years of knowing you, I’m still so flattered and surprised that you take the time to read things I write. I always figure no one is reading this stuff. But I’m extra-surprised to know you are interested in it. I appreciate that.

§

Posted by Sarah to Eric

on Saturday, September 01, 2007 at 9:29 PM

Well Eric,

I bit my tongue for a reason, but now I’ll only say what is necessary. I thought we could be adult about this, but I don’t think I should be walked on and let your story go one-sided (even though, I know you’re going to delete this). After all, you only choose to show the audience the side that’s “in your favor” and all of us readers know, there’s two sides to every story.

1) I love how you twist things in your stories and make little statements to make it sound so much more dramatic than it really was. I also love how you put words in my mouth to make your stories run the course that you see fit. For someone who doesn’t like drama, you sure do open yourself up to it.

2) Yes, I used you. Yes, you used me. I did everything you wanted me to and I was nothing but polite and kind while doing it. It was only after I started going out and actually having a life that you got upset. I’m a human, not a house cat.

3) Yes, I’m 20 years old, but I’m not a fucking naive idiot. Nor, am I a bed-hopper by any means. I was loyal to you throughout the entire relationship.

4) You don’t know a god damned thing about my friends, my location, or my life now and now you never will. For someone who doesn’t judge, you sure know how to make conclusions about people knowing very little about them or their situation.

5)The “stipulations” in our relationship that led to so much tension were scripted in your head.

6) You shouldn’t call someone “kid” who has more experience in relationships, has an adult wardrobe, and doesn’t litter their apartment walls with Playboy bunnies, Star Wars, and The NeverEnding story posters. I find it a bit odd that you had to wait until I moved in for you to even understand the concept of an adult bed. Maybe now, you can bust back out your twin bed that you’ve slept on your entire life....and “do your next girl, like a real man.”

7) No ulterior motives, my ass. Who hopped on who the morning after Disneyland knowing full well that she had a boyfriend? Even semi-intelligent people can see your lies when you talk about being so hurt and then talking about me like I was a grade A piece of meat.

8) Stating someone can stay with you in your apartment, and then saying well, you have to sleep with me to stay here, what does this say about your integrity, character, and devotion? You’re right, actions do speak louder than words, but the next time you have a “good” story on your hands, please make sure they’re mute.

Thanks for the good show, Ol’ Man. I now curtsy and leave the stage.

§

Posted by Eric to Sarah

on Thursday, September 06, 2007 at 4:18 AM

I deliberately didn’t mention ANY names in what I wrote. No one could prove I was talking about you. So, you are right, I wasn’t going to post your reply. Out of respect, I wanted to keep you anonymous.

However ...

After some soulsearching, I decided if you found it so important to convey your side of things, I would allow you the opportunity to do so. It’s the least I could do for you. You earned that right.

So I posted it.

Clearly some of my words offended you. That was never my intention. So, I will address a few points you made.

2) Yes, I used you. Yes, you used me. I did everything you wanted me to and I was nothing but polite and kind while doing it. It was only after I started going out and actually having a life that you got upset. I’m a human, not a house cat.

I am sorry if I made it sound like you were always impolite. That is obviously not true. You were absolutely wonderful in the beginning. I would never deny that or say otherwise. You were exceptionally polite and kind and courteous and appreciative. I adored you for that. You are right. You were fantastic. I was truly lucky, blessed and privileged to have a girlfriend like you. You treated me with utmost respect at all times. Quite possibly, you may have been the most grateful girl I ever dated. You were incredible and I was sincerely proud to be with you.

I mean, damn, our vacation to the island? That was one of the best times of my entire life. I will always hold those memories in high esteem and be thankful to have shared those experiences with you. The start of our romance was fantastic and I acknowledge during those first weeks, you were always completely charming and gracious.

3) Yes, I’m 20 years old, but I’m not a fucking naive idiot. Nor, am I a bed-hopper by any means. I was loyal to you throughout the entire relationship.

I know you were loyal. I freely admit, I occasionally suspected you might be cheating. But deep down, my instincts told me you were true. When I trusted my instincts, I never doubted your devotion. I apologize if I made it sound like you were disloyal. It would be wrong to insinuate such a thing.

I know you did not physically cheat. I believe in you.

7) No ulterior motives, my ass. Who hopped on who the morning after Disneyland knowing full well that she had a boyfriend? Even semi-intelligent people can see your lies when you talk about being so hurt and then talking about me like I was a grade A piece of meat.

You are not a piece of meat. You are my ex-girlfriend. I am honored to have been with you and you deserve to be respected. I have never (and shall never) regard you in “meatmarket terms” and apologize if you have the impression I saw you that way. Those are not the kind of girls I get involved with. You have more class than that.

Did you ever hear me talk about any of my ex-girlfriends that way?

No. Because I don’t. I never will with you either. That’s not my style. I respect you too much. Intimate details of what goes on behind closed doors was private and only between us. No one else. Honoring that privacy is my policy with all my ex-girlfriends, including you.

8) Stating someone can stay with you in your apartment, and then saying well, you have to sleep with me to stay here, what does this say about your integrity, character, and devotion? You’re right, actions do speak louder than words, but the next time you have a “good” story on your hands, please make sure they’re mute.

I can not deny saying that, but I fear I was severely misinterpreted.

You were my girlfriend, never my whore. Forgive me if I made you feel like a harlot. I’ve never regarded you as such.

What I meant was sexual intimacy is a barometer for the health of a relationship. When a couple ceases to sleep together, obviously there are deeper underlying problems. Naturally, such problems are causing the couple to be really unhappy. Being that unhappy, if you can’t work it out, there is no reason to remain together. At that point, it’s best to break up and move on. So we did.

Therefore, yes, we did have to keep sleeping together in order to stay together. But my sentiment had “healthy relationship” intentions, not “sleazy objectifying” intentions.

Again, I’m truly sorry if that sentiment came out so badly.

Thanks for the good show, Ol’ Man. I now curtsy and leave the stage.

I extend you my thanks as well, Lil’ Girl. To accompany your curtsy, I tip my hat and give you the warmest of smiles.

Like I said at the start of all this - Life is a movie. And the scenes we shared were truly memorable and touching. When my life comes to an end, and the curtains close upon the stage, your name will definitely deserve a titlecard in the credits, and should receive a thunderous applause.

Thank you for being part of my film. Fun love scenes. Great fight scenes. Enjoyable storyline. It was delightful working with you.

That was a grand summer romance. You were one glorious leading lady...

§

Posted by Vicki to Eric

on Monday, September 03, 2007 at 12:01 PM

You’re right, I would say you deserve better. And with you hoping that everyone will take something from this, I choose:

“I warned her when we began living together 2 months prior - this time of her life in California is a turning point. She has to be very careful about her decisions. Whom she befriends. Where she hangs out. The jobs she accepts. How she spends her time. The beds in which she sleeps, alone with her thoughts at the end of the day. If she chooses wisely, decades from now, she will joyfully look back on these years as the moment in her life when everything began changing for the better. This is when she transformed her life. If she chooses poorly, she will remorsefully reflect on these days as the moment when she squandered her greatest opportunities. She will find herself burdened with regrets, knowing she threw away so much goodness, so much potential, that was laid before her.”

And I think if there was any advice you would have hoped for me to take from this, aside from the obvious, I’m sure it was this.

Love,

Sister-like friend

§

Posted by Eric to Vicki

on Saturday, September 08, 2007 at 8:07 PM

Well, um, no. I didn’t write this blog hoping that everyone will take something from this. Although, I am glad that you did take some insight from it, and I think you picked a great passage to take to heart. Naturally, that passage can be very applicable to many chapters in anyones life. Those who take it to heart, well, they do tend to live the happiest and most fulfilling lives.

But, no I didn’t really write this to educate folks on bits of wisdom. My true motive? It was twofold.

1 - I wanted to understand why the universe was replaying the “integrity and devotion” theme to me over and over among so many different people in my life during a single week. I found that very odd. What did that mean?

2 - I wanted to publicly declare how awesome my summer romance was and how much I appreciated my ex-girlfriend. Because she is a fantastic person and I am really lucky to have known her.

My ulterior motive? The hidden agenda?

3 - I hoped my ex-girlfriend would read it and reply. Since she refused to discuss what I was doing wrong during our relationship, maybe she’d finally reveal WHY she became so unhappy with me.

That worked.

I feel bad that I made her feel oppressed. I had no idea she felt that way. In fact, she once complimented me that I was the only boyfriend she ever had who wasn’t jealous and possessive and she thanked me for granting her so much freedom in our relationship. So, I was pretty shocked to read her change-of-heart. I didn’t have a clue. But at least I finally have my answer now. I only wish she mentioned it when we were dating, so I might have been able to fix things and change my ways.

Oh, well. I’ll try to be more considerate to the next girl. Life goes on ...

§

Posted by Melissa to Eric

Friday, December 07, 2007 at 8:48 PM

Wow, is the best place to start. You always did have a gift for writing and this made for very interesting reading. I don’t know how else to comment other than to say that you live one of the more interesting movies I know of. ;)

I Bet You Think This Song Is About You
2 May 2008

“You’re so conceited, Claire. You’re so conceited. You’re so, like, full of yourself. Why are you like that?”

- Brian in the movie The Breakfast Club

An ex-lover, who lives in Vermont, recently told me that she has “serious problems with many aspects of our relationship” and my “arrogance” is one of her issues. (No, I was not dating Carly Simon. Her name is Jen.)

The weirdest part about her criticism is that Jen never voiced such disapproval while we were dating. Instead, she waited about 10 years to tell me what she really thought.

Strange.

Why do that?

Why not chide my behavior when her opinion was relevant to our relationship?

Girls are odd creatures.

Anyhow...

This really gave me pause to think, and to get a little introspective and reflect upon myself. Was she right? Am I that bad? Do I act in an arrogant way which upsets people or puts them off? Gosh, I really needed to think about that.

I’ve looked back on the way I behave and how I treat people and the way folks react to me.

Slowly, I really began to realize... just how incredibly happy I was that she called me arrogant!

It made my day!

When I think about all the people who consider me to be a cocky and conceited prick, I get all warm and fuzzy inside. Seriously, I was smiling all day! I was so tickled and flattered!

What others call “arrogant” I call “confident” and honestly, it’s entirely irrelevant what others want to call it. My closest and dearest friends love me, regardless of whether or not they see me as arrogant. I can name plenty of “character flaws” in the people I care about the most. I love them anyway - because being concerned with petty traits like “arrogance” is a very juvenile and high-school mentality in weighing the value of personalities. The true measure of value in someone is to ask yourself if they are a good person or not. That is what matters. That is the only thing which matters. Intellect. Ego. Success. Ambition. Wealth. These are all irrelevant traits. Kindness is above all.

I adore the ex-lover who thinks I’m arrogant. Jen is a really good person. I’ve always cared about her and valued her and she has always meant the world to me. In fact, I feel that way about every girl I’ve ever dated! Even the ones who hate me! I don’t hate any of them. In fact, I don’t even dislike any of them! Every single one was a wonderful blessing in my life. I adore them all.

Every. Single. One.

Most of my former lovers appreciate me too, yet a small handful think I’m some arrogant jerkwad. Pretty weird. I don’t comprehend how I can have memories of them which are filled with love and joy and happiness and gratitude, yet they choose to see me by holding onto bitterness and resentment and negativity. Why would they do that to themselves? Poor girls. I feel bad for them. But chicks are strange creatures. Few girls ever develop the maturity to see beyond petty things and cherish the true heart of a person. Few boys ever figure that out either. I like to think that someday, maybe when they’re like 85 years old, these girls will look back over their lives and say, “You know, Eric, you were right. You may be full of yourself, but at heart you are a good person, and that’s all that matters. Sorry it took so long for me to realize that.”

Ah, well, I can dream. I just pity them for not being as grateful and enriched for knowing me as I feel for knowing them. What I had with them all was glorious. Sad that a half-a-dozen of them or thereabouts are choosing to take the experiences as something bad. Poor kids.

Well, I’m off to work out - so I can continue to look buff and hot and be shallow and arrogant and date sexy young girls who will grow to detest me.

Awesome! Puts a smile on my face just thinking about it.

Remember kids - there is a world of difference between being a “nice guy” and a “good person” - they are nothing alike. I am one of those. I’m not the other. I leave it to you to figure out which is which.

“Smell the aroma. Check my hits. I know it stinks in here... ’cause I’m the shit!”

- Kid Rock in the song American Bad Ass

In Praise Of Girls Under 25
1 August 2008

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This is another MySpace essay which provoked a very strong reaction in a couple of girls who loathe me. One was a former-lover from Vermont named Jenn, whom I had not seen in 10 years, and the other was a former-friend from Chicago named Jen. No matter if the “Jennifer” used one “n” or two, they both couldn’t stand me.

But my favorite remark comes at the end.

My very first girlfriend, whom I love and respect, posted a sweet little comment of affection. She gets it. Darling girl.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

§

When I was nearly 30 years old, I was dating a girl who celebrated her 24th birthday while we were seeing one another. Contemplating her age, I had a revelation and told her, “You know, I just realized you are actually the oldest girl I’ve ever dated. Every girl I have ever been with in my life has been between the age of 15 and 23. Isn’t that weird?”

“Um, yeah,” she replied. “That’s a little creepy.”

After we broke up, I began to think it was time to broaden my horizons. Maybe I was missing out. Maybe I was going out with too many younger girls. Maybe I needed to start seeing dames my own age. Older broads too. Could be a nice change of pace. Grow up and act my age, you know?

That was one of the worst ideas I ever had.

Sure, there was that one chick who was 4 years older than me, and traveled the world, and was a tall and magnificent glamazon, who always wanted to have sex 4 or 5 times in row. That was damn nice. Or the woman who was in her forties, who had pink hair and was in a rock band, and was still more smoking hot than women half her age.

I can’t deny there were a few choice moments in dating older women. But, overall, the most dull and drab and boring and passionless relationships of my life were all with women over the age of 25.

I was completely mistaken. I had this delusion that as a woman got older, she’d be more mature and responsible and emotionally stable and comfortable with herself. I thought she’d open up more sexually and be more brave and exciting. I thought she’d have her act together.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Man, I was completely off-base with those assumptions.

You know what I found? I discovered the reality is “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” and as women got older they became set in their ways. They became less confident and more repressed sexually. They became far more neurotic and uptight and unwilling to experiment. They became jaded and developed tons of hang ups and rules and expectations. They became cynical and venomous and lack morality and decorum far worse than young girls.

In short... they freakin’ sucked.

Although I’ve dated countless women and had an unembarrassing quantity of them in my bed, I only had 3 officially committed “girlfriends” in my life. They were all under 25.

After years of focusing on dating women over 30, I ended up with “official girlfriend” number 4 - she was 16 years younger than me - the largest age-difference of anyone I’d dated at that time. You know what happened? Being with her was more fun than I had experienced in years! Finally, I was back in a relationship that went somewhere! A relationship that meant something! She moved in with me and all summer she was vibrant and alive and bold and daring and had a sense of adventure and vigor and life inside of her. Our loveaffair was full of laughter and playfulness and sensuality and passion and connection. She was an absolute blast! I finally remembered what I had been missing. This was why I loved young girls in the first place!

The most rewarding and fulfilling romances of my life have all been with girls under 25. We have the greatest laughs. We have the deepest conversations. We have the most fun in bed. We have the best adventures. We share the strongest connections. We dream the most vivid hopes. Our songs are waterslides and cottoncandy and we dance like no others.

Yes, I know; Young girls can be mean and vindictive and irresponsible.

Who cares?

The older women proved they can be just as rude and impolite and inconsiderate as any teenager! Not one of them showed anymore kindness than a young girl. In fact, they were only meaner, because they’ve evolved far more devious skills. Very disheartening. Because emotionally, you expect it from a young girl and can forgive her for being juvenile. It’s far more disappointing when such behavior manifests in a woman old enough to know better.

So, what were my choices? To be with an occasionally bitchy and snotty young girl who is fun and carefree and upbeat? Or to hook up with a tiresome and snarky older woman who is dull and neurotic and pessimistic?

No contest.

Case in point, my conversations in relationships tend to go something like this...

Me: “I don’t own a car. Just a motorcycle.”

Girl Under 25: “Cool! You have a motorcycle? Give me a ride!”

Woman Over 30: “Oh my gosh! Motorcycles are dangerous. My cousin lost his leg in a motorcycle accident. Why don’t you get a car?”

Me: “I skateboard a lot. I’m typically at the skatepark on the weekends. In fact, I even made an instructional skate video.”

Girl Under 25: “Awesome! I’ve always wanted to learn that. Can you teach me?”

Woman Over 30: “Oh, I tried that once when I was a kid. I fell and skinned my knee. No thanks. I’ll never get on one of those things again! Aren’t you a little too old for that?”

Who would you rather be around?

There is an essay circulating on the Internet, often mistakenly accredited to Andy Rooney, which sings the praises of women over 30. Honestly, most of the praise is utter nonsense and credits older women with far more grace and charisma than any of them possess. One of the most laughable lines is - “A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants, and from whom.”

Guess. Again.

The girls under 25 are the ones who have all those answers. The answer is - they don’t worry about such inane questions in the first place! They are just living and loving life!

Didn’t anyone ever watch Sex & The City? That show was nothing but four single chicks over 30, who incessantly obsess about men and relationships, and the pitfalls and trials associated with them. The show was a huge hit. Why? Because millions of women in that age-bracket could relate to females who have no clue “who she is, what she is, what she wants, and from whom.” Women loved watching the trainwrecks of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte, because for once, they weren’t mangled in the wreck themselves.

Most young girls I’ve talked to weren’t fans, because they never related to the show at all.

The worst part is the “damaged goods” factor of older women. They all have “trust issues” with men because they’ve been hurt and heartbroken and lied to all their lives. When a decent man comes along, they still behave with apprehension and never loosen up. Young girls? They don’t have any of those hangups. They still believe in love and have faith in romance and shooting stars. Treat a young girl well and she’ll be devoted too your heart for life, even after you break up. Because no heart walks away from the firsts.

Everyone reading this is old enough to have learned that one.

Time and time again, I have given friends and loved ones the same old advice about relationships - they only exist to enhance our lives. Regardless of the relationship - friendship, professional, romantic, intellectual, spiritual - it doesn’t matter. If the relationship is not a benefit to your life, if it is not enriching your life, you don’t need it. Granted, there are always exceptions. I mean if a loved one has a terminal illness, that situation is obviously not enriching your life; it’s making you miserable. But you certainly don’t leave their side because of it. There are obvious exceptions to the rule. But, for the most part, relationships must enrich our lives. Period. Otherwise, get rid of them.

Women over 30 have permitted themselves to become such heartbroken harpies, they never have anything enriching to offer. They have forgotten when they were born, they were all princesses.

One night very recently, a young girl held me in her arms as we said goodnight in the driveway. I remember embracing her and thinking about all the years I’ve spent in that moment. After all this time, she had me feeling exactly like a kid all over again. Those first dates. Those first kisses. The butterflies in my stomach and the shyness under the streetlights on a warm summer night. Bashful grins. Happy laughter. Holding hands. How I savor those moments when everything feels like John Hughes movie. Looking into my eyes she coyly remarked, “I love you, Eric. You are such a teenage boy.”

Ultimately, that is what this is really all about.

This isn’t about them.

This is about me.

When faced with the honest reality of who and what I am, that might be one of the most accurate descriptions any girl has ever pinned upon me. She was so right. I am a teenage boy. I have never grown up. I don’t act my age. I don’t look my age. And one smile from a pretty girl can still make me feel like a kid in junior high.

Some people go through life and discover they aren’t getting any younger. Truth of the matter is, they are the ones falling short. “Growing up” is being a failure at life. After all, shouldn’t everyone remain childlike and young-at-heart all lifelong? Isn’t that the advice all the oldest and wisest souls bestow upon us?

Never grow up. Never grow old. Hold on to your innocence.

Life is short as hell. Why would I want to waste one second of my finite time upon this Earth with a grown woman?

They say youth is wasted on the young.

One of my greatest blessings is being the exception to that rule.

The most beautiful music in the world is the song of living. The melody is playing all your life, if you only listen. It is to that tune we flow in the most graceful waltz. Take my hand. The floor is ours.

The women are sitting this one out.

Bring on the dancing girls.

§

Posted by Jenn to Eric

Friday, August 01, 2008 at 7:02 PM

“generalization:

Noun: a principle or statement based on specific instances but applied generally: the argument sinks to generalizations”

It’s very sad to me that in all of the years that I have known you, you haven’t actually grown beyond this attitude. I am glad to say, however, that I have certainly proven you wrong on all points. Not exactly sure why I bothered to read this......it was exactly what I expected. It has nothing to do with whether or not I liked it, or my age, simply that your experiences cannot become the rule for everyone else. That tricky arrogance I keep mentioning. You are aware that your opinions are not fact right? They will always only be opinions.

I like men who never evolve. It makes them so easy to spot. *smooch*

§

Posted by Eric to Jenn

Saturday, August 02, 2008 at 3:59 AM

You may be over 30 now, but when we were lovers, you were in your early 20s. In the decade we have known each other, you have never been anything but cherished and adored and eternally held a special place in my heart. In your opinion, I may be arrogant and unevolved. That’s fine. I have no desire or incentive to alter your perception of me. But regardless of your disdain, I have always thought of you as one of the greatest loves and magical blessings in my life. You’ll forever be a princess to me. That’s not an opinion. That’s a fact.

Smooch on that, baby. ;-*

§

Posted by Jen to Eric

Saturday, August 02, 2008 at 11:57 AM

Looks like someone has had a change of heart, eh? It will be interesting to see how many under 25 year olds will want to bone your shriveled little Viagra dick as the years go on...

The truth of the matter is that it is only girls under 25 (and I would argue between 18-21) who are dumb enough to date men like you.

It seems like perhaps you are a little too obsessed with age, most likely because you are now old and that pisses you off. People change over time, and while I don’t advocate losing your “childlike sense of wonder and delight” there is certainly nothing wrong with getting smarter and more able to spot other people’s bullshit.

Also, I don’t think riding motorcycles and skateboarding automatically makes you “young.” It just kind of makes you lame. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter if you started skateboarding at age 12 and still do it at age 35 because you are devoted to your hobby. To the rest of the world you are having a “middle aged crisis.” And just so you know, girls under 25 can pick up on that as well. They probably make fun of you behind your back and call you “old man” to their friends and make jokes about when you are going to go buy a porsche.

This is all coming from someone who has zero interest in marriage, children and “career” (unless the career involves dancing and performing all around the world and eating a lot of cheese and chocolate) and all of the other trappings of adulthood. I still believe in “love” and “stars” and little happy fairies humping each other with love and stars. (Okay, maybe not really). However, as I’ve gotten older it has become a little more important to love myself. And a lot of times, loving yourself means avoiding men who want to forever remain teenage boys. Teenage boys were boring and stupid when I was a teenager. Why would I want to associate with them now?

Ultimately, I feel like if you really loved your life and the things in it regardless of age, and these things had nothing to do with each other- you wouldn’t be posting blog entries about how your hobbies keep you young and hip and more fun than the rest of people your age. You would just enjoy your life graciously. The fact that you find it necessary to post such blogs says to me that you do what you do to keep up the appearance of youth- so that you can gloat about how “brave” and “fearless” and “adventurous” you are.

I’m so sick of people who are obsessed with age, and what it means and blaming every fucking character trait (flaw and strength) on age. It is so diminutive and dull. I’m not going to advise you to grow up because that’s asinine. But maybe you should try growing in a different direction for awhile and develop a personality that doesn’t revolve around scoring barely legal ass pussy.

§

Posted by Eric to Jen

Monday, August 04, 2008 at 8:33 AM

Looks like someone has had a change of heart, eh?

Yes, I have most definitely had a change of heart! Thanks for the reminder. I had forgotten about that other blog! Thanks to you, yet again, all I have learned about myself is further validated!

Ahhhhhh! This is awesome! Thank you! So many things are falling in place! Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful! I am so loving this!

Being alive and growing as a person means being a hypocrite. Evolving means contradicting ourselves. It means changing our opinions and turning diametrically opposed to old viewpoints. Admitting our faults. Being uncertain. Changing our minds back again. Opening up our hearts. Not being ashamed to face the music ... and dance as the Rome of our convictions burns.

The beauty of doing it on a public blog instead of a private journal means being afforded the opportunity for feedback like yours, which can mirror our lessons back to us more quickly than we see alone. Thank you, darlin’.

(Cripe, but for the sake of brevity, you COULD have just quoted the title to express your point, instead of pasting the whole other blog in place! Butthead.)

It will be interesting to see how many under 25 year olds will want to bone your shriveled little Viagra dick as the years go on... The truth of the matter is that it is only girls under 25 (and I would argue between 18-21) who are dumb enough to date men like you.

Nothing lasts forever, sweetcakes.

Remember that Charlie Chaplin was 54 when he got married to Oona O’Neil. She was 18. They had 8 kids and stayed together until his death over 30 years later. Age doesn’t matter when true love is involved.

Personally, I would rather be mocked for holding onto my youth for too long than to become old before my time.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter if you started skateboarding at age 12 and still do it at age 35 because you are devoted to your hobby. To the rest of the world you are having a “middle aged crisis.” And just so you know, girls under 25 can pick up on that as well.

“To the rest of the world?” Don’t worry. I don’t believe in their world. ;-)

It seems like perhaps you are a little too obsessed with age, most likely because you are now old and that pisses you off.

The night I got married, my wife and I discussed the fact that people allow themselves to get old. Aging is not an inevitable process - it’s a choice; A conscious decision.

You are partially correct. I am obsessed with age, but I’m not pissed off. This doesn’t come from anger. It comes from sorrow. I’m just sad because OTHER people around me are getting old before their time, and I want so desperately to show them they are aging not because of the calendar, but only because they are listening to the world I don’t believe in.

Take my uncle. He’s in his 50’s and acts like he’s 207. Full of aches and pains and complaints. I pity people like him. I want them to stop acting so damn old. I saw my grandfather succumb to the same mentality in his 80’s - thinking he was old and feeling worthless because of it. None of it was physical. He was mobile and healthy and active and had all his mental capacity. All of his “aging” was psychological. That’s what killed him. He FELT old. Because of that, life became pointless. He lost the will to live.

That does piss me off. And it makes me sad all the time.

I have acquaintances here in Los Angeles who are the same age as my uncle and are more skilled skateboarders and mountain bikers than me! They are incredibly fit and youthful and know how to live life fully. Now and then, you will see their type. Ever find those senior citizens in their 80’s and 90’s who own Harleys and go rollerblading? They are few and far between. They are wonderful and fun and have never grown old or had a midlife crisis. They simply stay true to who they are. Lifelong. They don’t listen to rest of the world. They dance to the beat of their own drum. They live forever.

I bet you admire those people. Why would you belittle me for striving to walk life on the same path?

You should try walking it yourself. Come join us. It’s never too early or too late to begin.

However, as I’ve gotten older it has become a little more important to love myself. And a lot of times, loving yourself means avoiding men who want to forever remain teenage boys. Teenage boys were boring and stupid when I was a teenager. Why would I want to associate with them now?

Thank you, ma’am. You just illustrated the point.

Ultimately, I feel like if you really loved your life and the things in it ... You would just enjoy your life graciously. The fact that you find it necessary to post such blogs says to me that you do what you do to keep up the appearance of youth - so that you can gloat about how “brave” and “fearless” and “adventurous” you are.

Gloating?

Oh, my child, if you only knew...

We stand upon the horizon. We touch the sky on the peak of the mountain. We turn back to the masses below and hold out our hand. We beg them - “Come! Come with me! Look at this! See all you are missing!”

And fearful to fall, scared of what others will think, you mock us. You accuse us of gloating. When all we truly want is to have you share the path and see the glory.

I should enjoy life graciously? I agree. And I can think of nothing more gracious than reaching out with the longing to share what I have learned and not keep it to myself. It’s only perceived as “gloating” when others yearn to do the same things, yet are paralyzed by the belief they are incapable of achieving those dreams. I’m not here to brag about being ahead of them. I’m here to save their place in line.

What are they waiting for?

I’m not going to advise you to grow up because that’s asinine. But maybe you should try growing in a different direction for awhile and develop a personality that doesn’t revolve around scoring barely legal ass pussy.

Read more closely. I think you missed the point. “Growing in a different direction for awhile” is exactly what this essay is all about! It was about me changing my ways (by dating girls my age for many years) and realizing that I was incredibly unhappy as a result. By returning to the essence of who I truly am, I rekindled a sense of joy and satisfaction which had been missing from my life for near a decade.

I’m so sick of people who are obsessed with age, and what it means and blaming every fucking character trait (flaw and strength) on age.

“So sick of people who are obsessed with age?” Like who? Clearly I hit a little too close to home. Sounds like you’ve been left a bit heartbroken by some younger or older guy recently? Sorry to hear that. You’re so beautiful and fervid. Boys of every age should adore a girl as incredible as you.

You’re right. Ultimately, it has nothing to do with age. Nothing to do with young or old. It’s about life and death. Choosing to “get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’” as they said in The Shawshank Redemption.

Do you choose to stay young and alive? Or do you choose to grown old and die?

“I went sky divin’,

I went rocky mountain climbin’,

I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu.

And I loved deeper,

And I spoke sweeter,

And I gave forgiveness I’ve been denying,

And he said, “Someday I hope you get the chance,

To live like you were dyin’.”

- Live Like You Were Dyin’ by Tim McGraw

Thanks again for your long and passionate reply. It means a lot to me that you care so much. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I love you, Jenny.

And I still miss you... And, yeah, I’d still sleep with you... Asshole.

;-*

§

Posted by Robin to Eric

Monday, August 04, 2008 at 8:58 AM

Hi. Peter Pan : )

Love ----

Wendy

§

Posted by Eric to Robin

Monday, August 04, 2008 at 1:06 PM

I’m very blessed to have had you as my first girlfriend.

You will always have a special place in Neverland, my love. Always.

;-)

Mister Sandman Bring Me A Dream
4 August 2008

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

My real-life-experience told in this essay also appears in my novel “Voodoo & Loveshadow” as an event endured by the protagonist of the story.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

§

Shortly after midnight, in the Fall of 2006, returning to Los Angeles from eloping in Las Vegas, I ended up getting lost on a service road in the middle of the desert, and going almost an hour out of my way. Now, I’m a decently smart guy with a good sense of direction, so it was a pretty innocent mistake. I had pulled off the highway to gas up the motorcycle. The route I took to the gas station was a good quarter mile from the highway exit. So, when I left the gas station, I spotted a road running parallel with the highway and thought, “Oh, to save time, instead of circling back, I’ll just follow that to the next freeway entrance.”

Big. Mistake.

For those of you familiar with the desert, you know why that was a very bad idea.

For Midwestern boys like me, and readers in likewise geography, allow me to explain: There is NOTHING in the freakin’ desert. You know when you look at a map of the desert and it shows 3 roads and you think, “Well, I’m sure there are a few more sideroads or something.”?

No. There aren’t.

The map is accurate. There’s nothing for thousands and thousands of square miles. If the map shows roads don’t have an intersection for 50 miles, that means - SURPRISE! - there is no intersection for 50 miles! There are no “smaller streets” they forgot to include on the map. There ain’t nothin’ but desolation.

Sand. Cactus. And shallow graves. That’s it, man.

So, I’m riding down this service road. The whole time, it runs parallel with Interstate 5. I can see the damn highway, 200 feet to my right. There has to be a crossroad and a highway entrance eventually. Right?

Wrong.

I’m riding...

And riding...

And riding...

And riding...

And riding...

Eventually, the freshly paved asphalt becomes brittle and gravelly asphalt. Crap. Not a good sign. I reduce my speed on the rough terrain.

I noticed there was no other traffic either. Not one vehicle ever approached from the other direction.

Also not a good sign.

It’s now been 20 minutes that I’ve been on this damn road. Not one single intersection for 20 miles!? What the heck?

After a good half hour, the old gravely asphalt comes to a dead end... at a dirt T-intersection.

Dirt.

And the dirt road still doesn’t intersect with Interstate 5 - it runs underneath the highway - which, of course, is still a mere 200 feet to my right.

SON OF A FR - GOD - DA - MOTHER - FUUU - AUUUUUGH!

I was livid. I just wasted 30 minutes to reach a dead end and now I’ll spend another half-hour having to backtrack. I just wasted an hour for nothing!

WHO BUILDS A 30 MILE LONG DEAD END STREET!!?

(sigh)

Fine. No big deal. I just eloped in Vegas. This is a Mad Max adventure in the desert, right? Be happy.

I turned around, got back on Interstate 5, where I had exited an hour earlier, and buckled down for the rest of my 4 hour journey. My wife had given me an extra t-shirt to fight against the cold before I left. I almost declined, but thank goodness I didn’t. I had the shirt up over my mouth like a ninja mask and it protected my neck and warmed my breathing. Traveling the route at 4:00 in the afternoon was bearable, but in the middle of the night, I was freezing. Especially once I reached the High Desert.

For readers unfamiliar with the geography of California and Nevada, most of the terrain between Los Angeles and Las Vegas is the High Desert - a vast mesa averaging 4000 feet above sea level. Everyone knows deserts get cold at night. A desert at four-grand in altitude gets VERY cold - especially in November. As I made my way up to the elevations of the High Desert plains and approached closer and closer to the city of Bartertown, er, I mean Barstow, the Santa Ana Winds were growing more and more intense. Now, without going off on another story tangent, some of you may know about my motorcycle accident when 70MPH Santa Ana crosswinds literally blew me off the highway near Altamont Pass outside San Francisco in 2004. As a result of that experience, heavy crosswinds leave me quite skittish when motorcycling. So, I wasn’t too thrilled by the fact I was battling the Santa Anas for hours.

Most of the journey, the Santa Anas were headwinds, not crosswinds. Mercifully, this reduced my fear of being blown sideways off the highway. However, they were about 50MPH headwinds. My motorcycle is a 2004 Suzuki SV650 - a naked sportbike with no windshield. There I was, at 2:00am, being buffeted by a torrential, non-stop headwind that was threatening to blow me backwards right off the seat of my bike. My neck and shoulder muscles were burning with excruciating pain and I held an iron grip on the handlebars as I struggled to keep my head from being whipped backwards by the constant fury of air. I’d never experienced anything like it. Not a single gust. Not a single pause. Not a single beat. Just a steady and continual 50MPH headwind for mile after mile, minute after minute, completely unrelenting. I’m very fit and in excellent shape. I jog and skateboard and bicycle and lift weights all the time - yet I was nearing exhaustion from hour after hour of endless muscle strain.

Finally, the winds subsided. At last, I was home free.

... For about 10 minutes.

Then the winds returned. Harder. For another hour straight.

What. The. Heck?

About 15 minutes outside of Barstow, there was a traffic jam. Thankfully, being on a motorcycle, I was able to split lanes all the way to the front of the half-mile backup. At the front of the line, I saw the California Highway Patrol had blocked off the highway and were forcing people to exit. I approached an officer and asked what was happening.

Apparently, a huge 18-wheel semitruck, full of photocopier paper, had been blown off the highway about a mile up the road. Wind-whipped paper was strewn all over the asphalt. Would take them hours to clean and reopen the Interstate.

... Hours?

NO!

On the bright side, getting lost on that service road may have saved my life. Otherwise, who knows, I might have been right next to that truck when it lost control and crashed. Right? You never can tell. Perhaps that service road detour and the resulting loss of travel time was a great and wonderful blessing in disguise.

But, I was minutes from Barstow, and Barstow was only 2 hours from home! I had ridden over 2 hours, only to be told I had to turn around and go back!? The officer suggested I take a detour back to Interstate 40, and cut over to Interstate 5 that way. Might be 45 minutes out of my way, he said.

Auuuugh!

No! I just want to go to bed!

There had to be another route. There just HAD to be. Surely the Interstate wasn’t the only way?

Oh, how naive I was.

Turning back, I rode another 15 minutes before I reached the previous exit, in the town of Baker. Stopping at some lonely and isolated desert gas station straight out of a horrorfilm, I was assisted with a map by the attendant, who informed me that the only way to take Interstate 40 to Interstate 5 was to travel down Kelbaker Road. Studying the map, Kelbaker Road cut straight through the heart of the Mojave Desert Preserve. Not a single town... not a single crossroad... for over 60 miles. After that, another 60 miles on Interstate 40 before I reached my destination of Interstate 5.

The CHP officer had been completely wrong. This was NOT a 45 minute detour! It was a 2 HOUR detour when I was only 2 hours from home!

This was a nightmare. I was exhausted. I was freezing. I was 2 hours from home and all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

My alternatives to the detour?

The closest hotels were an hour away, back towards Vegas. An hour back towards Vegas means an hour back toward Los Angeles the next morning.

I had three choices:

1. I could wait there for undetermined “hours” for them to clear the road.

2. I could circle back towards Vegas and find a hotel. Maybe. If there were vacancies.

3. I could ride Kelbaker Road through the desert.

I was trapped. No matter what I chose to do, I’d be adding at least 2 more hours onto my trip. AND I WAS ONLY 2 HOURS FROM HOME! No matter what I decided to do, home was now 4 hours away.

It was 2:00 in the morning, and I opted to make a date with the heart of the Mojave.

If I had known then what I know now, I might have picked the hotel or even sat in that horrorfilm gas station all night. Deciding to take Interstate 40 proved to be the most perilous option I could have chosen.

Riding a motorcycle on Kelbaker Road in the dead of night is a surreal experience. One starts to honestly fear you have been sucked into a Twilight Zone episode. Mile after mile, minute after minute, the road rolls on and on through nothing but sand and darkness as far as the eye can see. And then the mind starts to scare you with all the bad thoughts.

What if I break down?

What if I crash?

Who will find me?

How will I get out of here?

I won’t have any cellphone reception. I can’t call for help.

Can I hitchhike? What if no one comes by? I haven’t seen any other traffic for 20 minutes.

I can’t walk out of the desert. It’s too far. The closest town is 30 miles in any direction.

I can’t sleep out here and wait until morning. What if I get bitten by a rattlesnake? Or a scorpion?

Force those thoughts out of your head. Focus. Concentrate. Stay awake. Watch the road. You will make it.

Thankfully, I knew the trip should take about an hour, so at least I could keep an eye on the clock and my fuel without panicking about how much further I had to go. One lesson I learned long ago - when in the desert on a motorcycle, you refuel at every gas station you find, even if you just did it 20 miles ago. Because you never know how far you might have to travel before you reach the next one. That is not a gamble you want to lose, no matter what stakes you are willing to bet in Vegas.

Eventually, I got to Interstate 40, refueled again, and started on my way for the next 60 miles.

The great relief of the detour was that there was no wind on this route. Kelbaker Road was completely devoid of that torrential breeze and so was Interstate 40.

At first.

About 10 minutes down the Interstate, I saw a very strange aura glowing in the distance. The approaching headlights appeared diffused. Orange. Very bizarre tint, the likes of which I had never seen before. Looked like yellowish fog. Squinting my eyes, I think I actually spoke out loud into my helmet, “...What the hell... is that?”

I was about to ride headfirst into the strongest Santa Ana crosswinds of the night, which were whipping up a blinding sandstorm so severe, I couldn’t see more than 20 feet in front of my headlight. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to pilot my motorcycle thorough the very heart of this ungodly maelstrom of sand... for 3 solid hours.

The sandstorm blew swashes of sand across the highway, just like snowdrifts during blizzards back in Ohio. With my visibility so impaired, I feared I would come upon a really deep sanddrift, without being able to see it, and my front tire would skid out from under me. As the crosswinds would gust, I would get shoved so violently to the right, I nearly careened off the berm numerous times.

Finally, I realized the only solution was to slow down. The bike would swerve exponentially worse based upon my forward momentum. A gust that shoved me 6 feet sideways when I was doing 80MPH would only shove me 3 feet when I was doing 40MPH. So, I reduced my speed, as that was the only safe way to lean into the wind and fight the gusts.

Slowing down caused two new problems. First of all, that meant it would take twice as long to break free of the sandstorm. The second, and more nervewracking problem, was surrounding traffic continuing to barrel down the Interstate at 80MPH! Considering their equally-reduced visibility, I was horrified that a semi-truck would flatten me. After all, I could barely see the car taillights ahead of me! How can they possibly notice my tiny little motorcycle lights in this sandstorm?

I put my flashers on, in the hopes that the little bit of extra warning light might save my life. There was nothing more I could do.

When I have told people this story, I always get the same reaction. They say, “Well, why didn’t you just get off the highway?” Another response is, “Couldn’t you have just pulled over?”

Okay. Listen. You’re missing the picture. You obviously haven’t been out West. As I already mentioned earlier - this was the middle of the Mojave freakin’ desert! It’s not like being in the city. There wasn’t an exit 3 miles ahead with a shopping mall. If you have never been in the desert, you may not comprehend that there are no exits for 30 to 60 miles at a time. And when I finally did come to an exit, it would just be another abandoned 2-lane road in a sandstorm. No shelter. No buildings. Nowhere to go. No alternate route. Just another tiny road headed off into hundreds of square miles of darkness. And what would I do then? Sit immobile on the side of a road, next to my motorcycle, in the middle of a giant sandstorm, attempting to “wait it out” for an unknown amount of time? I may have been there for hours. Who knows how long the storm would last? The winds were showing no signs of stopping.

As for pulling over, what was I supposed to stop on? There were no rest areas. It was a 2-lane highway in the desert. Nothing around for scores and scores of miles. Where should I park? The shoulder of the highway? The shoulder was buried under drifts of blowing and billowing sand. Considering the option, I had to ask myself, “Could I even stop in all that sand without crashing?” Even if I could, would I be able to get back out again? Plus, I would have been sitting about 2 or 3 feet away from the passing traffic, blasting past at 80MPH. No thanks. As dangerous as it may have been, my safest alternative was to forge ahead, knowing I will eventually break free of the storm.

I had no other choice.

There were no safer options.

This was it.

I had to keep going.

So that is what I did. Ever onward. Into the brink.

Never before had I been more scared on my motorcycle.

Even times I had crashed were less upsetting. Because crashes happen quickly and are over in an instant. This was a constant stress and strain for hours. My bike was perilously leaning the whole time, fighting with my bodyweight and twitching the handlebars as the wind kept threatening to rip them from my grasp. Then for a second, the wind would subside and my bike would careen back to the left as I tried to even my balance and steering again. Two seconds later, the gust would return and would not relent for a solid 20 minutes.

This whole time, I can’t see more than a few dozen feet in front of me and I can’t see traffic racing down on me from behind until they are almost running me over. My entire world was nothing but wind, sand, asphalt and darkness. Nothing else existed. My heartrate was skyrocketing and my adrenaline was through the roof.

At this point I was beyond grateful that my new bride had given me that t-shirt which I was wearing like a ninja mask. Thankfully it was filtering all the windswept sand, so at least I could actually breathe clearly. Nevertheless, every breath of air still tasted like dust.

After hours of being battered to exhaustion, I eventually came to an exit near the town of Dagget. I headed north, in the hopes of finding a gas station where I could just rest and take a break.

Riding for mile upon mile, I thought it was hopeless. Thankfully, the wind was behind me now, so I was slightly less horrified going up this road. Nevertheless, a errant sidelong gust would smack me now and then, nearly blowing me into oncoming traffic. Over miles of road, I passed about half a dozen cars. And I swear those sideways winds never appeared until each and every car did - nearly killing me everytime. I was almost in tears out of pure terror, exasperation, and overpowering fatigue.

Finally, I spotted a gas station to my left and pulled over. Parking my bike and removing my helmet and gloves, I was a nervous wreck. My hands were shaking and people were staring at me as if I were some crazed speed freak. I’m sure I must have looked like one. Many people throughout my life have called me an adrenaline junkie. Without a doubt, that was the most intense fix this junkie has ever had. If other shots of adrenaline in my life put me in the clouds, this one had me orbiting near Jupiter somewhere. I avoided eye-contact with other patrons of the station. My heart was pounding through my chest and I didn’t want anyone to speak to me. A few people attempted idle chit chat.

“Sure is windy. How can you ride in this?”

“Oh, I manage.” I muttered and walked away.

I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to get home and go to bed. I made it this far. No turning back now. But I was dreading the thought of having to return back to the Interstate. Maybe I’d just sit there until the wind stopped. I really didn’t think I could take anymore.

As I sat on a bench, attempting to calm my trembling nerves, I looked up to my left and there it was. 300 feet away.

Highway entrance sign. Interstate 5.

YES! I didn’t have to go back to Interstate 40 after all! My goal was right in front of me! The serendipity of the moment gave me a ray of hope and rekindled my inspiration. I had made it! I’m almost back to Barsow! I’m only 2 hours from home! Less than one more hour and I should be safe from the wind!

A few more moments of reprieve and I hopped back on my bike, eager to begin the easier part of the journey.

As I headed down Interstate 5, I experienced my first sunrise in the desert. Nature and the universe seemed to be giving me a gift:

Welcome back to the light.

You survived the darklands.

The winds had ceased. At last. Eight grueling hours after I left Las Vegas - which was ordinarily a 4 hour journey - I was back at my apartment, showered, and collapsed in bed.

When I awoke 4 hours later, my heart was still racing.

That was when I got freaked out.

I sat up on the edge of my bed and actually spoke out loud to talk myself down - “Eric. Just relax. It’s okay... You’re home. You’re safe. You’re in your own bed. It’s all over... You didn’t crash. You didn’t die. You made it home safe and sound. All in one piece... Your motorcycle is fine... You are here. You made it. You’re safe... It’s okay. Calm down. You made it home... You’re okay. Calm down. Just calm down. Relax. Relax. Breathe. You’re all right. Everything is fine.”

With a sigh of relief, it began to work. My heartrate slowed. My breathing became steady. I was finally coming down off the adrenaline rush.

Wow. Intense. Elope in Vegas. Motorcycles. Sandstorms. Lone rider in the Mojave Desert at 4:00am. Now that was a true adventure! Life is good.

I fell back into a dreamless sleep as a married man.

The Sandman had done enough for the night.

Best Text Message Ever
19 September 2008

Best Text Message Ever

19 September 2008

This was the best instant messenger conversation I’ve ever had.

And I didn’t even get to say a word!

I was away from my computer, and when I got back, I saw this from a girl I know:

Vicki (8:33:53 PM): i am SO sorry

Vicki (8:33:55 PM): for all the times

Vicki (8:34:00 PM): i’ve chewed your ear off about boys

Vicki (8:34:02 PM): and you gave me advice

Vicki (8:34:07 PM): and you felt like you were talking to a brick wall

Vicki (8:34:09 PM): i mean it

Vicki (8:34:12 PM): i am fucking SORRY

Vicki (8:34:18 PM): for wasting however many hundreds of minutes of your life

Vicki (8:34:25 PM): because after those 2 hours on the phone with a friend of mine tonight

Vicki (8:34:26 PM): holy god

Vicki (8:34:34 PM): i want to throw myself out of a window

Vicki signed off at 8:47:26 PM.

My Fair Lady
22 September 2008

“You see, Mrs. Higgins, apart from the things one can pick up, the difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated. I shall always be a common flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me like a common flower girl, and always will. But I know that I shall always be a lady to Colonel Pickering, because he always treats me like a lady, and always will.”

- Eliza Doolittle in the movie My Fair Lady

Those lines are really haunting me this afternoon.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading and serendipitously stumbling into recurring themes of self-fulfilling prophecies. Apt quote for such trains of thought. Applying that philosophy to different relationships in my life, I can’t help but wonder and second-guess some things. What I mean to say is - sometimes people in our lives seem to “change dramatically” in the way they behave. People who are attentive and kind turn aloof and bitter. Those who are sweet and affectionate can become cold and distant.

I can’t help but wonder how many of them were changing of their own accord and how many may have changed due to the way I treated them.

“What’s the difference?” you ask. “In the end they are still treating you badly, so what difference does it make?”

There is a huge difference.

Because if the person behaves differently due to their own agenda and accord, if they “change stripes” because that is their true nature, then the fault and blame for their behavior is solely their own responsibility. However, if ones personality alters due to the way we treat them, if they “show another face” because of our influence, then the catalyst for their actions becomes a responsibility we share.

Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I don’t “name names” when I talk about things of this nature. The truth of the matter is, many people in my life are on my mind regarding these thoughts. This doesn’t apply to any single individual - that’s the reason it’s kind of vexing me - it has far-reaching implications over numerous interpersonal relationships. So, if as Carly Simon sang, you “think this song is about you” then many of you may be correct.

The question it boils down to becomes - “How many people in my life were jerks because that’s what they are... and how many were jerks because I treated them that way?”

Naturally, there will be people whom we treat with nothing but dignity and respect and they will still be an ass. For some that is simply their nature.

Nevertheless, there may be some gentleman and ladies in our lives who are rude little fiends only because that’s all the credit we give them. Maybe they’d treat us with a little more respect if we gave them some of our respect to begin with.

Food for thought. An important question to ask ourselves from time to time. Are we treating this person like a gentleman/lady or like a flower girl?

Once all of that sinks in and the implications permeate your mind a bit, flip the looking-glass towards yourself and churn up your thoughts with one last notion: Are YOU being the best person you can be, regardless of how you are treated? Or are you allowing the way others treat you to influence your behavior? When people treat you like dirt, do you have the inner fortitude to remain a dignified gentleman/lady? Or do you become exactly the sort of jerk they are influencing you to be?

Are you strong enough to always treat others like gentlemen, even when they are treating you like a flower girl?

As Eliza pointed out, most people only behave the way we treat them.

I’m not sure about you, but I’d like to evolve into a person who is even better than that.

“They mistake kindness for weakness, but you know the difference. You’ve been the brunt of their weakness for years and strength is something you know a bit about because you had to be strong to keep yourself alive. You know yourself very well now.”

- Henry Rollins

I Know You

Thanks To My Ex-Girlfriends
1 April 2009

Short little blog this evening.

I was recently speaking to a person whose spouse up and left. But not only did the spouse leave this person and their children, they cleaned out all their joint-bank-accounts before hitting the road.

Needless to say, this person is freaking out... No. That isn’t strong enough. This person is truly emotionally devastated - not only over the betrayal of the spouse, but at the sudden financial burden of discovering their life-savings is gone like a fart in the wind.

And it got me thinking about my past relationships.

I’ve had crappy breakups. I’ve got an ex-girlfriend or two who will likely never speak to me again (and if you’re one of those reading this - yes, I still adore you and I always will). Yet, knock on wood, I’ve never had anyone do something that selfish and cruel; To leave your spouse AND take all the money so the spouse is left to raise the children, not knowing how to put food on the table?

Wow.

Who DOES that!? How can you sleep at night, knowing that is the kind of person you are? What do you tell yourself in your head to justify those actions?

“I’ll leave my spouse AND steal all the money they will need to raise my kids... Yeah, that’ll be okay.”

I’ve known other friends who have had really shitty divorces from people who are total assholes.

But none of those assholes compared to that.

So, again, it got me thinking about my past relationships. And I just wanted to give a big “thank you” to the Universe and to all my ex-girlfriends and fuck-buddies and makeout-partners and little-flings. Despite some crappy breakups, I love you all. Every last one of you have been decent human beings. I am so grateful for that. None of you ever screwed me over, like the jerk who cleaned out the savings accounts of this acquaintance of mine. I can’t imagine any of you being that mean to anybody. You all have good hearts.

And, frankly, I should also thank myself - for picking girls like you. I made great choices with every last one of you.

So, thank you. Thank you all for enriching my life and being the great people you are. Thanks for not being evil bitches from hell.

And call me! I miss you.

Why I Eloped At An Elvis Chapel
8 August 2009

“It was one of those days when it’s a minute away from snowing and there’s this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that’s the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video’s a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart’s going to cave in.”

- Ricky Fitts in the movie American Beauty (1999)

One of the most emotional cinematic experiences of my life was that plastic bag scene in American Beauty. Hard to imagine that was almost a decade ago. Seems like only a year or two, it remains so vivid.

It shook me to the core. Nothing before or since has ever touched me quite like that. I found it so profound because I realized one of the most uplifting and wonderful thoughts in my life... and simultaneously, felt one of the most lonely and isolating shivers that ever went down my spine.

The wonderful thought?

Realizing I was not alone in my view of life. I wasn’t some misunderstood weirdo by striving to live my whole life in perspective. Others see the whole picture as well. Beginning to end. All the beauty all at once. There are others who remain alive and conscious of the glory of living from moment to moment. I felt connected to fellow human beings in a way I never had before.

Someone. Else. Gets. It.

The isolating thought?

Realizing how rare my kind is. Hearing the snickering in the audience from the mindless drones comprising most of humanity. Although I am not alone and there are others like me, it’s not likely I will find many. Most people simply aren’t wired to think on that wavelength. The masses are lemmings who are blind and sleeping. Zombies. Those who do things like watch television and believe the newspapers - like most of the audience who laughed during that scene. They didn’t understand. It was a joke to them. They were incapable of comprehending.

“When we look back at it all, as I know we will

You and me, wide eyed

I wonder...

Will we really remember how it feels to be this alive?”

- The Cure “Out Of This World”

This is why I eloped at an Elvis Chapel.

In the Fall of 2006, I was having a conversation on the phone with a friend. She and I had known each other for nearly 10 years and she told me, “You know, Eric, I would totally date you if I thought it had any chance of working out.”

Wow, that was insulting. I knew she meant it as a compliment. But I didn’t take it as one.

Her words angered me. I realized in that moment, just how passionately I loathed the notion of not taking a risk in life. Life is so short. How dare anyone live it so timidly? I realized, “I’m tired of knowing and dating women with that attitude. I want someone who doesn’t believe it will work out... AND THEN GOES FOR IT ANYWAY! I need someone bold. Daring. Someone crazy. Someone with passion and fire and courage and ADVENTURE in them! Someone full of sandstorms and whirlwinds and shooting stars! Are there no women who know how to leap from the cliff anymore? I do not require a cautious mate. I can not tolerate a tepid lover. I need a wild heart. Someone... tempestuous. Fierce. Courageous. Nothing less.”

Someone who keeps her entire life in perspective.

There is more, yet I find it difficult to explain. As time goes on, the more precisely my heart is able to recognize the dynamic I require in my lovers, despite the fact my verbal capacity to articulate such traits seems to become more diminished.

That conversation reminded me of another moment where one of my playmates told me that I’d “find someone special” someday. I was rather tempted to strangle the bitch to death as we lay on my couch after she said it. What kind of patronizing statement is that? This is supposed to be comforting in some way? Every girl in my life - be they friends or girltoys - reassure me that I will “find someone special” but none of them ever want to BE that “special someone” they promise is awaiting me “out there” somewhere. I meet a lot of “special someones” in my life, but they always leave. Meeting them is easy. Keeping them is hard.

I replied, “Let me ask you something. Can you picture a person being fun and intelligent and successful and attractive and personable... and yet they still end up totally alone?”

“Well, yes.” She answered, “Of course. I’m sure that happens to a lot of people.”

“I’m one of those people.” I told her.

I didn’t intend for that to happen. I never thought about it before. Not really. The words simply rang true as they came out of my mouth.

My future-wife, Michelle, and I had been online friends for about 3 years. Met her on a dating website. I entered every detailed parameter I could think of for my “ideal girl” and searched the entire country, figuring I’d get no results. To my shock, I got three. Two were not attractive. One was hot. So I wrote to the hot one. Originally from New York, she is quite an amazing woman. Younger than me. Covered in tattoos. A fellow straightedge (go look it up). A member of MENSA (look that up too), she has a Ph.D. in psychology, is a drummer in a metal band, a model in tattoo magazines, and is currently studying (kick)astrophysics in Wisconsin. Did I mention she’s incredibly beautiful and one of the all-time-best-kissers in the world too? Now THAT is my type of girl. No doubt. Even her nickname, Helle, was coincidentally the name I invented as the main love-interest in my first-person vampire novel, 10 years earlier. Weird. From the very first time we talked, we joked about eloping in Vegas at an Elvis Chapel.

A few weeks after the exasperating “I-would-totally-date-you-if-I-thought-it-had-any-chance-of-working-out” conversation, I got a message one evening from Helle out of the blue. She was in Vegas. Did I want to marry her?

When I’m laying on my deathbed at 105 years of age, do I want to look back on my life and say I didn’t have the guts to elope in Vegas?

The next afternoon I was on my motorcycle, racing towards Sin City.

Naturally, when I got there, I was completely lost and had no clue where the Chapel was at. I must have wasted another hour with vague directions and cellphone calls, scurrying to find the place. It was getting exasperating because the Chapel was closing! Elvis had to go home!

Finally I found the place! Helle and I met for the first time and rushed over to the courthouse to get our license. Remember we had never met before. I told you she was an online friend. I only knew her over the Internet. Darnit, if you’re gonna do something crazy, do it right!

From there, it was a mad dash back to the Elvis Chapel to get hitched.

“Neither one of you drink?”, friends have said. “You can’t even blame alcohol as an excuse. You’re insane!”

To which I usually reply, “I sure hope so.”

Another friend once said, “Ummmm, you know, I hate to break it to you, but, uhhhh, eloping in Vegas isn’t all that special. People do it all the time, you know. That’s why there are Elvis Chapels everywhere. Duh.”

A pair of sober friends getting married on a whim, just for the hell of it? Spontaneously motorcycling through the desert with less than 24 hours notice, to marry someone you never met? No. People do not do that everyday.

Yes, getting married at an Elvis Chapel happens all the time.

But not the way we do it.

Meeting your bride 30 minutes before the wedding and having your “first kiss” with a girl happen while you’re standing on the altar and you’ve just been married by Elvis is a spectacularly surreal event. To paraphrase Ferris Beuller, if you have the means, I highly recommend you experience it. It is so choice.

Afterward, she called her mother and we went to Denny’s. She told her mom, “Yeah, we just got married and now we’re going on our first date. I always liked to do things backwards.”

That wasn’t the most entertaining part of our date however. The best part was during dinner when I remembered I actually had a date with some other chick the next night.

“Oh!,” I said. “That’s right. In fact, I’m supposed to go out to dinner with this one girl tomorrow. I totally forgot about that.”

My wife laughed and said, “So are you going to tell her?”

“Well,” I replied, “I think it may be best to tell her before we go out. That’s not exactly the kind of news you want to break to a chick when you’re sitting in the restaurant. ‘Hey! I almost forgot to mention, I eloped in Vegas last night. I hope this doesn’t mean we can’t makeout later?’ Yeah. Not good.”

Helle laughed then added, “You know I wouldn’t mind if you made out with her.”

“I know. But I think she’d mind.”

As I predicted, the girl canceled our plans once I dropped the news. Alas, I guess some broads just aren’t that open to unique relationships.

At the time, my bride was living in Chicago. After our date at Denny’s, she headed back to Illinois and I began the journey back to Los Angeles. We didn’t even consummate the marriage. Plenty of time for that later. Plus, it provided me with a great joke - “I got married and I still can’t get lucky!”

Actually... well... Crud. That really isn’t all that funny, is it?

There you go, kiddo. Your wedding night. A lifelong memory. Cheers!

Not quite what you expected, Mr. Hopeless Romantic, was it?

My marriage was truly the greatest gift the universe has ever given me in regard to relationships. Marriage finally taught me truths about my personality that I never saw before. Maybe I would have never learned them any other way. My outlook on intimate relationships has evolved into something vastly different from any viewpoint I ever held in the past.

Days after getting married, friends kept asking if my wife and I would move in together or get divorced. After all, I lived in California. She lived in Chicago. What did we plan to do? What were we thinking?

I shrugged it off. We had no idea. That really wasn’t the point. We eloped in Vegas for the sake of doing it. Que sera sera. If we live apart for years, that was fine. If we decide to move in with each other, that’s fine too. We didn’t give it much thought.

One of my single friends said, “Oh. I guess I just take marriage more seriously.”

Excuse me?

“What makes you think we’re not taking it seriously?” I said. I was pretty offended.

When I told my wife about that conversation, Helle was offended too and replied, “What?! You know just because we don’t take life seriously doesn’t mean we don’t take our marriage seriously.”

Wow.

Brilliant.

“Just because we don’t take life seriously doesn’t mean we don’t take our marriage seriously.”

Once she said that, I no longer cared how long our marriage would last. Three months? Thirty years? No matter. I knew in that instant I had married the right girl.

(Side Note: I also envied her capacity to summarize things so succinctly - I have to write 2 chapters of essays to convey the same idea!)

Nearly a month later, we decided to give it a shot. Helle came out to Los Angeles so we could attempt to actually live together and do the marriage thing the way most folks do.

Didn’t work.

We simply lacked the correct synchronicity. We adore each other. We are extremely harmonious and have great chemistry. We’re just not compatible for traditional marriage. Less than 2 days after she arrived, she decided to go back to Chicago. No hard feelings. We never fought. We never argued. I still revere her. In fact, I grew to truly love the girl. Mainly out of a deep respect for her sense of adventure. I admire her for that and have no regrets whatsoever about being her husband.

That was when we decided to have the marriage annulled. Mutual decision. We had our life experience. Why linger? Although, almost 2 years later, we still never officially finished that. So, technically, we’re still hitched.

What can I say? We both hate paperwork.

When we wed, Helle was going through a rough time in her life and feeling very despondent and lost over things. That was part of the reason she wanted to get married. To awaken herself. To have an experience to shake herself up before she departs this Earth. Looking back, she even told me she thinks it may have saved her life. That was so touching, I didn’t even know how to respond. Being told by a girl that my marrying her saved her life? Wow. That was so powerful, I was rendered sort of speechless.

My motives of “shaking things up” were very much the same. I needed proof there were still girls willing to take risks and be crazy and fun. Jump from the cliff and have faith the wings would appear. So, you see, we didn’t really have much choice. We had to marry each other. We were meant to be; at just the right time and place. Everything about it felt somehow... inevitable.

To this day, people still don’t understand that. A married friend once asked if I would take it all back, knowing what I know now.

It broke my heart she would even ponder such a question.

No. I would never take it back. I have no way to articulate the heights of my elation over marrying my wife. For me, marriage simply became a milestone - a marker along the journey. For decades, I regarded it as a “goal” in life. After I had the experience, it was no longer the “end all, be all” of romantic relationships. Marriage became a mere facet to color the prism of life, not something to define it. Nothing lasts forever. Marriage is no different - it is not permanent. In fact, traditional marriage vows admit they are only temporary - “’til death do us part” and “as long as we both shall live.” Acknowledgment that the bond will one day be over. The wind always carries the bag aloft. Once you embrace the impermanence of life, it elevates your perspective to appreciating and cherishing every... single... second... you... breathe.

Yet another sign of “this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid.”

As my wife pointed out, we were taking our marriage seriously. Although, I’m sure a lot of people would disagree. In fact, a girl I was seeing once chided - I treat relationships like a game. She berated I was always on “The Quest” for some perfect “soulmate” of a girl, but never really took the time to look beyond it. Never bothered to consider what the consequences would be; what the romance would entail after the fact.

Her observation really vexed me, because I knew it was true. Of course, I denied it, because I didn’t want her to be right.

Similarly, years earlier, one of my love interests doubted she was meant to have a lifelong romance with anyone. She believed her Fate was to touch the lives of many people and move on. At the time, I vehemently disagreed with her. To make matters worse, she implied I might be the same; My desire to be reunited with a soulmate was never my true calling.

Wait. Was she calling me a player?! A womanizer?

Huh? What? Me? Mr. Romantic? She thought I’d be one to hop from one romance to another? How awful! No way! Impossible! Not me!

Damn.

Problem was, to this day, she truly knew me better than anyone else ever has in my life. So, I couldn’t just ignore her intuition. I was forced to consider her foresight might be accurate. As a result, that conversation haunted me for many years.

In retrospect, life proved she was right about both of us.

She married a guy and it was a disaster. She defied the destiny her instincts had her believing in, and the results were catastrophic. As the saying goes - “To thine own self be true.”

Myself? I was constantly seeking that “great relationship” and was always slightly unhappy. Once I accepted the true desire of my heart was “touching the lives of many people and moving on” I gained an enlightenment I never had before. What I thought was completely impossible defined me more precisely than I ever dreamed.

Ironic I had to get married before accepting that aspect of myself.

Serendipity is an odd thing.

During the time I was starting to understand these things about myself, a friend reinforced my conclusions during one simple conversation. I told her it was tough to just find a girl who would stick around. She looked at me, genuinely confused; as though baffled by my inability to notice the obvious. Very matter-of-factly, she merely said, “Well, you’re also not excessively normal.”

I laughed and told her I need that on a t-shirt:

I’M NOT EXCESSIVELY NORMAL

“It’s true!,” she continued. “You know that. The way you see things. Your outlook on life. Your philosophies. Your attitude. Your values. Your approach to things. I’ve known you 10 years and you’re nothing like anyone I’ve ever met. Every friend in your life tells you that. I’m sure it’s hard for most girls to connect with you. Besides, you’ve had a lot of relationships. It’s not like you’re some awkward weirdo who has never had a girlfriend.”

There is something about being “different” - when someone says it about himself, it sounds pretentious and arrogant and is therefore met with skepticism and incredulity. When someone says so about another, it lends legitimacy to the remark. She didn’t intend those statements as compliments anyway - just as self-evident truths.

All my life, I could never understand why my lovelife never worked out. Why did all my romances last 3 to 6 months before a breakup? Why so brief? Sure, I had one relationship that was on and off for 4 years, but even that one never lasted longer than 6 months before an “off” period. I have no idea what it feels like to be in a committed relationship lasting longer than half a year. I’ve never celebrated a single anniversary. I’ve been “dating” girls, but never had an official “girlfriend” at Christmas or on my birthday. Not once. Completely alien concept to me.

Why? Clearly I must be at fault, since my presence is the only common denominator in all my relationships, right?

What was wrong with me? Was I flawed in some way?

What was wrong with the girls I was dating? Did none of them love me? Why was I picking such people? Why did they always leave? Why did they never give me a reason?

Those questions used to make me very sad.

Not anymore.

After my marriage, I finally discovered those answers.

Nothing was wrong.

This was exactly what I always wanted! I had been lying to myself all my life. I know how I am - I am sincerely dreamy and romantic and “nice” in the beginning... and soon I totally neglect her and take her for granted. I wasn’t looking for a devoted lifelong love. I wasn’t looking for a soulmate. Hell, I don’t have a freaking clue what I’d do with someone for that long! I’d get bored out of my mind.

I’m not saying I disbelieve in soulmates either. Not at all. In fact, my faith in the reality of such bonds between people is stronger than ever. I just suspect my soulmates find me and say, “Beloved, you are so not ready for us.”

Fair enough.

Truth be told, the girlfriend who said I treated soulmates like a game had been right about me! I never did look beyond “The Quest” or envision what a lasting relationship would entail.

I used to tell myself such futures were too difficult to visualize.

Honestly, I couldn’t see that future because I never wanted to. I’ve never been ready for that. I love girlfriends.

Actually, now that I think of it, that is a lie too. Why else do you think I’ve had so few “official” girlfriends? No. I don’t love girlfriends. Lovers are what I enjoy most. I love “friends with benefits” more than anything. I love all they bring my life. I love all we share. I love how we enrich each others lives. I love all we learn from each other. I love all we teach to each other. I love the melancholy goodbyes when it becomes time to move on and I listen to Frank Sinatra for a week straight. (It used to be the Pornography album by The Cure for a solid month, but I digress.) I love the decades of friendships that remain. I even love the ones who choose to detest me - because they have still given me a lifetime of memories of laughter and passion.

In fact, the first girlfriend I had right after my wife was one who grew to really dislike me. Stopped speaking to me. Thinks I’m a jerk. You all know the drill. Nevertheless, I adore her more deeply and appreciate her more than she will ever know, because she solidified these realizations about myself. She was the turning point. She was the validation that these life lessons are not a theoretical psychological assessment, but rather, this is the honest core of my truest self. She was the one who put it all to the test.

I’m genuinely as fun-loving and optimistic and hopeful and romantic as ever before. None of that has changed. I completely believe in devotion and commitments and marriage and family. I respect all of those values. I’m not remotely bitter about relationships either - I’m just far more honest about who I am. Go with the flow. Have fun. A twig on the shoulders of a mighty stream. I have no expectations. I just take things as they are. Appreciating the journey and every filament of a lifetime.

What I truly want is the spark. I want the pleasure of new discoveries. Those initial days of getting to know each other - the laughter, the first dates, the weekend getaways, the 3 hour phonecalls, the sexual exploration - these are the things I live for in relationships! That is my hearts true passion. This is what I find the most rewarding and enriching - that joy of initial connections and feeling of synchronicity. Chemistry. Attraction. Feeling you’ve known a person from another lifetime. I love the beauty and thrill of that instinctive unity. In my heart of hearts, I’ve never been looking for anything more. Anything beyond a few months becomes routine. Boring. You go to the same restaurants. You dance at the same clubs. You have shared all the childhood stories. You go to the same movie theatres. You have met each others friends. There is nothing new left to discover. No spark to explore.

When it comes to relationships, it’s not BEING in love that appeals to me; it’s the FALLING in love that I am obsessed with experiencing. My hearts desire had already been with me all along. Subconsciously, I think I’ve always known this. So have my girlfriends. That is why the loveaffairs never endure.

The elusive answer manifested at last.

This is who I am. Faults and all. My “hopeless romantic” folly pinned so much happiness on notions of “soulmates” and “true love”, and seeking that sense of “wonderment and magic”, that I ceased living in the moment. Countless happy times passed unnoticed. I have come to appreciate all those instants now. For the first time in my life, I realized that I’ve deeply, sincerely, and truly loved every girl I’ve ever kissed or had in my bed. Even those to whom I never said the words. I love them all. How privileged I have been! To remember them - every smile, every joke, every touch - sometimes the memory is too much and I feel like my heart is just going to burst.

For that inadvertent gift alone, I will love my wife and hold her in the highest regard and most respectful esteem for the remainder of my days. As good old Dan Fogleberg sang, my wife “gave to me a gift I know I never can repay.” She didn’t do it deliberately. But I am forever changed because of what she brought to my life. Thank you, my love. Thank you, my wife. Thank you, Helle.

Indeed, maybe marriage was the magical event I always hoped it would be. It was The Holy Grail of Relationships after all; because it truly did the impossible - it manifested the wizardry to change every other loveaffair I ever had. Every other love I had ever known became a hallowed gratitude instead of a remorseful loss. In that sense, my marriage truly blessed me for a lifetime and held the power to transform my past, present and future in a way I never dreamed. Nothing will ever be the same again.

My. Entire. Perspective. Changed... Forever.

“I... had an experience... I can’t prove it, I can’t even explain it, but everything that I know as a human being, everything that I am, tells me that it was real! I was given something wonderful, something that changed me forever... A vision of the universe, that tells us, undeniably, how tiny, and insignificant and how... rare, and precious we all are! A vision that tells us that we belong to something that is greater than ourselves, that we are not, that none of us, are alone! I wish... I... could share that... I wish, that everybody, if only for one... moment, could feel... that awe, and humility, and hope. But... That continues to be my wish.”

- Ellie Arroway in the movie Contact (1997)

All my life, I’ve had many “lonely” phases. Ever since getting married and my subsequent girlfriends, I’ve felt nothing but contentment. Naturally, I know I’ll feel lonely again from time to time. Everyone does. But it never lasts like it used to before. The strangest part of all - I never even attempted to date anyone for months. I didn’t ask anyone out. I didn’t pursue anyone. That is very out-of-character for me. Yet, I never feel lonely pangs of “longing” anymore. Once I found a girl or two I liked again, every instant shared with them has become bliss.

Never did I dream I’d live to see such times.

When I was a teenager, I met a man in his mid 40s who told me something I will never forget. He said, “Always remember that these are ‘The Good Old Days.’ Never take that for granted. You always hear old people talk about life during ‘The Good Old Days’ - well, these are ours. Even though you’re only 19 and I’m in my 40’s, these are still my ‘Good Old Days’ too. Always remember that. These are the good old days. When we look back over our lives, these are the times we’ll remember and miss the most.”

How right he was.

My days have become enriched beyond my wildest hopes. Most important of all, I find myself meeting countless people with whom I can share all of these life experiences. Maybe I’m “not excessively normal” and therefore haven’t learned to fully articulate my feelings with all “that awe and humility and hope” to those friends, but I can share with them the moments. The steps along the path. The currents along the river. The journey never ends. The road goes ever on and on, as Mr. Tolkien wrote. And something tells me... these are the Good Old Days... and everything has only just begun...

“I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn’t a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time... For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout camp, watching falling stars... And yellow leaves, from the maple trees, that lined my street... Or my grandmother’s hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper... And the first time I saw my cousin Tony’s brand new Firebird... And Janie... And Janie... And... Carolyn. I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it’s hard to stay mad, when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life... You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure. But don’t worry... you will someday.”

- Lester Burnham in the movie American Beauty (1999)

You Can’t Have Lloyd Dobler!
14 September 2009

Having a conversation with a girl and something occurred to me.

She mentioned wanting to find her own Lloyd Dobler. Lots of women feel that way. I can’t blame them. I do my best to be like Lloyd. He’s a good kind of guy to be.

However...

How many of these “Lloyd Dobler seekers” aspire to be Diane Court?

See, therein lies their problem.

They want Lloyd. But they don’t have the charm, grace, integrity or intellect to be anything like Diane Court. And if you can’t be as moral and dignified as Diane, then you don’t deserve to be with Lloyd.

You’re just one of the girls that Joe would hook up with at a kegger.

§

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I graduated from high school in 1989.

That summer, the movie “Say Anything” starring John Cusack and Ione Skye was released. To this day, I still think it is one of the most honest and sincere portrayals of high school graduation ever committed to film.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

The Focal Length Of Perspective
20 August 2004

Perspective is everything, isn’t it?

How much have you seen in your life? How much have you experienced? Think about it. I bet you’ve experienced more tragedy than most people know. Do you cover up some dark shadows of your past with fake smiles in the LA sunshine?

What have you done? What mistakes have you made? How many people have you hurt along the way?

And most of all - how... much... time... do... you... have... left?

In 70 more years, we will look back on this age when we were all in our teens, twenties and thirties, and remember fondly how the years all blend together. How all the things that seemed so big at the time were actually so small. These first years of the Internet. The years when friendships died from cheating lovers. The moments when nightclubs and coffeeshops were the axis of social lives. When people remembered 80’s music and Kevin Smith movies. And all of it will be so irrelevant. Names will be forgotten. Dates will become foggy. And all that will remain are vague memories that these were the years when things were good. When we had friends and loves and music and dance and laughter and tears over things that were never all that tragic.

What is the worst that has happened to you? What is the worst you have ever done? Victim of rape? Losing your job? Cheating on a lover? The death of a loved one?

Yet we still live in a world full of love and joy and laughter and kindness and compassion. Despite the cruel boyfriends. Despite the selfish employers. Despite your infidelity. Despite the unmitigated rage of grief.

You know that. And you know you have something to make of your life in spite of it all. Because these years are just the beginning. This is only the start of an entire lifetime. You see that. Because you never forget how big life is.

Lots of people have a hard time understanding you. But that is only because the essence of who you are has nothing to do with the world they are from. You are made from a dream a stranger told you, a dream no one ever had, yet the moment you hear of it, the words sound familiar. Your eyes tell no secrets, and they will show them all they never became...

What are you going to do with the next 7 decades that remain? Are you going to make a difference? What shall you strive to attain when you keep it all in perspective?

That’s What Christmas Is All About Charlie Brown
14 December 2008

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This essay makes me sad for one reason alone.

There is a line where I say no one is attacking Thanksgiving.

Now, ten years later, that is no longer true. Now the scourge of evil “political correctness” annually attacks Thanksgiving too. These Godless heathens hold nothing sacred. They are out to undermine every single foundation of the United States. Bastards.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, November 2018

§

“You’re the only person I know who can take a wonderful season like Christmas and turn it into a problem. Maybe Lucy is right. Of all the Charlie Brown’s in the world, you’re the Charlie Browniest.”

- Linus Van Pelt

Over the past several years it seems the world has become full of many “Charlie Browniest” people out to ruin Christmas.

My childhood was a beautiful time in my life, and no time of the year was better than Christmas.

Growing up in the suburbs of Ohio, my gradeschool years were spent in a world of nothing but Christians and Caucasians. For block after block, neighborhood after neighborhood, everyone was Polish, German, Irish, Italian and Christian. That’s it. There really weren’t any other ethnic backgrounds or religious beliefs. I went to a private Catholic gradeschool and a private Catholic highschool. Every student and their families were members of the church. In a highschool with 1200 students, we only had 2 black kids - and they were brothers! There wasn’t a single black student in my gradeschool and there were about 1000 kids there. Although I was friends with 2 Puerto Rican kids, I don’t recall any Hispanics and only one Asian in 12 years of school.

Indeed, it was a sheltered way to live. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

See, when I was growing up, everyone in my life celebrated Christmas. The season permeated my entire existence. My school had Christmas Vacation. My church had a Nativity Scene out front. The shops and stores in Downtown Cleveland had Christmas decorations in the windows and spanning the roadways. Santa Claus was at the shopping mall and in the Christmas Parade. They even shut down Public Square one year, so they could film footage for a little movie called A Christmas Story. (I often boast, I grew up 12 blocks from Ralphie’s house.) Television showed A Charlie Brown Christmas and Frosty The Snowman and Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer and How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Bing Crosby albums filled the house with Christmas Music as my family put up the Christmas Tree. Carolers actually walked through the snowy streets of my neighborhood and sang songs on the front porch of peoples homes - it wasn’t just something in the movies; I lived it for real. Everyone came to Midnight Mass and they had to put extra chairs among the pews just so hundreds of people could fit into the cathedral. And of course, good old George Bailey was a member of our family and It’s A Wonderful Life was a tradition in the house of every friend I knew.

Truly, those were idyllic years.

But something horrible happened to Christmas as time went on.

Those “politically correct” people got their evil claws into Christmas and began to spread their lies of “tolerance” and “diversity” and talked about Christmas being “offensive” to non-Christians. Next thing I knew, “Merry Christmas” became replaced by “Happy Holidays” and “Christmas Vacation” became “Winter Break” and people started having “Yule Celebrations” instead of Christmas Parties.

One thing I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older is that “tolerance” and “diversity” are buzzwords which actually mean - “even when your faith carries themes of peaceful unity, we want to undermine everything you value by forcing you to be subjected to every viewpoint which contradicts your beliefs.”

When I was in gradeschool, two of my best friends never went to church. Their parents didn’t practice any religion. But their family still celebrated Christmas and put up a tree. They never belittled Christmas. They never protested it or put up anti-Christian propaganda next to a Nativity Scene. Most important of all, they didn’t secretly disparage Christmas or treat it with underlying resentment or animosity either. You know why? Because even though they weren’t Christians, they appreciated Christmas as a beautiful season about brotherly-love and caring about your fellow man. They understood that you didn’t need to be a Christian to experience a little love and Christmas cheer.

Nowadays, the Scrooges of the world are being allowed to subvert Nativity Scenes by putting up their own Godless propaganda. They claim to be doing so out of “fairness” to other beliefs, when everyone knows their actual motives are spite and loathing. People who preach “tolerance” are never tolerant at all. They just want to emphasize that other viewpoints exist, preferably when the opportunity to do is the most disruptive and disrespectful to the beliefs they are contradicting.

These poor souls are missing the point. There is something beautiful about Christmas that those who oppose it have never understood. They never understood the simple fact that people who believe in the True Spirit of Christmas are genuinely better human beings at Christmas time.

Notice I didn’t say they are better Christians.

I said better human beings.

I’m not talking about a religious dogma. I’m talking about people who love Christmas and the human spirit of joy to the world. When I was in gradeschool, living in that “sheltered” universe, people were friendlier at Christmas time. People smiled more. They said “please” and “thank you” and they looked out for each other. They showed a little more respect to each other. They laughed a bit more. They cared more. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was the way my world actually worked. It sincerely became a more wonderful place.

That is what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

The Spirit of Christmas is not about religion or Christianity. Christmas is about goodness and charity and kindness. Christmas is about forgiveness and tenderness and generosity.

Sadly, some people hate Christianity so much, they will reject a beautiful tradition simply because it is based on a Christian idea. No matter how wonderful the intentions are, we seem to now live a world where people are “offended” by loving goodwill, because those beautiful facets of humanity are things those Grinches and Scrooges have never experienced.

One such Grinch was a woman I knew who refused to teach her daughter about Jesus or Christianity. That is fine. There are many religious beliefs in the world and I don’t expect every parent to raise their child as a Christian. The problem is when her daughter asked a teacher where Christmas came from and the teacher explained the birth of Jesus, the mother became angry and offended and said that religion shouldn’t be taught in school. Apparently she doesn’t want teachers to answer a direct question? I thought that was their job - to educate children when kids ask a question. The mother claimed Christmas was a Pagan Yule celebration and the teacher was lying and the teacher should have taught her daughter about Yule instead.

Her ignorance astonished me.

Yes, Christmas was established upon an older Pagan holiday celebrating the Winter Solstice, but that doesn’t change the meaning of Christmas itself. Following her imbecilic logic, she shouldn’t approve of her daughter being taught about Christopher Columbus either. Since the Native American Indians were in America before Christopher Columbus, the discovery of the New World must be illegitimate. Right? After all, since Christmas is based on older rituals and that renders Christmas invalid, it stands to reason that Christopher Columbus is an irrelevant historical figure, because he didn’t discover anything that other people weren’t already aware of. Correct?

My greatest problem with her attitude is her motive.

She was never interested in educating her daughter. That was the lie.

Despite her claims, her intent wasn’t to teach her daughter about human history or other viewpoints or to show her child alternative ways of thinking. No. Not at all. Her true motive was a hatred for Christianity and Christmas. She had great animosity towards Christians, so she doesn’t want her children to know about Christian beliefs. That was the truth she couldn’t admit.

Christmas may have been established upon older Pagan holidays, but let’s face facts, if the teacher had made a mere chronological error in a history lesson, the mother wouldn’t have gotten so angry. The truth is, she hates Christmas and Christians and wants to keep her daughter as ignorant as herself. She has no interest in expanding her daughters learning. She wants to suppress it.

So sad.

The worst part?

The woman still tells her children about Santa Claus and buys Christmas presents for them. Unbelievable. She will teach them about materialism and entitlement but gets angry if they learn about the Spirit of Christmas.

How deranged is that?

Another example of the “politically correct” crowd and their mindlessness?

Try this one...

I once knew a girl who worked at a college and told me her coworkers were exchanging gifts and doing “Secret Snowflakes” for the holidays. I already knew this girl and her friends to be a bunch of overly-sensitive liberals who feared offending anyone over anything. So, I wasn’t sure what a “Secret Snowflake” was, but I cringed, because I had a strong suspicion.

I said, “What the heck are Secret Snowflakes? I’ve never heard of that. You mean a Secret Santa?”

“Well, no. Not everyone believes in Santa Claus. So, we do Secret Snowflakes, that way no one is offended or excluded.”

I lost it. I totally went off on her.

“Not everyone believes in Santa Claus!?” I said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

She remained belittling, “Well, not everyone is Christian you know.”

I knew it!

I flipped out, saying, “SANTA CLAUS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH CHRISTIANITY! Is that what these stupid college kids think!? Really? Are they truly that dumb!? Tell me where Santa Claus is mentioned in The Bible. Why don’t they use their college education for doing something like, oh, I dunno... GETTING AN EDUCATION! Santa Claus is based upon Saint Nicholas. Saint Nicholas is a Christian figure, but SANTA CLAUS IS NOT A RELIGIOUS FIGURE! If a non-Christian icon becomes a religious symbol simply because he is based on a saint, I guess that means rabbits are pornographic, since Playboy uses a bunny logo?”

I was astonished. Now the Grinches are eliminating “religious symbols” from Christmas which aren’t even religious symbols to begin with!

Indeed, the “politically correct” demons and their Scrooge-like ignorance was spreading further and wider than I had ever imagined. Their poison runs deep.

Do I sound just as angry and venomous as the people I’m complaining about? Does it seem hypocritical? Okay. Granted, perhaps I am angry too. But I have good reason to be angry - these anti-Christmas people are attacking traditions founded under uniting people in brotherly love. You don’t see people attacking similar celebrations like Thanksgiving or protesting Hanukkah. They only attack Christmas.

Yeah, that is rather upsetting.

Personally, I’m not a practicing Christian. I don’t participate in the Sacraments. I don’t attend Mass. I have even been known to question the very existence of God.

That’s right. Despite everything I’ve written here, I’m not a devout Catholic. Not remotely. I’m more of an agnostic - uncertain of the validity of any religious belief. But despite that, I’ve never stopped having faith in the beauty of Christmas. Why? Because I know a good thing when I see it.

Christmas means something. Doesn’t matter if you believe in God or Jesus or Christianity or not. There’s something about Christmas time. Once upon a time, it was truly the one season of the year that brought people together like nothing else. Maybe it can be again. Maybe I’m not the only one. Maybe there are others out there who actually remember the joy of Christmas. Maybe some people appreciate the idea of encouraging unity among mankind. Maybe there are some who are just as determined to keep the spirit of Christmas alive.

Don’t let those who hate Christmas take it away from you. Decorate a tree. Hang stockings. Put out the Christmas lights. Cue up that Bing Crosby album. Watch a broadcast of Frosty The Snowman. Ask for “an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time.” Be nicer to people. Smile a bit more. Go out of your way to help someone. Wish “Merry Christmas” to a stranger - and if that offends them, don’t get angry. Don’t be sad. Just tip your hat, give a little wink and a smile, and keep them in your prayers - they need your compassion more than you need their bitterness. And call your mother. She worries about you.

Most important of all...

Don’t have a Happy Holiday.

Don’t have a Blessed Yule.

Have a Merry Christmas.

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you, is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’”

- Linus Van Pelt

Because that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

§

Posted by Robin to Eric

Monday, December 15, 2008 at 2:22 PM

So I should say Merry Christmas to you? When I’m at a store and someone says Merry Christmas and I say back to them Happy Channukah am I in the wrong. Should I say Merry Christmas back to them even though I never celebrated it as a child? Am I a scrooge because I never celebrated Christmas? Am I one of these people because I send “Happy Holiday” cards? Am I a scrooge because I believe that, along with Christmas being about peace and loving kindness, I also think it’s people celebrating the birth of Christ, who is not my lord and savior? Am I one of these people that, although Saint Nicholas is not about Jesus, it’s still an associated symbol of a christian ideology? Am I a hypocrite because now that I’m in a mixed household I have a tree, but put my Jewish symbols on it and teach my children what Christmas is but that we don’t believe in Jesus, but we celebrate it out of respect for my children’s grandmother? I understand your disgust of people who are scrooges, but everyone is entitled to their own beliefs. I still love you, Eric, and will see you tonight and I will wish you a Merry Christmas, but at the same time, I’m going to say “Happy Channukah.” : )

§

Posted by Eric to Robin

Monday, December 15, 2008 at 7:57 PM

You need to reread the paragraph where I talked about growing up with non-Christian friends who still celebrated Christmas.

Being one of the “Grinches” and “Scrooges” refers to the people who condemn Christmas and belittle it, not to those who don’t celebrate it. HUGE distinction. ENORMOUS difference.

I’m complaining about people like atheists who hang up their anti-God posters next to Nativity Scenes. That’s uncalled for. Just like a Jew would be rather offended and annoyed if some atheists decided to hang up their anti-God posters on a menorah.

That is NOT “fairness” and “tolerance” or an “equal voice” as the Scrooges claim. That is being deliberately antagonizing and mean-spirited. As you said, everyone is entitled to their own beliefs. I agree with that 1000%. Which is exactly why people should not use the Christmas season as an excuse to disparage the beliefs of others.

You are far from being one of those people.

I’m not picking on atheists either. I have seen both atheists and pagans have gatherings where religious people show up and start passing out pamphlets promoting their churches - that’s awful and disrespectful too. The courtesy should be extended both ways - no one should go out of their way to disparage the beliefs of another.

But, yeah, stop with the Happy Holiday cards. Send Merry Christmas ones to the Christians and Happy Hanukkah ones to the Jews.

;-)

And I love you too. Merry Christmas.

§

Posted by Jen to Eric

Thursday, December 18, 2008 at 9:27 AM

“..she shouldn’t approve of her daughter being taught about Christopher Columbus either. Since the Native American Indians were in America before Christopher Columbus, the discovery of the New World must be illegitimate. Right? After all, since Christmas is based on older rituals and that renders Christmas invalid, it stands to reason that Christopher Columbus is an irrelevant historical figure, because he didn’t discover anything that other people weren’t already aware of. Correct?”

Well...yes. I would say that is partially correct. While Christopher Columbus is a relevant historical figure, he is hardly the “discoverer” of anything. This storybook version of American history is invalid, because it’s simply not factual. This was a poor comparison at best, because I do not think you seriously have a problem with children learning more than a one-sided view of American History.

Anyway, I have no problem with Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Merry Yuletide fuckaroo, or anything else. But I think you’ve missed the fundamental point of why people get upset over Christmas and Christians. Christians have- for a long time- had a status of privilege and protection in this country- OVER other believe systems. When Christians stop trying to run my government and stop trying to dictate what I can do in my own home and with my own body, then maybe I will be in more of a mood to cozy up and play nice, and pay lip service to their beliefs.

I can’t speak for all of my atheist peers, but I would guess that lashing out at the “traditions” is just a misguided attempt to express frustration at a government and a society that deems them worthy of being the most hated group in America:

http://atheism.about.com/b/2006/03/24/atheists-hated-more-than-gays-muslims-all-other-groups.htm

People who feel that they are being slighted and denied their rights who ALSO feel powerless to enact change to improve their situation will lash out at what they can control, i.e. getting pissy over “Merry Christmas.” So while I think in a lot of cases this “political correctness” is petty and does not help when looking at the big picture - I cannot blame minority groups for seeking out some sort of equality and control.

As for the Atheist sign near the nativity scene I suppose you are referring to this:

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/390237_atheist02.html

It boggles my mind that you would have a problem with an Atheist group placing a sign next to a Nativity Scene ON GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. What exactly do you think the motivation of the church group that set up the nativity scene was? To spread cheer and goodwill towards men? If that were the case, why didn’t they just put one up at their church and call it a day? The ONLY reason Christian institutions would seek to place a nativity scene on government property is to fulfill a political agenda and take another stab at winning the cultural war. This was NOT an innocent act of celebratory tradition- it was a political maneuver. And that is HARDLY in the “spirit of Christmas.”

Eric, there is a difference between getting caught up in the joy of familiar and happy holiday tradition and connecting to the warm-fuzzies of your childhood - and being willfully ignorant. I think in this case, you’ve obviously chosen the latter.

§

Posted by Eric to Jen

Thursday, December 18, 2008 at 10:20 AM

Ah, the Christian Lamb who wandered from the Flock - I knew you, of all people, would respond to this blog!

;-)

Oh, and by the way, no, I wasn’t referring to the Seattle Pi article you linked. Atheists do that all over the country during every Christmas. There was no specific incident I was talking about. I wasn’t even aware of that one.

Now tell me... Why haven’t you accepted Jesus into your heart? (chuckle)

Merry Christmas, Jenny.

;-)

§

Posted by Jen to Eric

Thursday, December 18, 2008 at 7:13 PM

Wow, thanks for being completely condescending and ignoring everything I said. Is that part of the Christmas spirit, or the douchebag spirit?

§

Posted by Eric to Jen

Thursday, December 18, 2008 at 7:25 PM

My sincere apologies if you interpreted my response as condescending. That wasn’t my intention. That’s why I was sure to include the “winks” and the “chuckle” in there - I was hoping it would convey that I was being lighthearted, not talking down to you.

As for ignoring your comments, I didn’t ignore them. I read them. Three times, in fact. I value your opinion and I appreciate your input. That is why I posted your comments - I find them worthwhile, even if I disagree with them. I have no interest in arguing with you, or calling you childish names, simply because I don’t agree with your viewpoints. In fact, I sincerely wish you all the best and I’m happy you shared your thoughts. So, in answer to your question, yeah, I’d say that is definitely the Christmas Spirit.

Hope you are joyous and well and enjoy this Christmas Season too.

What Does “Bigotry” Really Mean?
1 June 2016

There’s a strong tendency in our culture for uneducated people to use words and language they don’t fully understand. As a writer, I’ve long been fascinated with the etymology of words and how their meanings change from one generation to the next.

For example, did you know the word “bad” was originally a derogatory term for an effeminate man? Saying “Oh, that’s bad.” was the equivalent of saying, “Oh, that’s gay.” Means the same thing. Go look it up if you don’t believe me. Gives a whole new meaning to the term “bad boy” doesn’t it?

There are countless words that people don’t really understand.

Take the word “bigotry” for example. Judging by the context in which it is frequently used, most people don’t seem to know what the word means. Many people tend to think it is synonymous with words like racism or sexism or xenophobia. The actual definition is nothing like that.

Bigotry means “a stubborn and complete intolerance of any creed, belief, or opinion that differs from one’s own.” In other words, in most sociological debates, both sides are guilty of bigotry. All too often, that word is used to deride one side of a controversy. Typically, conservative people who hold sound and traditional views are condemned as bigots. The opposing side of disproved and progressive liberal views never consider themselves to be bigots. But they are.

Everytime you see protesters clashing, both sides are showing intolerance for the others opinions, and are therefore exhibiting bigotry.

Everytime opposing factions are screaming at each other with bullhorns, both sides are stubbornly opposing the others belief and are showing bigotry.

Everytime someone gets upset because other people disagree with them, that is bigotry.

Militant liberals are bigots.

Intolerant conservatives are bigots.

Anyone refusing to entertain opposing views is a bigot.

As you can see, bigotry is not synonymous with xenophobia. Xenophobia means “an unreasonable fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers or of that which is foreign or strange”. Bigotry is not a fear or hatred. Bigotry is an intolerance of a different creed or opinion or belief. Being fearful of a thing and intolerant of a thing are very different indeed.

Therefore, being a bigot can be a very good thing. There are times when we should exhibit a stubborn intolerance of different beliefs. When you come across a group of pedophiles who see nothing wrong with abusing children, you should not tolerate those beliefs and opinions. You should be proud to be a bigot. Freedom fighters who are opposing the tyrannical despotism of a dictator are bigots, because they are intolerant of the creed which has led to their oppression. When your convictions are ethical, bigotry is an admirable stance.

Most people and the pustulant worms of the mainstream media teach being a bigot is bad. They think the word “bigot” is an insult. But that is not the case. The context of the word makes it a compliment or an insult. In essence, bigotry simply means holding steadfast to your ideals. Not caving in on your morality just because a bunch of sissies are offended by what you think. You never have to respect those with an immoral agenda.

Bigotry can be a commendable resolve. It means you have a backbone. Bigotry means you stand up for what you believe in.

Bigotry is wrong when you start to change your mind, but you can’t admit it. If your opinion on an issue begins to sway to the other side, but you are too proud to admit you were mistaken - that is when bigotry is detrimental. When you use bigotry to stand firm in a steadfast conviction, bigotry is noble. When you use bigotry to hide behind a rhetoric you are starting to doubt, bigotry becomes cowardly.

Just a little something to think about. Next time you want to accuse someone of being a bigot, just because they disagree with a trendy viewpoint, remember that your popular opinion qualifies as bigotry too. Anytime you can’t condone the way someone else sees the issues, you are exhibiting bigotry. Sometimes bigotry can be righteous and noble. Sometimes bigotry can be decadent and cruel. All depends on what you are being a bigot about.

Ethical people can wear their bigotry with pride. Know what the word really means. And don’t let anyone else redefine it for you. Be stubborn. There’s nothing wrong with that. Be intolerant. Because there are beliefs and lifestyles in this world that are inhumane and degrading to mankind. You never need to permit that. Learn how to take a punch and fight for what is right. There is great virtue in holding your ground and sticking to your guns. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

What Does “Hate Speech” Mean?
23 June 2016

There is a policy on many social media websites against the use of “hate speech”. Those who seek to undermine our freedoms will go so far as to ban a user for life, if they ever engage in the amorphous practice of which one can be accused, but no one can explain.

Naturally, as is always the case with these draconian policies, no one can define what the term “hate speech” means. In principal, “hate speech” is supposed to mean words which encourage direct, plausible and immediate threats of physical harm to a person or group of people. In practice, “hate speech” is typically defined as words which feel hurtful or offensive to an overly-sensitive group of spineless pansies.

America was founded on the ideal of different races and religions and creeds uniting to live in peace and harmony. Most important of all, our great nation was forged upon the idea that we can have open dialogs and the irrevocable freedom to speak our minds; and most important of all, to debate and disagree. For it is within the turmoil of opposing viewpoints that we most rapidly educate and improve ourselves and advance as human beings. We need conflict. We need dissent. That is what helps us to excel. A culture devoid of opposing ideologies is a nation which stagnates and dies. Conformity and obedience are the death knell of prosperity. We are a country of pioneers and rebels. It’s high time we start acting like it again.

This is why it is both unconstitutional and unethical to abolish, censor or criminalize so-called “hate speech”. On the contrary, we must allow hate speech from all extremist thought-control groups like the Ku Klux Klan, Atheists, Everytown for Gun Safety, The Black Panthers, Feminists, Neo-Nazis, LGBT, Planned Parenthood and even Democrats. Each and every one of these political terrorist organizations use techniques of intimidation in order to force their philosophies on others - while some burn crosses on lawns, or manipulate the courts to shutter a business, or murder unborn children, or attempt to dismantle the Constitution, or threaten legal action against a Nativity Scene, they are all using forms of terrorism to indoctrinate hostile beliefs into our society.

I know what you’re thinking. “What!? That’s crazy! Atheists and the gay community aren’t terrorists!”

Yes, the extremist factions of those groups most certainly are. By definition, terrorism means using fear and violence to advance your political agenda. They may not be blowing themselves to smithereens like Islamic terrorists, but they are still gleefully destroying the lives of innocent people. When atheists start threatening pastors with legal actions for building crosses on church property or homosexuals drive bakeries out of business for upholding religious beliefs which are undeniably protected under the First Amendment, those are clearly acts of political violence, intended to make examples of dissenters and subjugate others through fear. When Marxists incessantly try to erode our Second Amendment right to defend ourselves, that is a form of domestic terrorism. All these groups are identical in their desire to silence and destroy anyone who disagrees with them. Despite the oppressive agendas all these similar mafias promote, we must permit them the freedom to share their messages. Decent citizens may not agree with any of these deranged factions of society, but as liberty-preserving Americans, we have an obligation to stand up for their right to express themselves. Even if their sinister rhetoric undermines the very freedoms we are protecting. Hate speech should never be encouraged or condoned, but it must always be permitted. Morally, hate speech can never be criminalized and any organization with policies against hate speech is in direct violation of the Bill of Rights. For what society deems dissent today could be construed as hate tomorrow.

Don’t believe me? Think I’m exaggerating? New York City is doing it right now. Corrupt government officials are bragging about it on government websites.

In New York City, they have violated freedom of speech in the most fascist way you can imagine. Violations of the New York City Human Rights Law could result in civil penalties of up to $125,000 for violations, and up to $250,000 for violations that are the result of willful, wanton, or malicious conduct. One of those violations is intentionally failing to use an individual’s preferred name, pronoun or title. For example, repeatedly calling a transgender woman “him” or “Mr.” when she has made it clear that she prefers female pronouns and a female title.

Have you ever seen these lists of so-called “gender pronouns”? This is a real list of gender pronouns published on the University of Wisconsin website.

Xem

Xir

Hir

Ve

Xe

I can’t even pronounce half this shit. You know why I can’t pronounce it? BECAUSE THEY ARENT FUCKING WORDS! Based upon this new law, in New York City, if some lunatic gets mad at you because you neglected to address them by some unpronounceable fictional pronoun they invented that morning, you could face a quarter-of-a-million-dollar fine!? What kind of bizarre alternate universe did I wake up in? You can’t just make up new vocabulary words and sue people for not using them! Are these legislators grown adults, or are they 5 years old.

That’s right. If a mentally ill person, afflicted with gender dysphoria, gets mad because you keep calling Bruce Jenner a man, you could be arrested and fined $250,000. These New York lawmakers are guilty of treason for violating The Bill of Rights. They are telling you what to say. How to speak. What is permitted. What is not. The First Amendment means nothing in New York City. The people passing these laws are not Americans. They are not homosexuals. They are not even human. They are demons. Grotesque monsters, stealing your freedom one layer at a time. Controlling behavior. Controlling speech. Controlling thought. Just like every tyrant and dictator in history. When will the same laws come to your city? When will your friends and family start to get hauled off to jail because someone didn’t like what they had to say?

I have gay friends who are terrified of these laws because they are smart enough to see that homosexuals are just being used as pawns in a much larger game that will eventually silence everyone.

Personally, I would never seek to censor anyone simply because I disagree with them. Have you ever heard of Laci Green, Franchesca Ramsey, or Anita Sarkeesian? They are women who preach racist and misandrist messages on YouTube and MTV while giving horribly divisive advice to young kids about sexuality and ethnicity. Most of what these women preach is misguided at best and hatefully immoral at worst. Although I disagree with these ladies vehemently on nearly every opinion they express, I would be furious, and jump to their defense immediately, if anyone ever tried to silence or censor them. Although I have no respect for their viewpoints, I deeply respect their freedom to express those views. Silencing such people, hateful as they are, would never be justified. Their disciples, having no reverence for the First Amendment, would never reciprocate my attitude. Disagree with them, and their minions want to silence you.

Sadly this attitude of oppressing opinions is starting to fester across college campuses all over our country. Universities, once the very bastion and beacon of debates and the free flow of ideas have become prisons guarded by the fascism of thought police. They are ruled by the cultists of censorship and silencing those who fail to conform to the established agenda.

In 2013, Modesto Junior College in California campus police told student Robert Van Tuinen that he could not pass out copies of the United States Constitution outside the student center on Constitution Day, because he hadn’t been “approved” to do so. Since all police take an oath to uphold the Constitution, these police officers are all guilty of treason.

In 2014, Duke University began a campus program called “You Don’t Say” in an effort to suppress free speech by banning certain words deemed “offensive” or “disparaging” to specific categories of people.

In 2015, University of Missouri assistant professor Melissa Click, called for “muscle” to physically remove student reporter Mark Schierbecker for filming an encampment on school grounds, which was part of a protest that resulted in university president Tim Wolfe resigning over the handling of racial incidents on campus.

In 2016, a University of Texas at Austin police officer issued a citation against a preacher who was preaching off campus grounds because someone reported being offended by the preacher. When the preacher questioned the officer, explaining that his right to speak was protected by the First Amendment, the treasonous officer broke his oath to uphold the Constitution and thereby forfeit all of his authority when he replied, “It doesn’t matter, freedom of speech. Someone was offended, that’s against the law.”

Some of these tyrannical universities even have the audacity to designate so-called “Free Speech Zones” - tiny sections, cordoned off from the rest of the campus, where students may speak freely and exercise their First Amendment rights. Go look it up. I was astounded when I saw this. These aren’t schools in communist China or North Korea. These are American universities. It made me sick to my stomach. Every single square inch of our country has always been (and will always be) a Free Speech Zone! No one ever needs permits or authorization to speak their mind. Not on college campuses. Not on private property. Not anywhere. No citizen has the authority to revoke something in the Bill of Rights from another citizen. Despite what lies these braindead college administrators are teaching our kids, everything in the Bill of Rights applies in every square millimeter of this nation, including inside private homes, private businesses and private schools. That’s what the First Amendment means! Freedom of speech exists everywhere. Always. Yet American college students are being indoctrinated to believe that free speech must be sequestered to designated areas and the administration is acting as though they are doing the student body a favor. Any university in this country with a Free Speech Zone should have the entire administration brought up on criminal charges of treason.

The list goes on. Countless cases of schools and universities teaching the next generation to hate our freedom. Suppress thoughts. Silence speech. Bury opinions. Kids are being systematically brainwashed into thinking these oppressive practices are acceptable and even normal. Just like the Hitler Youth were conditioned to believe that Jews were not human beings, so too the crop of students in high school and college are being taught that our Constitution is outdated and illegitimate. They’re being taught socialism is a good idea, despite the fact that all socialist societies throughout history have crumbled over and over again, like the National Socialist German Workers Party and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Being too young to think for themselves and too weak to defy or question authority, these children blindly accept such lies, just like the Hitler Youth did in the 1930’s.

I’m not the only writer who feels threatened by this kind of censorship. J.K. Rowling, one of the most wealthy and widely-read authors of my generation, expressed the same sentiment, only a few days ago, at the 2016 PEN Literary Awards Gala...

“I find almost everything that Mr. Trump says objectionable. I consider him offensive and bigoted, but he has my full support to come to my country and be offensive and bigoted there. His freedom to speak protects my freedom to call him a bigot. His freedom guarantees mine. If my offended feelings can justify a travel ban on Donald Trump, I have no moral grounds to argue that those offended by feminism, or the fight for transgender rights, or universal suffrage, should not oppress campaigners for those causes. If you seek the removal of freedoms from an opponent, simply on the ground that they have offended you, you have crossed a line to stand alongside tyrants who imprison, torture, and kill on exactly the same justification.”

- JK Rowling

2016 PEN Literary Awards Gala

It is time to defy their rhetoric and stand up against those who seek the undermine the very foundations of our freedom. Voice your thoughts. Express your opinions. Never allow anyone to suppress your ideals. Speak out. Walk tall. Never forget that your viewpoints respecting ethical values and tradition and morality are the very foundation of what makes America the greatest nation in the history of all mankind. The enemy is no longer overseas. The enemy is now in our backyard. This is a war unlike any other we have fought before. This is a battle not to end tyranny or oppression, but to prevent it from taking hold. But when we win the day, we shall preserve the righteous character of liberty and freedom that will assure our fortitude for another 2 centuries, through truth, justice and the American Way.

Why “Tolerance” Is A Terrible Thing?
13 July 2016

The early 21st century was a fascinating era in history to be a writer. Language is always evolving and changing but something very bizarre began to happen in Western culture during this time period. In the late 20th century, the term “politically correct” came into fashion. The definition of this term basically means “censoring one’s own language due to a fear of offending minuscule percentages of the population who misguidedly believe they possess the authority to dictate which words, figures of speech, or slang others are permitted to speak.”

All writers are fascinated with the etymology of words. One of the terrible words often used by those who try to enforce “politically correct” language is the word “tolerance”. Politically correct people think tolerance is a good thing. They speak of it as though it should be encouraged. The context in which the word is used is typically in regard to controversial sociological conflicts. Opposing views on gender or sexuality or religion or heritage are often commanded they need to be met with tolerance.

I’ve always hated the word “tolerance”. You will too, once I explain why. Tolerance is horrible.

By definition, tolerance means “to allow something that is bad or unpleasant to exist, happen, or be done”. Being tolerant means something bothers you, but you’re going to keep your mouth shut and endure it. You will tolerate it. Your roommate keeps leaving the cap off the toothpaste or dirty dishes in the sink. Instead of asking them to stop, and confronting the issue, you’ll allow it to continue. You won’t say anything. You’ll tolerate having to clean up after them. What kind of sissifed way to live is that? Tolerance means ignoring your own ideology, even if others are going against your values. There is nothing noble or good about “tolerating” things you disagree with. By it’s definition, tolerance is kind of sleazy, because it means betraying yourself and lying to others.

Tolerance is awful. If you and your friends have a disagreement, do you want them to sympathize with your viewpoint or do you want them to tolerate it? Tolerance is placating passive-aggressive bullshit. Unfortunately our culture has long been devolving into a passive-aggressive society. Everyone is Prozac-ed and Ritalin-ed and Percocet-ed and Vicodin-ed into conformist zombies. Hey man, everybody join the dopehead party. Just be tolerant.

Tolerance is complacency at it’s worst. Tolerance is saying, “I don’t like what you’re doing and I will never find it acceptable, but I’m just going to keep that to myself and I won’t tell you I disapprove of your actions.”

Tolerance is not good. Tolerance does not lead to peace and harmony. Tolerance is phony. Tolerance is a mask. Wearing a fake smile when you are gritting your teeth inside. Tolerate it. Tolerance is simply suppressing the anger, ignoring the pain, pushing your feelings aside and sucking it up. When someone encourages you to practice tolerance, what they are really telling you is, “We don’t care if you disagree. Keep your mouth shut.”

From time to time you may certainly encounter people who are so monumentally ignorant and vapid they won’t be able to debate your grievances with any semblance of reason or maturity. When someone perceives themselves to be Einstein but actually possesses the intelligence of a flatworm, don’t waste your breath trying to argue with them. Some of those people will likely comment on this video, and watch, I won’t respond to them. Unfortunately, when we encounter people who are so uneducated and inarticulate that deductive reasoning is beyond their capacity, we must concede to tolerate them. But, ideally, concordance is always preferable to tolerance.

People mistakenly think tolerance will lead to some sort of Utopian society where everybody gets along. This is a lie. In truth, tolerance leads to a society of repressed emotions. A world where rage and hatred exist just as much as always, only nobody ever talks about it. Nobody ever admits it. Because instead of rationally discussing things out in the open and learning to empathize with others, we have closed all the dialogs and buried that which we find offensive. A tolerant society is nothing but a timebomb waiting to unleash decades of suppressed animosity.

Tolerance is a nightmare and those who encourage it seek to undermine and destroy the camaraderie of mankind.

If people truly want to build genuine rapport between their fellow human beings they need to develop empathy. Understanding. Even compassion. Kinship will only exist when we begin nurturing a culture where people are sincerely accepting of others beliefs, not merely tolerating them.

Empathy is a hug. Tolerance is folded arms.

Since this time in our society has so many people preaching about tolerance, I just wanted to offer you a slightly different perspective to think about. Maybe we should be striving to care about each other instead of tolerating each other. Maybe tolerance is a disgusting idea. Maybe people should stop being tolerant. Maybe people should learn to speak their minds again. Maybe people should stop being afraid to disagree with each other. Maybe it’s okay to not like everybody or be accepting of everything. Maybe it’s okay for people to not like you. Maybe disagreeing with the way other people live doesn’t make you a bad person. Maybe you should be allowed to think other people are wrong. Maybe you don’t have to tolerate anybody. Maybe disapproving of people doesn’t mean you hate them. Maybe those who plead to be tolerated never need to be.

My Fellow Americans
4 November 2004

I am not into politics at all.

I don’t even consider myself to be patriotic in any way.

But something has been happening since the 2004 Presidential Election that is really getting on my nerves.

Namely, all the vapid jokes about people wanting to leave the country since Bush was reelected.

It’s really pissing me off.

Why? Because this is a great place to live. America is STILL the land of opportunity. If it wasn’t, do you think we’d have people crossing shark-infested waters and snake-infested deserts to get here?

Yes, it is hard to be a success in this country. It is a struggle. And many things within the government and capitalism and society work against people to succeed.

Guess what. That’s called LIFE, people. Do you think life is better in Canada or Europe or Australia? Do you think the streets are paved with gold and it is easier to survive and lead ones life in those places?

Fine. Good.

Then go. Leave. Move there.

You see, here is my big problem with people who are threatening to leave the country - Instead of these people having the passion, the drive, the tenacity and desire to FIGHT and work and struggle and make an effort to IMPROVE the problems that they see around them in America, their first reaction is to make insipid threats about leaving! Running away. Fleeing the problems.

Is their gut-reaction one that says they have the determination to work towards solutions?

No. Instead they make frivolous statements about gaining Canadian citizenship.

Well, it’s like the old saying, “if you are not a part of the solution, you ARE a part of the problem!”

If they don’t want to stick around and fix things, then the rest of us ARE better off if those people leave.

But I know what will happen. We all do.

All these people who are threatening to leave the country are going to do two things:

1.) They will stay right here in America.

2.) They will do NOTHING but complain, and won’t actually make ONE damn effort in any way to try and improve America.

After all, they voted for Kerry. Their responsibility ends there, right?

They say if you don’t vote, you have no right to complain. Since they voted, they now possess the luxury to complain all they want, and can completely wash their hands of any obligation to actually DO anything to make a difference.

Before the election, one of the famous lines spoken to get people to vote was, “Apathy didn’t build this country, but it can tear it apart.”

Folks, that line wasn’t about an election. It has nothing to do with voting.

It has to do with how you LIVE YOUR LIFE each and every DAY.

Are you part of the problem or the solution?

How quickly do you give up on your solutions when the problems set you back?

Personally, I didn’t much care if Bush or Kerry won the election. Until the very end. Until Kerry conceded before all the votes were counted. Then, I was suddenly GLAD he lost. He was down by FOUR stinking Electoral College votes and he was preparing to concede the election!? Personally, I think a leader of a nation needs a LOT more fortitude, determination and conviction than that. To give up before it was officially over? Especially when he was only down by four votes!? What a pansy! I’m GLAD he lost. Who wants a spineless, self-defeating wimp for a president?

Bush may be lying and cheating and doing lots of things wrong... but he wouldn’t be if the people who were against him didn’t give up so damn easily.

They say if you don’t vote, you have no right to complain.

I say if you don’t want to be an American, get the fuck out of America. Why stay somewhere you don’t want to be? If being an American makes you unhappy or ashamed or embarrassed, then leave. Don’t be an American anymore. Find another nation to call your own.

Personally, these days, I think there are many reasons to possess just-cause to feel embarrassed by the actions of the American government. I’m embarrassed that my country started a war. I’m ashamed that our nation has lied to the world community about our justifications. Those are shameful and embarrassing things. But I would rather stick around and seek to make things better, instead of slinking away to another country, ashamed to be associated with the United States.

And I know what people will say.

“Oh, I’m just joking.”

“Oh, I’m just frustrated. I was only playing around.”

“Oh, I don’t really want to leave the country. I was just kidding.”

I see. So the problems you see in America are just a joke to you? While people in other parts of the world are willing to literally risk death to become American citizens, those of you born to the privilege of citizenship are just laughing it off as something trivial?

Wouldn’t a person who honestly cared about their nation be a person who did not take their citizenship lightly? Wouldn’t a nation do better to have citizens that had some perseverance in the face of hardship?

America became a great nation by having citizens who were dauntless. Citizens who didn’t give up at the first sign of trouble. So, if you don’t want to be an American, get the fuck out. Seriously. Get out and let the people who CARE about the country stay behind and try to fix things. You’ll just get in the way with all your whining and bitching and complaining. I’ll stay here with the illegal immigrants who crawl through barbed wire, and starve on makeshift rafts to get here - because they are people who are willing to go through some hardship in order to improve things around them, instead of giving up at the first sign that things aren’t going their way. Give me fellow citizens who will strive to enrich the country. Give me fellow citizens who care enough to hold their ground. To keep the homefires burning. To tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree. To never give up. To never fail. To never falter. To go down with the ship. Because people who have that sort of fortitude, are Americans.

Maybe if this country had more people who fought for what they believed in, and less people who ran away from their problems, we would be a far less divided and far more united nation that would be proud of itself again.

But what do I know?

After all, I have no right to complain.

I don’t vote.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Talk about a change of heart.

Today, I am registered to vote, and I consider myself a very patriotic and proud fifth generation American. Fifteen years after I wrote this essay, my views had changed a lot. Mainly, because I learned the value of patriotism, and why it’s important. Back when I wrote this essay, I was rather misguided.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, January 2019

Queer Weddings & Those Who Hate Them
6 November 2008

I’m not gay.

I’m not religious.

Therefore, the whole issue of gay marriage really has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on my life. I don’t really care about the topic either way. Ban gay marriage. Permit gay marriage. Makes no difference to me.

So, after the recent election, why is the topic bothering me so much?

I know a large number of gays and lesbians. I know a large number of religious people.

Perhaps I am concerned about the topic because I care about the rights and opinions of both groups, and both groups seem to be foolishly belittling the beliefs of the other - not a way to effectively sway an opposing opinion.

Gays and lesbians claim it is a simple issue of civil rights. Wrong.

Religious people claim it is a simple issue of religious morality. Wrong.

The issue is indeed simple, but it is not about civil rights or religious freedom. The issue is about the definition of marriage and the separation of church and state.

The forefathers of the United States believed in the separation of church and state. They were very wise folks and that is a darned good idea.

If you research the history of marriage, no one really knows when or where it began. Numerous religious people mistakenly assume marriage originated as a religious tradition. This assumption has never been authenticated and likely never will be. The fact is, for centuries, humanity has practiced both civil marriages and religious marriages, and there is no solid record of how they got started, or which came first.

Going back as far as the Greeks, there were same-sex marriages. So, people who think that “gay marriage” is some sort of “new issue” in the world are completely mistaken. These debates have lasted for thousands of years in endless human cultures. Some cultures are okay with it. Some cultures aren’t. It changes throughout the millenia. What is acceptable and moral for hundreds of years can become taboo and then change again. People need to keep things in perspective and remember how humanity works. Marriage. Polygamy. Harems. Gay rights. Slavery. Women’s rights. Religious persecution. Racial intolerance. These are not issues which become permanently “solved” in the world. They are in constant flux over the ages. They are an intrinsic part of the fabric of humankind.

This perspective on history is a vital thing to remember for 2 reasons.

First, it shows that no faction can get too much of an ego or congratulate themselves too much for what they have “achieved” in regards to human rights. No matter what human rights any group attains, they were not the first. Some other culture, centuries ago, attained the exact same thing. You are not advancing the evolution of human compassion. You are simply repeating the cycle of what has already been done by others.

Second, and more importantly, it should serve as a reminder to not become complacent with the human rights which are attained. Just because slavery is abolished in one nation doesn’t mean it’s gone from the world forever. Just because women have the right to vote doesn’t mean they always will. People need to remember that any rights they are fighting to have are ones which other cultures have already granted at one time or another... and lost. People must remain diligent to maintain the rights they have, not to simply gain the ones they do not.

The topic of “gay marriage” again became a big deal in places like California in the early 21st century. The same old arguments prevail. Homosexuals do not want religious institutions denying their rights. Religious institutions do not want their beliefs undermined.

Both factions are 100% correct. Neither group should be forcing their beliefs on the other. Religion should not be butting their nose into civil rights. Religion has no right to condemn same-sex civil marriages. Government should not be butting their nose into church sacraments. Government has no right to dictate religious dogmas.

Having said that, the biggest problem with marriage in our current culture is that good old “separation of church and state” - an ideal which we have disobeyed in this regard. This means we are not suffering from a “homosexual” or “religious” issue but a “society” issue. Both the religious community and the gay community are equally to blame for this mess. Everyone in our culture is at fault. There are no “good guys” and there is no “right side” because everyone shares the responsibility of the mistake. Our society has joined civil marriage and religious marriage into a singular notion of “matrimony” and therein lies the issue.

“You’re either married or you’re not.”

How did that happen? Why did that happen?

This was a horrible idea.

Think about it - are there any other religious ceremonies which have legal rights tied to them? Do people gain any civil liberties through baptisms, or confessions, or bar mitzvahs, or confirmations? No. These are purely religious rituals which have no legal bearing whatsoever. Yet somehow our society took religious marriage and mixed it with governmental legality.

Why?

We should have two distinct and separate types of marriage in our culture - civil and religious. Instead, we have forced everyone, including religious people, to have a “marriage license” thereby making marriage a legal and civil act for everybody. Is it any wonder that religious groups therefore consider all marriages to be a religious issue, since our culture is forcing them to treat their marriages as civil rights?

The separation of church and state is a great idea. How about we look at this in a new way? Instead of forcing religious people to get marriage certificates and making them become a part of the legal system - why not allow them to get married without government intervention? No forms. No paperwork. Just a holy sacrament. We already permit civil marriages which are not religious ceremonies - why not return the favor?

Let’s do away with the singularity of “matrimony” and have clear and distinct divisions of “civil marriage” and “religious marriage” and stop muddling them together. Mixing them together was our mistake. We should redefine “marriage” and the requirements we have associated with it. Centuries ago, other cultures had clearcut and distinctly different forms of marriage, and it worked out fine for them. We should do the same.

Then the issue of gay marriage is solved automatically! Gay couples would be allowed to get married in a civil marriage or under any religion which permits it in their belief system.

Simple.

You have people debating both sides of the fence - supporting and opposing gay marriage. Both sides are missing the true issue at hand - if we had kept church and state separate, as they should be, the debate wouldn’t exist in the first place. No one is innocent for causing this debacle. Everyone is to blame for allowing this to happen.

Religion needs to keep it’s hands off the Constitution.

Government needs to keep it’s hands off the church.

Problem solved.

Allow me to close with another little history lesson and a reminder - issues like these are always resolved through peace and harmony and understanding and sympathy. Shakespeare said it centuries ago - “I hear a fury in your words, but not your words.”

Nobody listens when you’re screaming your viewpoint in anger.

I see too many people getting “fired up” over these issues. Too much rage. Too many people “preaching to the choir” with their protests and never addressing people with opposing views through rational and reasonable debates. Stop waving your crosses and rainbow flags in each others faces. Seriously. That’s not getting you anywhere.

Once our culture again advances to the point where both sides treat one another with respect and dignity, they will find peaceful solutions to their differences. So long as there are unwavering and militant individuals on both sides, the fight will never cease. Both sides need to show those with venomous dissent they are undermining their stance, not substantiating it. Those waves of hatred and animosity are not the catalyst for positive changes, but rather are the very source of all the disharmony in the first place.

We live in a nation where only half a dozen generations ago, black people were property and slaves. Now, we have elected a colored man as the President of our country. He did not reach that office through fury or hate or violence. He did so through intelligence and a message of unity. With time and patience and gentle perseverance, he did what many thought would never be possible in their lifetime. We have proven that any dream can come true in our culture.

The world is changing. Hope prevails. And all the rights of mankind can be granted, and the wishes of humanity can prevail, when we come together with benevolence and cease to protest one another in antagonism. History does repeat itself. By redefining who and what we are, we can truly make the world a better place.

We’ve done it before.

We can do it again.

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it ... always.”

- Mahatma Gandhi

How To Change The Second Amendment?
24 May 2016

As a novelist, I have a great love for language. The precise turn of a phrase can conjure the most wonderful and vivid visions in our imagination. Use the wrong words and your writing is easily forgotten. Use the ideal words and you can paint a scene so tactile, a reader will remember it for the rest of her life.

Unfortunately, language can also be abused. People can twist it around and attempt to alter the meaning of words and phrases to suit their own agendas. There is no better example of this than politics. Political rhetoric is known for being perversely malleable. Politicians are ridiculed by comedians for this all the time. Redefining words. Altering meanings. Mislabeling intents. Circumventing answers. Politics is notorious for such iniquity.

For over 200 years, the founding morals of the United States of America remained respected and sacrosanct; free from this type of manipulation. Since its inception, our great nation has always maintained a strong and solid core of values, because it was built upon this unshakable base of three documents - the Declaration of Independence, the United States Constitution, and the Bill of Rights.

Every American should read these three documents. Understand them. Know what they mean. And if you’re like me, you’ll have them framed and hanging on your wall.

At the start of the 21st century, even these proven and infallible documents have started to come under attack by treasonous politicians and depraved ideologies. No facet has been attacked more by these enemies of freedom and liberty than the First and Second Amendment. These traitors to the values of America have dared to twist language around and deride those who support and defend the Second Amendment. In the process of trying to usurp our cherished freedoms, these traitors have the gall to call our patriotism into question. Being willing to both kill and die in preservation of our highest ideals is the ultimate act of nobility. When Patrick Henry famously said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” the only people who regarded him subversive was the tyrannical King George III and his loyal subjects.

Historically, their type of deranged corruption of language is always used by those who seek to impose tyranny upon a free people. Only those who seek to rob people of their freedom attempt to poison the eloquence of articulate and defiant language.

Today, there are some who even say these rights should be repealed for being outdated. Such a suggestion is so grotesquely ignorant of history and the value of our inalienable rights that I do not even wish to dignify that notion with an acknowledgment of existing. Unfortunately, with each passing generation, as increasing quantities of the populous grow more and more uneducated and incapable of critical thinking, even these ignorant notions of repealing our rights must be duly noted, so they can be unequivocally eradicated for their sheer stupidity.

The Constitution isn’t a carton of milk that gets spoiled and thrown away. The Bill of Rights wasn’t written with an expiration date at the bottom. Claiming the ideals expressed in the Declaration of Independence will become outdated is utterly insane. Those 3 documents are a perfect expression of liberty and that freedom is an eternal human rights which will never become outdated. The necessity of freedom was a valid and intrinsic aspect of all human lives 30,000 years ago and will remain an essential facet of humanity for as long as the human race exists.

Claiming the Founding Fathers didn’t anticipate the potential of advancements in firearm technology is not only insulting to their intelligence, but a misguided rationale that could be used to steal other rights. The Founding Fathers couldn’t have predicted future technologies like radio or motion pictures either. Does that mean the First Amendment doesn’t apply to the local news, since the Founders couldn’t have anticipated the invention of television? Of course not. The First Amendment guarantees freedom of speech under any circumstances, even when using technology that never existed in 1791. The Second Amendment inarguably applies to a Glock and an AR-15 just as much as it applies to revolvers, muskets and shotguns.

The Second Amendment isn’t exclusively about guns - it does not say “guns” or “firearms”, it says “arms”. As a result, it includes guns, knives, swords and all other armaments. Make no mistake, the Second Amendment is about the irrevocable human right to defend ourselves. Any talk of eliminating such a right would not merely outlaw firearms, it would revoke your freedom to protect yourself in any way. Losing that right makes everyone a victim. No true American will ever stand for that. I know I never will.

Speaking of the Founding Fathers, did you know Alexander Hamilton wrote a series of incredibly important essays back in 1787, to explain to the citizens of the United States what the intentions were behind the Constitution. You know about the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence, but few citizens are educated on the existence of these essays. These 88 essays (also written with the help of James Madison and John Jay) are known today as The Federalist Papers. I was never told about The Federalist Papers in school and I bet you weren’t either. To me, that is a travesty of our educational system. Along with the aforementioned triad of our founding documents, these papers hold equal credence. The reason The Federalist Papers are so vitally important to our history and our future is because they extrapolate upon the original intent of the Constitution, and by extension, the Bill of Rights. Consequently, when people today try to twist the meaning of these documents by claiming the language of the 18th century is unclear, a resource like The Federalist Papers serves to explain exactly what the founding fathers intended these documents to mean.

Many people who try to undermine our Constitution attempt to twist the meaning of phrases into something else. They will claim that meanings are difficult to understand, which of course implies that you and I are stupid and they are far more intelligent and educated than the rest of us. Not to mention these rights were drafted less than 200 years ago, in plain English, by fellow Americans. They weren’t written 5000 years ago in hieroglyphs! Anyone claiming that “we don’t know what the intention was” behind the Bill of Rights is a liar with a sinister agenda. Thanks to The Federalist Papers, we don’t need to subjugate ourselves to anti-American opinions which redefine our fundamental ideals. The Federalist Papers are a way to confirm and elaborate upon the true objectives behind the Constitution, written by some of the most pivotal authors of those documents.

In the interest of language and respecting the real purpose to our Bill of Rights, let’s take a closer look at the Second Amendment and what it means. I’ll also reference the Federalist essay #29 entitled “Concerning the Militia” written by Alexander Hamilton for the Daily Advertiser on Thursday, January 10, 1788. Speaking about such things is important, because the shadows are at the door, and they are whispering lies to your children. Children need to be taught what these words mean, and adults need to be reminded.

Amendment 2 - 15 December 1791

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

When people first hear the amendment, it sounds grammatically incorrect, because it starts with the phrase, “A well regulated Militia...” then goes off on these phrases that seem disconnected from the whole.

Grammatically, it seems like it should say:

“Since a well regulated Militia is necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

But, that isn’t what it says. Instead, let’s look at the punctuation in a new way and clarify the meaning in that manner. Allow me to illustrate what the Founders were actually saying. If you scrutinize the placement of the commas, it becomes clear. Let’s replace the first and last comma with parenthesis, and the second with a semicolon.

A well regulated Militia (being necessary to the security of a free State; the right of the people to keep and bear Arms) shall not be infringed.

Now it makes more sense. A well regulated Militia, shall not be infringed. The two phrases within the parenthesis are clarifications upon the reason for the existence of said militia and the rights of the people who comprise it. Replacing those commas with parenthesis and a semicolon doesn’t change the meaning. Not at all. It doesn’t change the intent. It clarifies and broadens it. By modern standards, the phrasing simply reads far more clearly. No longer sounds odd. You can see how articulate and efficient the founders were in their phrasing when we see “shall not be infringed” was intended to be applicable to our right to keep and bear arms, but also applicable to the very existence of our militia. This simple modernization in punctuation reinforces the original intent immensely.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s look at the meaning overall and phrase-by-phrase.

In essence, this says every American citizen has the freedom to defend themselves and our nation and you are allowed to possess weapons to do so. Furthermore, the government has never and will never hold the authority to eliminate this right.

Now, let’s break it down word-by-word and examine it closer.

A well regulated Militia...

The phrase “well regulated” could mean two different things.

One definition of “regulated” means a series of rules and restrictions.

Another definition of “regulated” means trained or educated by adjusting to a standard.

Which meaning of the word “regulated” did our Founders intend? A militia that was trained properly, or a militia that was closely restricted?

That one word, “regulated”, is extraordinarily important. In fact, it may be one of the most contested words in the amendment. The reason it’s so vital is because that word is often the excuse used by Marxist politicians and fascist media outlets who seek to disarm the public. These traitors who wish to circumvent the Bill of Rights will contend that “well regulated” grants lawmakers the ability to place rules and restriction on firearms.

This is a complete lie because the context of the phrase speaks of the militia being well regulated, not the firearms themselves. The phrase is “well regulated militia” not “well regulated arms”.

Taken in historical perspective, it’s clear that the Founders were speaking about training, not restrictions. We had just gained our freedom from England in the Revolutionary War a mere 15 years earlier. Defending your home and your country from tyranny was still very fresh in the minds of every American. Not only did American citizens want to make sure we had an armed militia, we wanted to make sure our neighbors weren’t incompetent morons who couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Since your neighbor needs to have your back, we want to make sure they know how to use their guns.

Plus, had the word “regulated” been intended to be synonymous with “restricted” then the adjective of “well” would have been grammatically awkward. Grammatically speaking, the phrase “well trained” makes far more sense than “well restricted”. Had the definition been intended as rules and restrictions, the word “well” would have been omitted.

A regulated Militia... would imply rules and restrictions.

A well-regulated Militia... indicates prudently educated and trained.

Alexander Hamilton himself confirmed my interpretation when he wrote:

“the plan of the convention proposes to empower the Union to provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining the militia, and for governing such part of them as may be employed in the service of the United States, reserving to the states respectively the appointment of the officers, and the authority of training the militia according to the discipline prescribed by congress.”

This edict to have a properly trained militia was never initiated by Congress, nor any other organization, until a century later with the founding of the National Rifle Association in 1871 to “promote and encourage rifle shooting on a scientific basis.” In truth, by training citizens about firearms for nearly 150 years, the NRA has been doing what Congress was supposed to do.

Hamilton also acknowledged it would be difficult to maintain adequate training for a militia when he said:

“A tolerable expertness in military movements is a business that requires time and practice. It is not a day, or even a week, that will suffice for the attainment of it. To oblige the great body of the yeomanry, and of the other classes of the citizens, to be under arms for the purpose of going through military exercises and evolutions, as often as might be necessary to acquire the degree of perfection which would entitle them to the character of a well-regulated militia, would be a real grievance to the people, and a serious public inconvenience and loss... Little more can reasonably be aimed at, with respect to the people at large, than to have them properly armed and equipped; and in order to see that this be not neglected, it will be necessary to assemble them once or twice in the course of a year.”

Once again, Hamilton proposed that we meet once or twice a year for training. That is what the phrase “well regulated” means. Not restrictions. Training.

Finally, the end of the Second Amendment unequivocally states these rights shall not be infringed. Regulations are clearly a form of infringement. Consequently, we can logically conclude the phrase “well regulated” was obviously intended to indicate that members of the militia should be taught to use firearms properly.

The phrase “well regulated” could just as easily say “competently trained” instead.

A competently trained militia...

That is the next word we need to look at: Militia. Oddly enough, today there are many American citizens who have no idea what the word “Militia” means. This is inexcusable, since you can just look it up in a dictionary. People who hate and fear firearms insist that a militia is another word for the police or military. That is a lie. Remember I said these people love to alter the meaning of words? They will twist things around to suit their agendas. A militia is an army comprised of civilians. That has been the definition of the word “militia” since the 1690s - a century before the Amendment was written. Members of the militia are not police officers. They are not military personnel. In fact, Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution clearly differentiates between the Army, Navy and Militia. For over 300 years, the word militia has always meant men, women, boys, girls, mothers, fathers, grandparents, everyone from your neighborhood. Just because someone is afraid of guns doesn’t mean they get to change the definition of a 300-year old word to conform to their own desires. The militia is us. Your fellow citizens. Your neighbors. You. Me. We are all members of the citizen-soldiers called the militia. Every single able-bodied American citizen is part of the militia of the United States. This has been true ever since 1776. That has never changed and it never will.

There are those today who obtusely maintain that a militia is a bad and scary thing. Even unnecessary. Despite living in a nation where Islamic terrorists are now murdering fellow Americans at Christmas parties, a small minority of citizens still insist that no civilian ever be armed or capable of defending their own lives. Instead of bravely defending themselves and their neighbors, these cowardly traitors expect only the men and women of our police and armed forces to protect them. Ironically, most of these people who insist that you not own a gun and call the police instead, are the same traitors who protest against the police. They distrust the very idea of a militia. This is not only selfish and naive, but a great insult to us, their friends and neighbors. Alexander Hamilton even had to address this same argument 200 years ago when he said:

“There is something so far-fetched and so extravagant in the idea of danger to liberty from the militia, that one is at a loss whether to treat it with gravity or with raillery; whether to consider it as a mere trial of skill, like the paradoxes of rhetoricians; as a disingenuous artifice to instill prejudices at any price; or as the serious offspring of political fanaticism. Where in the name of common-sense, are our fears to end if we may not trust our sons, our brothers, our neighbors, our fellow-citizens? What shadow of danger can there be from men who are daily mingling with the rest of their countrymen and who participate with them in the same feelings, sentiments, habits and interests?”

Earlier, I quoted Hamilton, speaking about the fact that Congress should train the militia. Did you know that wasn’t just part of the Federalist Papers? That decree is part of our existing Constitution. According to Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution, Congress has the power to call us forth in our duty as members of the militia:

“To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the Union, suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions;

To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining the Militia, and for governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the United States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment of the Officers, and the Authority of training the Militia according to the discipline prescribed by Congress;”

While corrupt politicians try to undermine the Second Amendment, the Constitution clearly states that the government is supposed to provide us with training and arms. I bet you didn’t know that. We should receive firearms vouchers from the government and we should be able to buy guns using said vouchers. Wouldn’t that be cool? That’s what the government should be doing - provide for arming us. Like I said, read the Constitution. The government is supposed to be giving us guns. Article I, Section 8. Says so right there. To provide for arming the militia. It’s important that you understand how our government is supposed to be functioning.

This same section of the Constitution also provides rules and regulations for the Army and Navy. Again, this is important for those who try to claim that the militia is the military. Anyone who claims the militia is police or military is lying. The Constitution clearly distinguishes the militia from the Army and Navy.

The militia stands at all times, regardless of being called forth by Congress or not. It shall not be infringed. Benjamin Franklin, in 1755, defined the militia as a “voluntary assembling of great bodies of armed men... without call or authority from the government.”

Alexander Hamilton maintained that the United States should not have a standing army and that the entire defense of our nation be done through the militia. In fact, the Constitution specifically states that the United States isn’t supposed to have a standing Army and Congress may only collect taxes to support the Army for two years:

“To raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Use shall be for a longer Term than two Years;”

Hamilton would have been mortified at the existence of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines because he maintained that we should defend ourselves with the militia, not a military. He was very clear on this opinion when he stated:

“If a well-regulated militia be the most natural defense of a free country, it ought certainly to be under the regulation and at the disposal of that body which is constituted the guardian of the national security. If standing armies are dangerous to liberty, an efficacious power over the militia, in the body to whose care the protection of the State is committed, ought, as far as possible, to take away the inducement and the pretext to such unfriendly institutions... To render an army unnecessary, will be a more certain method of preventing its existence than a thousand prohibitions upon paper.”

When every citizen is armed, you don’t need an army. For those of you who couldn’t follow it, that was pretty much what he said.

The word “militia” could just as easily be the phrase “soldiery comprised of all free citizens” instead.

A competently-trained soldiery comprised of all free citizens...

The next phrase is one that is scrutinized a lot by those who would seek to disparage the Second Amendment.

“being necessary to the security of a free State”...

What was intended by the phrase, “security of a free State”?

Some would argue that the word “State” indicates a government entity. They would say we are not securing individuals. We are not securing the people. We are securing the State. Therefore, some argue, only during times when there is an invasion or a threat to the State are the rights of the Second Amendment validated. During peacetime, there is no threat to the security of a free State.

There are two blatant flaws with this logic.

The first and most obvious flaw is that it neglects to acknowledge domestic threats and it presumes invasions are announced ahead of time. The Japs didn’t pass out fliers on December 6th. (Ironically, the United States did drop leaflets over Japan before we nuked them in 1945, but that’s because we’re a compassionate nation.) Just because America hasn’t been invaded by a military force since 1941 doesn’t mean it will never happen again. America is already being invaded again. We suffered 3 separate terrorist attacks on American soil in 2015 alone, resulting in the death of 14 citizens in San Bernardino, California and 5 soldiers in Tennessee. Whether the next invasion happens in one year or 5 years or in 50 years, I don’t know, but we the militia need to be armed beforehand; not after the fact.

The second flaw is presuming the word “State” is intended to mean the governing collective.

I contend that the word “state” was chosen with an intentional triple-meaning; the “state” of ones individual being, the land itself, and the governmental body.

The phrase “security of a free State” could just as easily be the phrase “preserve the freedom of individuals, their lands, and their leadership”.

A competently-trained soldiery comprised of all free citizens, being necessary to preserve the freedom of individuals, their lands, and their leadership...

The meaning behind the next part of the Amendment is pretty obvious:

“the right of the people to keep and bear arms”...

Let’s work backwards this time. What is meant by the word “arms”? Did it mean “firearms”? Did it mean “armaments”? Or did it mean both? Once again, we can logically conclude that the word “arms” was carefully chosen as a succinct term to be inclusive of both firearms and other armaments. Knives. Guns. Swords. Brass knuckles. Slingshots. Bow and arrows. You name it.

Why use the phrase “keep and bear”? Why not just use the word “bear” or “keep”? The word “keep” implies that the arms in question are the property of an individual. Your personal arms remain in your custody at all times. They are not stored or kept by any other agencies of government or private companies or individuals. The right of the people is to keep, to continually maintain, ownership of their arms.

And what of the word “bear” in this context? “Bear” is intended to mean carried on your person. You “keep” the arms at home and you “bear” them on your person. You are allowed to walk around with a handgun strapped to your hip or a shotgun slung around your shoulder or a rifle on your stagecoach. Or these days, in your truck. Bearing arms means being armed anytime you see fit to be so.

The phrase “the right of the people” is quite clear as well. Owning and keeping and bearing arms is a right for all citizens of the United States. You. Me. Your neighbor. Every free citizen. Not for those who are incarcerated or illegal aliens or visitors who are vacationing. Just for We the People.

The phrase “the right of the people to keep and bear arms” could be more clearly defined as “the right of the people to always possess and carry firearms and armaments”...

A competently-trained soldiery comprised of all free citizens, being necessary to preserve the freedom of individuals, their lands, and their leadership, the right of the people to always possess and carry firearms and armaments...

The final phrase of the Second Amendment requires no interpretation whatsoever because there is no part of “shall not be infringed” that is difficult to understand. Nevertheless, there are courts and politicians and lawmakers who are too stupid to comprehend such a clearly articulated edict. According to Webster’s dictionary, the word “infringe” means “to wrongly limit or restrict” and Black’s Law dictionary defines “infringement” as “a trespass or encroachment upon”. Since many laws in in our nation are slowly encroaching upon our rights and restrict the ownership of firearms, I propose reiterating the word “infringed” with multiple synonyms.

A competently-trained soldiery comprised of all free citizens (being necessary to preserve the freedom of individuals, their lands, and their leadership; the right of the people to always possess and carry firearms and armaments), shall never be revoked, suspended, ceased, prevented, licensed, or infringed in any manner, in any location, or at any time; including by any court, citizen, law, order, committee, decree, edict, action, Congress, President or member of government.

You want to amend the Bill of Rights? That is the only option I’m giving you. My rewritten version of the Second Amendment should help clarify the intentions behind the original phrasing, for the benefit of those who might find the grammar of the original to be antiquated and thus difficult to understand.

Some people claim the Second Amendment was never a controversial issue until just recently. They claim the National Rifle Association started bringing it up all the time as justification to own firearms. I’m a member of the NRA and from the history I’ve studied, I can confirm this is entirely true. In every decade before the 1970’s, the NRA didn’t feel the need to constantly bring up the Second Amendment because back then, treasonous lawmakers weren’t constantly trying to undermine it like they do today. In fact, after the NRA was founded in 1871, for over a century, it existed purely as an organization dedicated to safety, training, and marksmanship. Starting in 1975, the NRA stepped up and started advocating for the preservation and protection of our rights, because that was the era when politicians started to repeatedly attack our sovereignty.

Preserving our rights has never been about you, or me, or our children, or our elders. This is about something far greater than ourselves or our lives. This is about the opportunity for our people to remain free. Ensuring that our future generations are never enslaved by tyrants, or slaughtered by terrorists, or brutalized by criminals. Despite the cynicism of those who try to brainwash us into selfishness through the media, we are not a nation of narcissistic citizens only looking out for ourselves and our own families. We are united in common values and aspirations. There is no denying we are also a nation of people who disagree on everything and have conflicting opinions and traditions. Our very heritage and ancestry is often at odds. But the one thing we all share, the one facet of human existence that all Americans embrace and love, the one thing that makes us truly United States, is freedom. Blacks, Christians, whites, Jews, Latinos, atheists, Asians, men, women, children - we can all join hands and agree - no one is going to tell us how to live. That is our choice. Our freedom. And when that liberty we share comes under attack, no matter what our petty disputes, no matter what disagreements we may have, all of us need to look out for each other, support each other, and know that your neighbor has your back. The Second Amendment assures we are going to be able to do that. We will forever have the power to protect not only ourselves and our families, but our friends, neighbors, and all our highest ideals of the American Way.

Dear Nicole Arbour and her Freedom of Speech
25 May 2016

“I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

I still remember the first time I heard that phrase. I was only about 14 years old and I heard it said on some television program. I don’t recall the exact nature of the show. Perhaps some history documentary on National Geographic or something similar. Although I may not recall the exact context, I shall never forget the effect those words had upon me. Oddly enough, if memory serves, my Freshman history teacher repeated that phrase in class a few days later, as though the universe itself were attempting to reiterate the importance of such words.

The phrase hit me so hard because it was such a powerful idea. And at that age, it was an idea I had never considered before. I was still a kid. I was just a child. And as children, our world view harbors a very selfish and narcissistic protectiveness towards our own viewpoint. Right? Children don’t tend to deviate from the herd. We like having friends with similar interests. We don’t want conflict. We don’t want people with different opinions. Children prefer to befriend and surround themselves with clones of their own personality. Nothing wrong with that. In a big and scary world of uncertainty, it’s a natural part of the human condition to wish to feel camaraderie within our tribe. Children take great comfort in being cocooned in a sort of homogeneous conformity. As children we attack those who are different. Faggot. Retard. Pussy. Wimp. Four-eyes. Gimp. We make fun of them. Ridicule those who do not fit our ideologies.

So, I was astounded when I heard that phrase, “I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

Here was the idea that freedom of expression is of such tantamount importance, we should be willing to forfeit our very lives to preserve it. But more than that, individual freedom is so sacrosanct, we should be willing to lay down our lives in defense of others freedom, even if their views are diametrically opposed to our own ethics.

As a kid in junior high, this concept of “I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it” completely blew my mind. It was one of the most noble and righteous principals I had ever been taught. There is a sense of dignity and self-respect encapsulated in that philosophy which I immediately embraced and have held unto steadfast since the moment I first heard those words.

“I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

Which brings us to the brilliant Nicole Arbour and our freedom of speech.

For those of you who do not know who she is, Nicole Arbour is a Canadian actress, model, and cheerleader with a channel on YouTube hosting around 300,000 subscribers that launched a viral video in September 2015 called “Dear Fat People”. Let me start by saying I have never met or spoken to Nicole Arbour. I have no personal connection to Nicole whatsoever. Nevertheless, I absolutely love and respect her talent. She is among the most hilarious, articulate and insightful commentators I have ever seen. I genuinely admire and envy her command of language, because she can phrase her thoughts so succinctly and so beautifully, she expresses her ideas with more wit and charm in 5 minutes than I can do in 20 minutes. Seriously. I’m long-winded as hell. I don’t know when to stop. I just keep going. Nicole is such a talented writer she can say things with far greater eloquence and brevity than I ever manage to do. Anytime she’s unscripted, she is also endearingly awkward. As well-spoken as she may be in her writing, she’s rather hyper in interviews and that makes her all the more charming. Nicole is incredible, intelligent and quick-witted. I adore this girl.

In her “Dear Fat People” video, Nicole made a lot of brilliant and hysterical remarks about how one shouldn’t take pride in the gradual suicide that is obesity. Since our culture is rapidly devolving into a society of morons who think every single behavior should be celebrated, including those which are highly immoral or self-destructive, the video received a tremendous amount of backlash. In fact, the backlash was so severe, her entire channel was briefly banned from YouTube as “hate speech” even though the whole point of the video was a very supportive message to overweight people saying, “Hey, stop killing yourself!” That’s a good message. That’s a positive message. But our culture has become so scared to criticize or demean anyone (except heterosexual Caucasian Christian males), that people are actually stupid enough to think Bruce Jenner is a chick just because he started wearing a dress. If I have sex with a bearskin rug, that doesn’t make me a grizzly... That was a bad analogy. Should have had Nicole write a better one. Let’s move on...

Now that you have a little background on Nicole Arbour, you would think the story would end there. Right? YouTube personality with a respectable subscriber base. Made a video. People got offended. YouTube took it down. YouTube took a lot of heat for unjustified censorship and brought her channel back. That should be the end of the story.

But something far more fascinating happened. A little microcosm of YouTube began to fester like a sociological experiment in a petri dish. What happened in the months that followed was intriguing in ways I never would have predicted.

People just keep hating this girl. The amount of vitriol and venom against her is rather bizarre. There are countless fake news channels on YouTube, you know those channels with the hipster assholes posing as reporters where someone with a 6th grade reading level writes inane commentaries on people who don’t fit their political agenda. I won’t name them because I don’t want to give any of these charlatans (or The Young Turks or ETC News or InformOverload) more publicity. Nevertheless, numerous such outlets have created videos attacking Nicole. Worst of all, they are vicious and brutal against her in very personal ways. This wouldn’t bother me so much if they admitted to being personal commentaries. The reason I find these criticisms so abhorrent and unscrupulous is because they purport to be “news” channels, yet nothing could show a lack of journalistic integrity more than making personal attacks and pretending you have all the gravity of Walter Cronkite, when you’re more like Ron Burgundy. Those who hate Nicole Arbour have field days attempting to discredit her. When some ex-boyfriend of hers made a video where he breaks down in blubbering tears while insinuating that she abused him, the virtual pitchforks went ballistic. Some of these weirdos have gone so far as to compare old videos and timelines, taking her to task and trying to prove that Nicole is lying about inconsequential remarks she made in videos 4 years ago. Really bizarre high school drama bullshit. Trying to dig up any dirt they can find on Nicole, just to make her look bad.

You get the idea. The point is, Nicole didn’t fade away into obscurity like I expected, because people keep on getting all riled up by her for no good reason. She’s like that little girl in gradeschool that everyone ignored, then she played piano in the school talent show, and now the bullies pick on her for the rest of the school year. Relentlessly.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

Obviously, part of the reason Nicole gets verbally assaulted is because she’s popular. Her channel has hundreds of thousands of subscribers and her viral videos have over 10 million views. Once you begin to stand out above the crowd, it’s far more likely the unwashed masses will start pelting you with rocks. That’s what uneducated lemmings like to do. But there has to be more to it than mere popularity.

Why unleash so much animosity towards a random blond chick on YouTube? Why does anyone care about her? Why are people so obsessed with crucifying her?

This raises an even bigger question: Why did I care so much? None of my business. I don’t even know her! What difference does it make to me? Why do I care what happens to her?

These two questions kept on kicking around in my head. Why do people hate Nicole? Why does it bother me that people are attacking her?

Suddenly it hit me. The answer to each question was obvious.

In the series of social commentary videos she is creating, Nicole is saying things that the silent majority of people are thinking and feeling. And those views go against the opinions of the liberals and the politically correct and the social justice warriors. Every single one of these YouTube channels who attack Nicole Arbour are channels that espouse extreme left-wing liberal agendas. Liberals have proven time and again, their primary objective is to crucify and silence anyone who fails to conform to their dogma. Liberals will even go so far as to use courts and lawyers to drive people out of business if you dare disagree with their principals. Since Nicole Arbour is extraordinarily politically incorrect and her viral video garnered a huge amount of attention, she was crowned the poster child of libertard hatred, the ideal effigy for angry femnazis and millennials to batter and burn like a sexy Barbie pinata. That is why these people are so relentless and obsessed with continually vilifying some random Canadian chick on the Internet. Nicole speaks out against them. Nicole calls them on their bullshit. Nothing disproves the emotionally charged lies and propaganda of fascist liberals faster than articulate logic and reason. Nicole threatens the ignorance to which they so zealously cling.

That answers the question of why they are incessantly harassing Nicole.

But why does this bother me so much? Why do I care that this girl is being ostracized? I’ve never met her. I’ve never spoken to her. She’s not even an American citizen. Why does it make me so angry to see people condemn her? Because the methodology used by these commie bastards to shame and ostracize people into conformity with their ideologies goes against every freedom the United States stands for.

It’s not about defending Nicole like some teen White Knight moron yearning to score some Canadian sexting. It’s about protecting what Nicole represents.

“I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

Truly a noble sentiment. Men and women who agree with those words comprise the foundation of American values to defy tyranny and defend liberty.

Liberals and social justice warriors do not possess any honor or nobility for they have mutilated that phrase into their childish mentality. Their mantra is:

“I disagree with what you say, so I will fight you to the death and suppress your right to say it.”

Won’t it be a great day when people finally remember that you can disagree with opinions without ostracizing those who have them?

Many citizens today fail to understand that The Bill of Rights have never been political rights granted to We the People by the government. The Bill of Rights enumerates intrinsic human rights which are applicable at all times and in all situations, political or otherwise. The Bill of Rights serve as commands reiterated to the government, enumerating and clarifying additional inalienable rights endowed by our Creator, as stated in the Declaration of Independence.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

Our freedom of speech and the press aren’t merely rights that can not be legally abridged by the government, they are rights that can not be ethically infringed by anyone. No individuals. No corporations. No communities.

Nevertheless, we see the evil tyranny of liberals trying to undermine these basic human rights all the time. They are nothing but patrioteers, twisting the meaning of our most sacred founding documents to fit their personal agendas.

Those who embrace this Marxist mentality, those who support such fascist political agendas, need to be convicted as traitors to our country for their sedition against our Bill of Rights, because these socialist ideologies of censorship mirror the dogma of all tyrants and dictators. Everything they represent, everything they stand for, is in direct violation of human freedom and undermines our Constitution and all it stands for. These turncoats support the very same usurpations which forged the Revolutionary War and impelled We the People to take arms against those who would dare to oppose our liberty.

Patriots, willing to fight and die to preserve the ideals of America, can no longer be idle or silent in the face of these domestic enemies of our Constitution. We swore an oath to protect and defend the principals of that document. Remaining silent in the face of injustice neither protects nor defends our ideals and instead permits the toxic lies of censorship to prevail. I implore my fellow patriots, the silent majority, to break your silence. Speak out. Fight. Words are weapons and this is war.

You remember that other saying. The one we were taught as children, but kids today are never being told:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

Liberals don’t have any sticks or stones. They only have names. Racist. Bigot. Sexist. Intolerant. When slinging those juvenile names proved to be inconsequential, liberals started inventing brand new meaningless words and phrases. Rape culture. Homophobic. White privilege. Gun nut. Microaggressor. These names are a joke. These names are all nonsense, but liberals think they are very important. That is because name-calling is the only weapon liberals and gradeschool bullies know how to use. Childish names are their preferred way to attack those who oppose them... But names will never hurt me.

I’m not the only one who thinks these people are a joke. The inevitable backlash of riddiculing their mentality grows stronger everyday.

We can no longer allow these liberal villains to engage in their sociological terrorism of frightening patriots into silent conformity. We’re Americans, damnit. We never conform to tyrants. We drive them back across the sea. Since the birth of our great nation, that’s what Americans have always done. Some of us may die fighting those battles. But we’ve never lost those wars, and I’ll be damned if we start losing now.

This war we are fighting is not simply an American conflict. This is a World War and all free peoples of Western culture from Europe to Australia to Canada are being attacked by these fascist ideologies. The armies of Mordor are on the move and the orcs are flying rainbow banners.

Fighting the good fight brings us full-circle and takes us back to the dear Nicole Arbour.

Nicole Arbour may not be an American citizen, but Nicole is an American patriot, for her candor and fearlessness for speaking her mind embodies the highest ideals America represents. Never let anyone tell you what words you are not “allowed” to say. No human being will ever have such authority over you. Speak your mind. And if the opinions of Nicole Arbour hurt your feelings, or offend you, or make you feel bad, or trigger your sissy ass to cower in your safe place, go cry to your therapist like the pansy you are, and leave the rest of us out of your egocentric drama. You may not always agree with Nicole. I don’t always agree with Nicole. But I will defend to the death her right to speak her mind.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Confession - I wrote this essay in the hopes I might be able to start a dialog with Nicole. Maybe meet the girl. Hang out with her. Give her an engagement ring. Help her make 10 babies. You know.

Alas, despite trying to send her my video of this essay on social media, I was completely ignored. Never even got a “thanks” from her. Oh, well. Such is life. At least it was a good lesson to remind me of my monumental irrelevance.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, January 2019

The Declaration of Independence: The Most Punkrock Essay Ever Written
26 May 2016

As a writer, I’m really intrigued by language and the way it is used to communicate.

With that in mind, I want to conjure a little story for you. Just imagine that you and your fellow countrymen have decided to colonize a new land. You can imagine it’s another continent or you can pretend it’s a new planet. Whatever you want.

So, there you are, living in this colony. As time goes on, your colony starts to become more and more self-sufficient. You don’t need outside help anymore. The government in your home country is kind of slacking. In fact, as your government starts to give you less and less support they begin to downright harass you. Your friends and neighbors are getting hauled off and convicted for completely unjust criminal offenses. A military occupation is started and soldiers are barging into your homes and stealing your food and assaulting your family members.

Finally, you and some of your neighbors get together and decide you’ve had enough of this tyrannical government. You’re going to start a revolution. You’re going to stand up to these injustices. Now, here’s where the story gets really amazing.

You and your friends are so brave, so badass, that you decide you aren’t going to be some underground, secretive band of guerrilla freedom fighters. No. You actually get together and write it all down. You put your intentions on paper. Then, you make copies of this declaration and you send it off to the leaders of other countries all around the world, including to your own government. On top of all that, every last one of you signs it. You put your names on it!

Now, keep in mind, just because you and your neighbors are pissed off doesn’t mean all your neighbors are on your side. Some of your neighbors still support the tyrannical government. You don’t know everyone in your town. You don’t know how many neighbors are on your side or how many neighbors would betray you. And you just wrote a giant “fuck you” to your dictator, sent copies to the whole world, and signed your name to it!

That sounds like the plot of a crazy Hollywood movie. But it’s not. It’s exactly what really happened when the United States of America composed The Declaration of Independence - the most punkrock essay ever written. This great nation was founded by men with balls of solid rock.

I often wonder, how well do you think those men who signed the Declaration of Independence slept that night?

Can you imagine what they were going through emotionally? Did any of them go running off to the docks at midnight, trying to stop the ships from sailing? “Wait! Wait! I changed my mind! Take my name off the... oh, shit!... Fuck!”

They go sulking back home, “What the fuck was I thinking?”

You can tell how scared everyone was by how small they signed their names. Like they were hoping if the revolution didn’t pan out, maybe no one would notice their signature. And what about John Hancock? That crazy bastard must have been really pissed off. John Hancock must have been insane! He was just like, “Gimmie that quill, bitches! I’ll show you how to sign a fuck you to King George!”

He writes this huge signature!

It’s easy for us to look back on history and imagine the way things played out were the only way things could have gone. But of course, that’s never true. Not at all. We might have lost. There was no guarantee we were going to beat the King of England. No one ever had. England was the most powerful empire in the world. Do you know how many countries ever beat the British Empire in a war? With the exception of the Norman invasion, England pretty much kicked everyone’s ass all the time. There were British colonies all around the world because the English were some serious thugs. Historically speaking, there was a really good chance we American Colonies were going to get the crap kicked out of us. King George III was probably going to win. We didn’t stand a chance. If America had lost the Revolutionary War every single man who signed the Declaration of Independence would have been executed. And do you think the tyrannical King of England would have shown mercy to their families? No. If your name was on that list, your wife and your children and your extended family of aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins would probably be executed too. And most likely, not in a quick and merciful fashion. Probably in a way that would be painful. And take long time. In fact, if you signed the Declaration of Independence and we lost the war, King George III would probably make you watch how he executes your family and kill you last.

The men who signed that document, our founding fathers, were some damn brave motherfuckers.

Today, the Declaration of Independence is just as relevant as it was 200 year ago. We face the same dangers. The same threats. Our freedom and liberty must continue to be carefully safeguarded against the rise of tyranny.

Have you read the Declaration of Independence? I don’t mean in high school when you didn’t give a shit about it. I mean have you read it? Really paid attention to what was being said?

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

That is a damn fine and noble opening. I particularly love the phrase “a decent respect to the opinions of mankind” as it shows a magnanimous tip of the hat to all the world. They were simply explaining that they wanted to be free and this document would tell you why.

The second paragraph is even more impressive.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Hilarious that there are ignorant people who claim our nation was not founded under religious pretenses when “God” and “Creator” are mentioned in the first two sentences. Notice it says “among these”. In other words, life liberty and the pursuit of happiness are only a few of our unalienable rights. This infers that all men possess additional unalienable rights. I personally declare that among those unnamed rights are the unfettered freedom to speak and write ones opinions, and the right to self-defense through whatever means necessary. Which of course mirror the first two items in the Bill of Rights, but that’s an essay for another day. The declaration goes on to say...

- That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,

Two things to note are “just powers” and “consent” - the powers of government must be justified and fair. It doesn’t say “unlimited powers” or “tyrannical powers” or “oppressive powers” or even “powers” alone; no, it specifically says “just powers”. What is more, these powers derive from the consent of the people. Consent. These just powers do not override the will of the people, such powers only exist with our consent. In other words, the government has no power unless we the people permit the government to have it. And the powers they do possess must be justified. That’s pretty punk rock.

I’ve known some police officers who misguidedly believed that their job was simply to enforce the law. However, this is absolutely not true. The caveat of consent means blind obedience is specifically prohibited. There must be a personal morality at work to define that which is just. Unjust orders or laws need not be tolerated. As government workers, law enforcement personnel can only enforce just powers from the consent of the governed. No one in the government has any power or authority to enforce laws which are unjust, nor do the citizens need to conform to injustice. The Declaration of Independence is the founding document and therefore supersedes all other laws, including the Constitution. Members of the military and armed forces all swear an oath to defend and protect the Constitution. But again, they are only imbued with just powers from the consent of the governed. Nothing more. They are under the moral obligation of upholding their oath to defy and refuse to enforce any laws or orders which are immoral or unconstitutional.

In fact, the Declaration of Independence proves this by going on to say the most punkrock stanza of all...

- That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it,

Let me pause here. Let’s think about that. The Founders of our nation deemed this a self-evident truth! The very document used to create the United States of America encourages the citizens to destroy the government if need be! Start a revolution - to alter or abolish the government if the government ever stops supporting our liberties. This one line is an astounding statement. How many countries in the history of humanity have ever been that radical? How many nations have been built upon the principal that we will burn this mother down and start over if we have to? Of everything written in the Declaration, that single sentence is more punkrock than any fiction. That one line illustrates a sense of righteousness and determination the likes of which most people have never experienced. It goes on to say...

and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Once again, the Declaration reiterates that all governmental power is granted through the will of the people. The citizens are the ultimate authority in this great nation. Not kings or courts or judges or politicians or military forces. The people are the ones who determine the course of their safety and happiness and we American citizens possess the sole authority to empower the government to enforce those ideals.

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.

That is an astonishing statement to place in a political document. Rather than declare a stance or voice an edict, it instead acknowledges a weakness of the human psyche. So much truth and wisdom (plus an esoteric observation of human tendencies) in a single sentence. While the declaration reminds the people that we have a duty and an obligation to start a revolution if our government becomes tyrannical, it also reminds us that our motives for said revolt must be duly justified. Citizens are required to overthrow tyranny, but we shouldn’t dismantle governments for lighthearted reasons. That wouldn’t be sensible. Sedition can only be vindicated by severe (and often not until they are prolonged) violations of ones liberty.

On the flipside, that sentence also reminds us not to tolerate too much crap. Our founding fathers remind us that human beings are likely to sit on their butts and tolerate scumbags longer than we should. Far easier to just sit back and endure the nonsense than to rise up and battle a war. The problem there is that the tyrants know this too. Oil companies did that to us. Remember? Back in 2007 or so they raised gas prices and raised them and raised them, until the people couldn’t take it anymore, and stopped buying gas. Then the prices miraculously dropped back down just low enough for people to find it sufferable without storming the gates. Why do we tolerate such greed? Because as our forefathers predicted, mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.

The Declaration reminds us...

But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

Once again, the Declaration of Independence reiterates their cause and their determination to do this right. Again, it declares we’ll tear down the whole place and start over if the government screws up. How many documents founding a nation encourage the citizens to start a revolution and destroy the government? Only ours. America was founded by rebels and outlaws who just couldn’t take anymore freedoms being stripped away. Our founders reminded the world that we will become outlaws again if need be. They went on to say...

Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

The revolutionaries were basically saying, “We’re done with this nonsense. To hell with the King. Here’s why...”

Now, I’m not going to list all the reasons given to justify the American Revolution, but I will give you all the important highlights that our current government does to the citizens today. Here’s some of the vile acts committed by King George III that are still happening now.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures. (Operation Jade Helm 15)

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power. (according to the Constitution, our country should only have a standing military for 2 years at a time)

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation: (allowing foreigners like Leland Lee into office who undermined the Second Amendment)

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent: (Affordable Health Care Act)

Note how our current government actively engages in acts which our forefathers cited as justification to start a revolution. I’m not saying it’s time to institute new government in 2016. I’m simply pointing out that the seeds for the next uprising are undeniably being planted.

The Declaration concludes with three eloquent paragraphs.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

That paragraph is so fantastic because it calls out King George III on so many levels. We admit that we tried to reason with him. We voice our anger at how he ignored us. Then we clearly declare that he is unfit to be a king if that’s going to be his attitude.

The next paragraph is wonderful too because it reiterates our desire to remain amicable to our fellow Englishmen. We basically say, “If you are an English citizen and you support us, we are your allies. If you support the King, you are also our enemy.” But listen to how beautifully those sentiments are written.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

Finally, we get to the paragraph that lays it all on the line, the declaration of our independence. Note there is also a strong reference to God in this next sentence, when the founders cite their desire to appeal to the Supreme Judge of the world.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do.

The Declaration of Independence is the most eloquent and articulate “fuck you” ever written, ending with a beautifully composed sentence of unity and brotherhood which states:

And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

Once again, our forefathers declare their conviction in God. Their reverence for Divine Providence is irrefutable proof of their faith in forces beyond themselves at work. The beauty of the phrase Divine Providence instead of “God” shows an ignostic respect for the spiritual beliefs of everyone involved. For any religion, including atheism, can acknowledge that the mysteries of serendipity may be rooted in forces we do not yet understand, and that we can pay homage to under the phrase Divine Providence.

More than that, it vows to protect and defend each other. They acknowledge that we are all in this together. A noble sentiment written by men who understood that honor was sacred, promises are to be kept, and word is bond.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. The most defiant and punkrock manifesto every put to parchment - our magnanimous Declaration of Independence. The supreme law of the land. The founding words. The basis of all our ideals. The brave and reckless document that started the American Revolution, and won our freedom.

Gun Violence Does Not Exist
31 May 2016

As of 2016, according to the United States Census Bureau, there are approximately 310 million men, women, and children living in the United States of America.

64% of the nation is caucasian.

17% is hispanic.

14% is black.

5% is asian.

These quantities populate the country in the locations one would expect. Most hispanics live near the Mexican border. Most blacks reside in the deep south. Most Asians occupy major West Coast cities. Whites comprise a majority of the remainder of our nation, drastically exceeding the quantities of all other ethnic groups combined.

According to various sources, including the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF), and the Congressional Research Service, there are currently 357 million guns in the United States. There are more firearms than citizens.

According to various sources, including the National Institute of Justice (NIJ), since 1959, the number of American households possessing guns has fluctuated. Estimates range anywhere from as low as 36% to as high as 51%. The FBI revealed Americans applied to purchase more firearms during the Fall of 2015 than any other time in history, and those numbers have gone up ever since, it’s rational to conclude the percentage of households with firearms is closer to the 50% threshold. Even if it were as low as 36% that still means there are over 111 million gun owners in the United States. That is approximately the combined population of:

Washington: 6,724,540

Oregon: 3,831,074

Montana: 989,415

Idaho: 1,567,582

Nevada: 2,700,551

California: 37,253,956

Wyoming: 563,626

Utah: 2,763,885

Arizona: 6,392,017

North Dakota: 672,591

South Dakota: 814,180

Nebraska: 1,826,341

New Mexico: 2,059,179

Texas: 25,145,561

Colorado: 5,029,196

Kansas: 2,853,118

Oklahoma: 3,751,351

Iowa: 3,046,355

Arkansas: 2,915,918

Total: 110,900,436

At 51% the total would be 155 million people or the addition of:

Minnesota: 5,420,380

Wisconsin: 5,742,713

Illinois: 12,882,135

Missouri: 6,044,171

Louisiana: 4,625,470

Mississippi: 2,991,207

Alabama: 4,833,722

Kentucky: 4,395,295

The number of crimes prevented by gun owners every year is difficult to estimate. In April of 2013, The New York Times reported that the Violence Policy Center claimed 67,740 crimes are prevented every year by gun owners. The National Rifle Association claims that number is closer to 2 million. Being such vastly different statistics, let’s compromise and presume 100,000 crimes are prevented yearly by gun owners. That is the approximate population of Norman, Oklahoma.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reports that approximately 11,208 people are murdered every year with firearms. 11,208 is the approximate population of Webb City, Missouri. Let’s put that in perspective. People who hate guns would make you think those 11,000 lives are all innocent victims, but the truth is that many of them are criminals shot by the police, gangbangers killing rivals in the ghetto, and families protecting themselves from rapists and murderers. That 11,000 also includes every shooting at our schools and churches and movie theatres, every terrorist attack at a Christmas party and military recruiting center, and every crazy college student who goes on a rampage. Everyone. 11,208.

Among our population of 310 million, those 11,000 gun deaths represent one 0.0035% (35 ten-thousands of a percent) of our population. When you realize how few people are harmed by guns, it becomes clear that the motive behind gun regulations isn’t to protect this small fraction of victims. Gun laws are intended to control and subjugate the citizens who own them.

Since guns prevent crimes at least 100,000 times a year, while only 11,000 people are killed, guns protect our families and our children 10 times more frequently than they harm anyone. Banning guns from 310 million citizens, will endanger 100,000 people every year, in an attempt to protect 11,000. Allowing 100,000 people to become victims of rape or murder, in order to protect 11,000 people from harm, many of whom are violent criminals, is illogical and unethical.

You know what kills more people than firearms?

Alcohol. Every year, 29,001 die in alcohol induced deaths. You hear the media use words like “epidemic” to describe gun violence. Twice as many people die from alcoholism as they do from guns. No one ever says alcohol is causing an epidemic. They use that language to manipulate the public. Instead of reporting the facts, they sensationalize reports with carefully chosen words in an effort to condition you. (29,0001 is the population of North Ridgeville, OH)

You know what else kills more people than firearms?

30,208 die from falling every year. (population of Englewood, CO)

33,804 die annually in car accidents. (San Juan, TX)

46,471 die in drug induced deaths. (Murray, UT)

51,966 people are killed by accidental poisoning. (Hempstead, NY)

53,282 die from pneumonia. That’s right. You’re 5 times more likely to die from pneumonia than being killed by a gun. (Santee, CA)

But what about the children? People who hate guns always cite the deaths of children as justification to ban guns.

A mere 460 kids between the ages of 0 and 14 die each year in shootings. 460. That is 0.00014% (14 hundred-thousands of a percent) of the population or 1 in 673,913. That means if our population was the size of North Dakota, one child per year would be killed by a gun.

You know what kills more children than guns?

675 kids in that same age group die by drowning. Do parents ever rally to ban swimming? Bathtubs? Does the president try to create more executive orders to protect the children from pool parties? 50% more kids die by drowning than they do by guns! Guns are not an epidemic. Swimming pools are far more deadly to a child.

1,083 kids between the ages of 0 and 14 die each year in car accidents. More than twice as many kids die in cars than they do from guns. Cars kill 135% more kids. Politicians want to sue gun manufacturers if a gun kills a child. But are politicians trying to sue auto manufacturers when a drunk driver uses their car to murder a child?

Worst of all, the highest statistic for murdered children is worse than you think. 380,000 kids are murdered every year by Planned Parenthood. Every year. That is over half the population of Alaska.

460 kids killed by guns.

380,000 children murdered by Planned Parenthood.

Think about that. These people murder more babies in one year than guns have killed in the last century. When a stranger shoots a child, they call it murder. When a mother kills her child, they call it abortion.

You see, my fellow Americans, the mainstream media is deceiving the public. They all have the identical agenda to censor freedom of speech, rob you of your liberties, and outlaw your ability to defend yourself. Hollywood and the news are not being honest with you. These media outlets are manipulating you. Brainwashing you with repetition. Influencing you with rhetoric in order to illicit an emotional response. The politicians are crying crocodile tears. The numbers prove gun violence is a fable and politicians have no justification to vilify firearms. Therefore, the only way they can influence the public is through hysteria and terror. Irrational fear is the only ammunition these treasonous lawmakers have, so they try giving Americans the false impression that all citizens are in constant danger of being a victim.

As a novelist, issues like freedom of the press and weaving fiction are my expertise. When I look at the facts, the fiction of the mainstream media becomes obvious. Historically, an attack on our Second Amendment rights always precedes an attack on the First Amendment. Take away their ability to defend themselves. Then take away their ability to speak out. As a writer and a patriot who believes in our liberty and freedom, I have an obligation to counter these attacks. To speak out. Every time people lose their right to defend themselves, they lose the right to speak their mind. That’s when writers and journalists with integrity start disappearing from their homes in the middle of the night. We are always the first to go. Followed by business leaders, then ordinary families like your own. Gun violence is far worse than you have been told, because everything you have been told is a grotesque lie. Gun violence doesn’t exist. Gun violence is a myth. Study the facts. Educate yourself. Firearms are harmless. Comparatively speaking, alcohol, cars, swimming pools, feminists, and slippery floors are far more deadly than guns.

Why Patriotism Matters
4 June 2016

For a long time, my essays were never political in nature. The whole point of my InkShard blogs is to talk about the art of writing and storytelling and novels and fiction. However, as a writer, language is everything. Words and their meaning and the use of words is extraordinarily important. As one of my favorite quotes from Mark Twain goes, “The difference between the right-word and the almost-right-word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”

So, although I am usually not particularly interested in discussing political topics, I have started to notice how politics frequently uses language to spin agendas and I have become increasingly intrigued by this. The manipulation of words for political gain is brilliant at best and sinister at worst. Being fascinated with the meanings of words, I recently came across some famous quotes regarding patriotism and nationalism which I found intriguing. Personally, I have mistakenly seen those words as synonyms, but they really aren’t at all.

President Teddy Roosevelt said, “Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country. It is patriotic to support him insofar as he efficiently serves the country. It is unpatriotic not to oppose him to the exact extent that by inefficiency or otherwise he fails in his duty to stand by the country. In either event, it is unpatriotic not to tell the truth, whether about the president or anyone else.”

Former French president Charles de Gaulle summed it up best when he said, “Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first; nationalism, when hate for people other than your own comes first.”

But let’s respect these two words with a little more attention.

To distinguish the words, let’s look at how they are defined in the dictionary.

Patriotism means, “devoted love, support, and defense of one’s country; national loyalty”.

Nationalism means, “the policy or doctrine of asserting the interests of one’s own nation viewed as separate from the interests of other nations or the common interests of all nations”.

Nationalism means you’re zealous in your support of your government and advocate your military forcing your views on other countries.

Patriotism isn’t about subjugation or violence or dominance. Patriotism is being proud of the ideals of your nation.

I was wrong in thinking they are synonyms. In fact, ethically speaking, patriotism and nationalism are antonyms.

“Patriotism is the willingness to kill and be killed for trivial reasons.”

- Bertrand Russell

I discovered that quote when I was just out of high school. That is an interesting age in life. People tend to split into very distinctive mentalities in their late teens and early twenties. Some kids join the military and become very patriotic. Other kids begin to abhor warfare and idolize pacifism. From a sociological standpoint, it’s the first moment in your life when opinions about serious issues begin to form rifts between people who may have shared very similar values as children.

In June of 2006, Natalie Maines of The Dixie Chicks, was interviewed in the British newspaper The Daily Telegraph and said, “I don’t understand the necessity for patriotism. Why do you have to be a patriot? About what? This land is our land? Why? You can like where you live and like your life, but as for loving the whole country... I don’t see why people care about patriotism.”

When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I would have agreed with her. I don’t feel that way anymore. But in my teens, I made the same mistake as a lot of kids: I had very liberal views. I’m ashamed of my former ignorance, but I’m man enough to admit my faults. I was naive and misinformed and thought I knew it all. I was wrong. I foolishly thought patriotism was a bad thing. I thought you should be proud of humanity and people, not pledging allegiance to nations and flags. When I was that age, I held to an idealism that we are all human beings. We should identify ourselves as human. Nationalities are irrelevant. No matter what our heritage or skin tone or language, we are all still people. First and foremost.

Years later, I realized the truth. I was mistaken.

Patriotism does not diminish our humanity. Patriotism does not prioritize nations above individuals. Most importantly, patriotism is not a willingness to kill and be killed for trivial reasons. Bertrand Russell was an idiot!

Patriotism means caring about your neighbors. Patriotism honors a collective brotherhood and sisterhood of citizens who live together upon the land and support and defend one another.

In my teens, I was young and foolhardy and I failed to realize the simple truth - flags and nations are symbols which represent their people. I took it all too literally. When we pledge allegiance to the flag, we are vowing to uphold the noble principals that flag represents. We honor the physical object because it symbolizes something greater. Even as a teenager, I would have thought that was a good thing. When I was a kid, I just never looked at it that way. No one explained it to me like that. I didn’t know any better.

Like most teenagers, I was too cynical. I was frustrated and angry because I saw all the problems and negativity associated with corrupt politics and shady military operations and injustices in the court system and I thought, “How could anyone be patriotic? There are so many bad politicians trying to take away our Constitutional rights and corporations who are outsourcing jobs to China or Mexico or India and throwing fellow Americans into the street. What is there to be proud of or patriotic about?”

I still see that today. As a computer developer, I see tons of unethical American companies hiring employees in foreign nations instead of hiring fellow Americans. These business owners are truly the scum of the earth; content to let their neighbors remain unemployed, just so they can line their own pockets with more money by hiring cheap labor in some third world backwater filth-hole of a country. I wouldn’t trust any of them any farther than I could spit in their eye.

When I presumed those sort of injustices had anything to do with patriotism, I was wrong. Very wrong.

Took me years to understand the simple truth. Patriotism isn’t about the politicians or the corporations or even the people of your country. Patriotism isn’t being proud of the mistakes your nation makes. Patriotism is being proud of the ideals your nation was founded upon and striving for the epitome of your greatness. Patriotism isn’t about ignoring the faults. Patriotism is about living up to the potential. In that sense, I firmly believe that despite her missteps, The United States of America truly is the greatest nation in the history of the human race. Why? What justifies such a boast? Because we are the only nation in all of human history to have defined our very existence upon the principals of individual freedom and sovereignty. No one else had ever attempted that before. Ever. We’re the only people who did that. Yes, we are imperfect. We have made mistakes. Our justice system fails sometimes. Our politicians pass unconstitutional laws. Our economic systems, repeatedly proven to be effective at self-correcting, do become tainted by greed. But our ideals of freedom and truth and justice, and a nation of the people and for the people, to secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, still make this a land of opportunity like no other.

That would be a great place to end this essay, but I do tend to ramble. Bear with me.

The collapse of the Twin Towers in New York City on the 11th of September 2001 was an event which made me truly understand patriotism for the first time. As I said, I’m not really interested in debating politics. Whether you believe official reports and mainstream media stories or you suspect ulterior motives and sinister conspiracies, there was one undeniable result that occurred within the psyche of the American people as a result of September 11th and that was a sense of national unity and camaraderie like I had never witnessed before. I finally understood the pride and patriotism my grandparents felt. What happened to our nation psychologically was exactly what happened to my grandparents generation on December 7th 1941.

Seeing our fellow Americans dying on live television did something to us. For the first time in my life, I saw the United States truly become united. We were no longer a nation of liberals and conservatives or blacks and whites or Republicans and Democrats. We were Americans. For the first time in my life, I felt the pride of patriotism. Because before that, all I ever saw was conflict. Bickering. Petty arguments. All the shallow and irrelevant fighting that made me so cynical against our culture. September 11th 2001 changed me forever. In the face of our shared tragedy, I saw that Americans did have the capacity to be United States. To care for each other. To support each other. To fight back when our brothers and sisters were slaughtered.

I don’t know if we were attacked by foreign or domestic terrorists that day. I don’t have those answers. But I do know, from firsthand experience, what the results were. And for me, I finally saw a glimpse of our aptitude for heroism. Our admirable ideals were manifest in the weeks that followed. Restoring my faith in humanity and making me see that this great nation fills me with an immense pride and patriotism. Because I saw how humane and caring our entire country became in the wake of that horrible day.

People all over the country left their jobs. Left their families. Traveled to New York City just to help. To volunteer. To give blood. To dig through the rubble. To do anything they could to comfort fellow citizens in need. In the weeks that followed, everyone all across the country was more kind to strangers. People spoke softer. People were more patient. More understanding. More compassionate. Because we all knew, that could have been our office. That could have been our building. That could have been you.

Seeing those people holding hands, and jumping from the windows so they wouldn’t burn to death, made us all remember how precious and fragile and sacred our limited time upon this earth really is. All we have, is each other. Caring for each other. Being decent and kind. Embracing a fellow human being as we end our lives together. Doing your best to face your death with grace and dignity. In those final seconds, you don’t care about money, or your career, or politics, or all the irrelevant social issues the media tries to make us think are important. All that matters is that this beloved quota of time we are blessed with upon this earth... is over.

After all those years, the rebellious teenager in me finally understood why patriotism matters. This is what Natalie Maines still hasn’t figured out.

Patriotism isn’t about flags or parades or salutes or national anthems. Patriotism, American patriotism, is about defending and taking pride in our undeniably noble and magnanimous ideals of liberty for all people. On occasion, we may falter, we may fail, but our principals of justice for all encompasses a foundation of ethics upon which every human being has dreamed of living since the dawn of mankind. Patriotism, especially in our great nation, matters because to exemplify our patriotism means we still have hope. We still believe in our dreams. We still strive to attain our highest truths and are beholden to personify our most righteous aspirations as a nation, as a people, and as men and women of America.

That is why every American citizen should be a patriot. Because patriotism is not about who we are. It’s about the virtuous principals we aspire to epitomize.

My fellow Americans, this is still the land of the free and the home of the brave, and here’s to our potential.

The First Amendment & Censoring of Alpha Phi Sorority
12 June 2016

All my life, I’ve never been much into politics. I’m one of those people who is of the opinion that most politicians are corrupt, regardless of their political party affiliations, and much like Captain Malcom Reynolds, I see government as a system designed purely to get in a man’s way.

But I must admit, as time goes on and I spend more time upon this planet, that kind of corruption and undermining of freedom and liberty becomes more personal and more important.

As a novelist, I am obligated to care about freedom of speech and freedom of the press. After all, those ideals not only affect my writing, but the writing of every author I admire. As citizens of the United States of America, we must be willing to do anything to maintain those freedoms, up to and including sacrificing our lives or ending the lives of those who would rob us of those liberties. Patrick Henry famously said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” He should have said, “Give me liberty or meet your death.” That’s what America was built upon - the defiance of tyranny at any cost.

Some time back in the early 1990’s a very insidious and tyrannical movement began in these very United States of America. At first, it was considered a joke. A punchline. Something everyone made fun of. Today, it has gained the power to get kids expelled from school, parents to lose their jobs, families to shutter businesses, and soon it will result in innocent citizens being incarcerated.

I’m talking of course about “politically correct” agendas. This insidious ideology is disguised as being about “respecting people’s feelings” but that is a lie. The true agenda of these people is now coming to light. These are vile scumbags who seek to suppress and censor thoughts, ideas, and words which contradict their own beliefs. They confuse “empowerment” with “agreement”. The desire to feel “empowered” only exists among the weak. Those who possess genuine strength never yearn for validation.

The McCarthy trials of the 1950’s were a time in this nation when we were righteously united against the threats of communism. People were singled out and blacklisted for being members of the Communist party. No freedom-loving American will ever permit a socialist or a communist to hold a political office in our democracy, so while the viciousness of McCarthyism may have been unconstitutional, the principal was absolutely justifiable. Ironically, most of the dirty hipsters of today condemn the evils of McCarthyism, while perpetuating the exact same kind of persecution upon any citizens who disagree with their views. Disagree with gay marriage, or support the police, or defend freedom of speech, and you will be tried and convicted for treason against the dictatorship of liberalism.

Personally, that’s fine with me. Give me the rope. I’ll hang myself. I’d rather speak out and die than live forever as a slave to manipulative ideologies. Speaking out against the evils of “politically correct” bigotry is something I should have done long ago, but it reached a breaking point for me in August of 2015 with the controversy surrounding the recruitment video for the University of Alabama chapter of the sorority Alpha Phi. This video was shot and edited by a film student named Griffin Meyer and as a person who has done videography for a living myself, I have to say, Griffin Meyer landed the best gig ever.

Personally, I never went to college. I mean, sure, a couple classes at community college, but that doesn’t count. Community college isn’t a real school, that’s just an excuse for us poor kids to keep busy when we don’t know what the hell to do with our lives. I never went to a real college. And, as I was always one of the geeky weirdos and outcasts, I sure as hell never liked the rapist jocks in fraternities or the slutty bitches in sororities. Ordinarily, I’d never stick up for any Greek house. In high school, I would have hated Alpha Phi just on principal, knowing those girls would look at me with about as much affection as dogshit on their shoes.

However, when I saw that video from Alpha Phi, my whole attitude changed.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t like who I was. For the first time in my life, I hated being the nerdy outcast. For the first time in my life, I was horribly jealous of their world of wealth and privilege. For the first time in my life, I wished I wasn’t so darn ugly. I wised I was handsome. I wished I was popular. For 4 minutes, I found myself wishing I could be part of that universe I will never know. I wanted to come from a family of influence. I wanted to be someone that had friends and was desired by gorgeous blond sorority girls instead of being a lone hermit.

For a few short moments, I regretted everything I missed in my life. Instead of being judgmental and condescending towards that world of prestige and beauty, I found myself yearning to be part of it. The parties. The laughter. The companionship. I desperately wished I was a dashing frat boy who was dating one of those girls. Or four or five of those girls. Or two? At least two. Come on, there are so many!

I digress, but I did wish I could be part of that.

Once upon a time, I used to have great friends in my life, but I fear that time is long gone. Henceforth I shall always remain a person who has tons of acquaintances and no true friends. I will never know the love of another girl. Nearly a decade has passed since a girl was interested enough to smile at me. Seriously. I’ve had female friends smile at me. But no girl on this earth has found me attractive and given me a flirtatious grin in almost 10 years. I can’t even visualize a future with a girlfriend in it. Romantic relationships in my life ended a long, long time ago and they shant return. I do mourn the loss of such friends and lovers. That is why I unknowingly yearned for those vicarious moments in that recruitment video. That Alpha Phi video was beautiful because for 4 minutes, I could dream again. I could pretend things will be okay. Remember what is was like to be blessed with dear friends and beautiful lovers instead of endless abandonment and rejection. And I was so happy for all those lovely young girls who had their whole lives ahead of them and will get to live that dream for real. All those dazzling ladies who will always have lives filled with love and friendship and success. Good for them.

That image the Alpha Phi women created was one of joy and innocence and companionship the likes of which I have never seen. What they created was truly beautiful. In our world of so much rage and hate and judgment, these women created a lovely collage of a life I can only dream of experiencing. By the end of the video, I found myself reeling; overjoyed for them and all the lifelong memories they were making.

Then it happened.

The unthinkable.

Like a bunch of deranged teenagers murdering a darling kitten, the “politically correct mafia” swooped in and attacked Alpha Phi with a vengeance. They turned a beautiful video of love and friendship into something they could hate. Evil and pustulant demons crawled out of their gourmet coffeehouses and dared to accuse the sorority of racism and a lack of diversity. First of all, Alpha Phi is not a whites-only sorority. But did you know there are black sororities like Alpha Kappa Alpha. Asian sororities like Delta Phi Kappa. There is even Lambda Theta Alpha which is a Latina sorority. Why aren’t those sororities considered racist? Why doesn’t anyone say those organizations have a lack of diversity? The truth is simple - white people are the only ethnicity stupid enough to hate themselves for their skin color. Black pride? That’s fine. Brown pride? That’s okay. Yellow pride? No problem. Red pride? Perfectly acceptable. White pride? Whoa! Hang on! You’re racist!

What!?

In our culture, everyone is allowed to be proud of their skin color, unless you’re white. Voicing any pride in caucasian heritage is condemned, stupidly enough, mostly by fellow caucasians.

The latest trendy term for this unjust segregation is “white privilege”. These politically correct morons are so monumentally stupid, they think having an equivalent quantity of ethnicities represents diversity. Since Caucasians comprise 72% of the United States population, then it would actually be an accurate representation of diversity for 72% of the Alpha Phi girls to be white. Blacks represent about 17% of the population. Hispanics are only about 13% of the population. Homosexuals are a minuscule 3% of the population which means the man-hating clamlapper division is only about 1.5% of the population. Insisting all minorities be portrayed with equal numbers is not diversity - it’s a lie. Disproportionately smaller quantities of ethnic or social groups within a society do not deserve an equal quantity of representatives with all other groups - they deserve to be depicted via a ratio equivalent to their proportion in the culture. Duh.

And while we’re on this topic of the source of evil that attacked Alpha Phi in the form of socialist goosestepping femmes, Peggy McIntosh, a Caucasian women’s studies professor at Wellesley College is credited with coining the term “white privilege” in her 1988 essay with the misandrist title “White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences Through Work in Women’s Studies.” Before I even researched that information, I knew with 100% certainty that an angry white femnazi invented that phrase. The phrase “white privilege” could only come from the mind of a hateful white feminist. No other demographic of people would ever think to invent such a term. No one on this earth hates white people more deeply than Caucasian feminists. These self-hating Valerie Solanas disciples are the only group of people in the history of the world who would ever invent a label to deride their own heritage. Where’s the empowerment in that?

The Great Depression proved what true white privilege looks like. Men, women and children who behave with dignified grace in the face of adversity. Never resorting to looting or rioting just because life has beaten them down. Never blaming others for the mess they are in. Possessing that kind of self-respect is indeed a privilege that not all ethnicities are noble enough to exemplify.

Back to the lovely ladies of Alpha Phi, their video contains no nudity. There are no derogatory comments made against anyone due to their ethnicity or religious background. There are no offensive symbols or logos or gestures. No one is portrayed doing anything illicit or illegal. No one is saying anything hateful or slanderous against anyone. No one utters any crude or inappropriate language. So, tell me, what kind of a braindead piece of rotten-elephant-jism finds that video offensive? You have to be a truly worthless sack of garbage with unscrupulous morals and perverse values if you think that film was in any way inappropriate. Do hideous liberal Marxist whores just jump on the Internet looking to deride anything that shows decent and wholesome facets of Americana? When I see this video, I just see an endearing house full of downhome country girls in Alabama. Ladies I can take to the shooting range because their daddy taught them to use a shotgun and out to a fancy dinner because their momma taught them to be a lady. Anyone offended by that is a diarrhea-soup-eating communist.

Worst of all, their own university betrayed them! The Associate Vice President for University Relations (which is just an egocentric way of saying PR) Deborah M. Lane fell prey to the pressures of the social justice warriors and she condemned the video, saying, “This video is not reflective of UA’s expectations for student organizations to be responsible digital citizens.”

What in the name of Mother Theresa’s skidmarks does that even mean? Responsible digital citizens? What kind of a fustian phrase is that? So now it’s irresponsible to show a video of sorority girls laughing and enjoying each others company? Really? Is that was these politically correct bags of vomit are teaching college students? To celebrate life is irresponsible?

The video was fantastic. If I were a father sending my daughter to the University of Alabama, I’d be proud of her if she became an Alpha Phi. At least I know she’d be living her life with some joy and positive friendships. And if her mother was no longer in the picture, I’d reinforce my support by marrying one of her sorority sisters. I’m kidding. Kind of.

A.L.Bailey wrote a scathing article saying, “The video lacks any mention of core ideals or service and philanthropy efforts. It lacks substance but boasts bodies. It’s the kind of thing that subconsciously educates young men on how to perceive, and subsequently treat, women in their lives. It’s the kind of thing I never want my young daughters to see or emulate.”

Who does that judgmental bigot think she is? And since when do legitimate journalists interject their parenting practices into a news article? Ugly feminists have always tried to brainwash women with the same disempowering rhetoric: Beautiful women are obligated to suppress their beauty, otherwise men will never show women any respect. Not only is this an infantile and ignorant view of feminine sexuality, it is an insult to both men and women. These grotesque feminists demand attractive women hide their looks and simultaneously imply all men are chauvinistic rapists, simply because they find a woman desirable. Militant worshipers of the SCUM Manifesto espouse sick and deranged opinions designed only to make women conform and subjugate themselves to hateful agendas of a monstrous matriarchy.

The most articulate retort I can vocalize against these misogynistic feminists is... Fuck those dumb broads.

If you’re a beautiful woman, you own that hotness, baby. You own it. Don’t let some haggard, do-rag-wearing, dyke witch make you feel guilty about the fact that you’re good looking. These self-appointed feminist watchdogs are not my favorite people and I’m getting real tired of the excrement they constantly regurgitate about how they are “offended” or “triggered” by every petty statement they disagree with with. I called them misogynistic a moment ago, but I misspoke. Feminists are downright misanthropic. Feminists hate everybody. They hate beautiful women for being beautiful and they hate men just for being men.

Think about this for a moment - Muslim extremists wish to kill everyone unwilling to convert to Islam. Militant feminists wish to kill everyone who don’t match their genitals. How psychotic is that? At least the terrorists give you an escape route. Feminists show no mercy.

For A.L.Bailey to claim the Alpha Phi video lacks substance is a lie, proving she is the one with the inability to look beyond the shallow surface of appearances. The video glorifies sisterhood, camaraderie and companionship. These women are celebrating life and laughter. They carry themselves with grace and dignity. That is substance to anyone with some ethics. A.L.Bailey claims there was no expression of core ideals, but I can think of no core ideals greater than extolling the bonds of joy and friendship. And if that is going to teach young men how to perceive and treat women, I’d say Alpha Phi was resoundingly successful in portraying themselves with decorum.

This was it for me. After all these years of politically correct liberals trying to censor freedom of speech and control language and dictate what can be said, like some Stormtrooper Gestapo, I’ve had it. Something snapped. I’m done with these politically correct traitors to liberty. After the Alpha Phi incident, it’s time to call them out on their treason and keep calling them out.

Griffin Meyer was interviewed by The Hollywood Reporter on 18 August 2015 by Katie Wilson Berg and Emmet McDermott where Griffin said:

“This video is not for politically sensitive adults who immediately associate eating a popsicle with sex. It’s a hyper-realistic video that’s supposed to evoke an emotion in the mind of an incoming freshman girl, so I don’t really care what adults think... I wish they left it on YouTube. By deleting the video it made the criticism seem legitimate and made it seem like something was actually wrong with the video.”

I couldn’t agree more, Griffin. You summarized it perfectly.

As for the women at Alpha Phi, I hope you will reconsider and repost your video. Or better yet, make many more like that one in the future. You did nothing wrong. What you did was beautiful. Forget that jerk Deborah Lane and her meaningless apology. Screw that nimrod A.L. Bailey who wrote the scathing Alabama Media Group article against you. Those women are beneath you. You are goddesses and they are cockroaches. You created something fun and joyful and positive and they had the audacity to belittle you for that? Those people are worthless. Ignore them. You ladies at Alpha Phi are better than they are. Don’t allow those inferior insects to dictate your life to you.

In fact, this is America. Don’t ever allow anyone to dictate your life to you.

Remember ladies, The Bill of Rights are not rights that were given to us by the government. The Bill of Rights are human rights that We the People demanded our government must obey, because those rights are universally applicable to every moment of our lives. The principals of freedom of speech always applies, not just to laws and regulations. The freedom extends to everyplace we might speak or write or express our thoughts and opinions. And those rights extend to every facet of our existence from our homes, to the Internet, to college campuses, to the steps of Washington D.C.

Those who sought to shame and censor Alpha Phi were wrong. They were wrong. They were immoral. They were unethical. They were traitors to America and our highest ideals of freedom.

There was nothing vapid or inappropriate with what Alpha Phi expressed. Never let anyone tell you ladies otherwise.

Keep & Bear Arms in California Constitution
3 July 2016

As all true Americans are aware, the Bill of Rights is not a list of rights that were granted to citizens by the government. In truth, the Bill of Rights is a list of commands We the People have ordered upon our government, warning them, if they try to infringe upon these rights, We the People shall overthrow their seats of power and institute a new government, as outlined in the Declaration of Independence. It bears repeating that all human beings are born with eternal and intrinsic liberties, which can never be revoked, by anyone, under any circumstances.

Due to the sacrosanct rights of the Second Amendment, back in February of 2015, the California District Court committed treason against the United States. This act of treason was committed when said court upheld the California handgun restriction laws in the case of “Pena v. Lindley” and the presiding judge reinforced California’s infringement of the Second Amendment through the illegal acts of the Department of Justice.

As treasonous courts and corrupt lawmakers in California institute more and more unethical edicts that disregard and violate the United States Constitution which judges have sworn to uphold (while noble citizens are forced to become outlaws just to enforce their rights) it has been said that there is no protection of the right to keep and bear arms in the convoluted and sesquipedalian California State Constitution... Like that? That was a good word, wasn’t it? You’re going to have to look that one up, I know. Grab a dictionary. Sesquipedalian.

However, to say the right to keep and bears arms is not reinforced in the California Constitution is simply not true. The original 1849 Constitution of the State of California clearly does reinforce the Federal Constitution regarding our inviolable right to keep and bear arms. In fact, it does so three times in the very first sentence.

“All men are by nature free and independent and have certain inalienable rights among those of which are enjoying and defending life and liberty, acquiring, possessing, and protecting property, and pursuing and obtaining safety and happiness.”

Let’s look at those three firearms phrases more carefully:

“defending life and liberty...”

“protecting property...”

“obtaining safety...”

Being written in 1849, what do you suppose those phrases were intended to mean? How would any man defend life and liberty in 1849? Harsh words? A stern glare? Or a shotgun blast? And what about protecting property? They weren’t talking about building a fence around your yard or sticking a scarecrow in the cornfields. Protecting property in 1849 was done with a sidearm, just like today. And when you were living in the Old West, back when the California Constitution was drafted, how do you think people “obtained safety” on the frontier? They weren’t making 911 calls to the sheriff. They were grabbing their Colt Peacemaker or Henry Rifle.

Acknowledging the right to keep and bear arms is most definitely present in the California Constitution. No courts or judges need to consecrate this fact, nor do any of them possess the authority to refute it. You just need to understand the plain English it was written in and the historical context in which it was composed and suddenly the implication of firearms becomes unequivocally clear. The current phrasing is very similar:

“All people are by nature free and independent and have inalienable rights. Among these are enjoying and defending life and liberty, acquiring, possessing, and protecting property, and pursuing and obtaining safety, happiness, and privacy.”

In the 21st century, California lawmakers are among the most unethical and evil in the union. You may think “evil” is a harsh condemnation but, undermining your fundamental human right to defend yourself and your family safe can only be construed as unadulterated evil. Keep in mind, San Francisco Democratic Senator Leland Yee was one of the most outspoken California politicians against firearms, and in March of 2014, he was arrested on charges related to public corruption and gun trafficking; specifically, buying automatic weapons and shoulder-launched missiles from an Islamic terrorist group located in the southern Philippines and attempting to sell those weapons to an undercover FBI agent. He plead guilty to the charges in 2015 and was sentenced to prison in 2016.

He’s not even an American! Leland Yee was born in communist China! How did this traitor become a Senator!?

Incidentally, the second draft of the California Constitution, written in 1880, specifically indicated that Chinamen were not allowed to hold political office in California. Guess the founders of California might have known communist Chinese traitors would show up and start to ruin our country.

The original Article 19 of the California Constitution said:

No Chinese shall be employed on any State, county, municipal, or other public work, except in punishment for crime. The presence of foreigners ineligible to become citizens of the United States is declared to be dangerous to the well-being of the State, and the legislature shall discourage their immigration by all the means within its power.

Terrorist sympathizers and collaborators are the type of vile and inhuman monsters who are the lawmakers of California. Loathsome, perfidious filth eradicating our liberty and freedom. Unjust laws must never be enforced, respected or obeyed. Especially when they are authored by foreign invaders; enemies of our country and our highest ideals, weaseling into political office, toiling to eliminate our human right to defend our nation, while secretly engaging in illegal gun trafficking with our enemies.

Other treasonous politicians want to hold gun manufacturers responsible when a person is killed with a firearm. That is an insane idea. We don’t hold knife manufacturers responsible when someone is stabbed. We don’t hold breweries responsible when someone is killed by a drunk driver. We don’t hold auto manufacturers responsible when someone smashes their car onto a sidewalk and plows over a dozen people. We don’t hold pillow makers responsible when a crazed husband smothers his wife. It doesn’t matter if a victim is killed with a lead pipe in the billiard room or a candlestick in the library, there isn’t one single tool used to commit murder where the public is stupid enough to blame the tool for the crime. Unless it’s a firearm. Then, people become completely ignorant and unreasonable. Blaming the gun is delusional. Just as it would be ludicrous to prosecute a knife manufacturer over the death of a stabbing victim, there is not one single shred of reason or logic in holding gun manufacturers responsible for someone being shot.

As patriots, you and I are obligated to uphold our most fundamental laws, and by extension, disobey all edicts which infringe upon them. Time and again, we have pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands. As president Abraham Lincoln said:

“Let every American, every lover of liberty, every well wisher to his posterity, swear by the blood of the Revolution, never to violate in the least particular, the laws of the country; and never to tolerate their violation by others. As the patriots of ’76 did to the support of the Declaration of Independence, so to the support of the Constitution and Laws, let every American pledge his life, his property, and his sacred honor; let every man remember that to violate the law, is to trample on the blood of his father, and to tear the character of his own, and his children’s liberty.”

With that in mind, I compel my fellow Americans to defy injustice, defend our rights against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and never obey anyone who attempts to undermine our freedom. Remember no officer or judge of any court in the land has any power or authority to enact or enforce laws which ignore our Constitution, and the moment they attempt to do so, they are committing treason, for which the penalty has never changed.

California is not a friendly State for a patriot. California is the heart of the Beast, filled with countless subversive politicians who hate our freedom. Never let any court or their cronies claim the state Constitution doesn’t include the right to keep and bear firearms. The first sentence undeniably reiterates that right three times over.

As a novelist, these issues are of vital importance to me, because I respect and admire the noble men and women who founded this great nation and as I cherish the poignant eloquence of beautifully crafted verse, I see it as my mission to reiterate the meaning of the freedoms they promised. I am boundlessly grateful for the liberty I have been afforded in my life due to our founders vision and sacrifice. The longer I live, the more I come to realize that in recompense for my lifetime of freedom, I am obligated to speak out in support of their righteous ideals and publicly condemn those who would seek to destroy them. Having reaped the benefits of individual sovereignty my entire life, it is my duty to maintain those rights for myself and for future generations of my fellow Americans in whatever manner Fate deems me to heed. For now, words are my weapons and I must endeavor to use them for attacks of grace and finesse.

In closing, I leave you with this thought boys and girls; the United States of America was not founded by submissive and law-abiding citizens. America was forged by gunslinging rebels and outlaws. Brave men and women who fought against the dictatorship of the English crown. People who were willing to kill and die for what they believed in. A country born from a lofty quintessential definition of freedom and self-governance that no other country in the history of the world has ever even attempted to achieve or define with the equivalent audacity and eloquence our Founders did. Preserving that freedom is what it meant to be an American patriot in 1776 and what it still means today. The American Revolution has never ended. Our struggle to maintain our sovereignty is a torch all citizens must bear forever. We may have defeated the Redcoats, but new combatants spring up in their place all the time. Not only are the enemies at the gate, but they are inside our walls. The wolves aren’t at the door. They’re in our livingrooms. They’re circling the crib. To maintain the centuries of autonomy that We the People have enjoyed, every true citizen of this great nation must continue to be willing to don the mantle of bandit and desperado, prepared to defend the Bill of Rights from all enemies foreign and domestic, and to eradicate tyranny in any form.

So remember, my compatriots, the Second Amendment and even the California state Constitution legally reiterates an inalienable human right that you are free to keep and bear firearms wherever and whenever you please. As Tony Stark once said, “That’s how America does it. And it’s worked out pretty well so far.”

Dear Hillary Clinton Supporters, This is Why You Lost
14 November 2016

Why did she lose?

How did this happen?

We can tell you. But you won’t like the answer.

You lost because “liberals” and “progressives” are only a small minority of the population and the media had you convinced you were an unstoppable majority.

In reality, you are nothing more than a tiny group of self-righteous and egocentric hypocrites, arrogantly belittling everyone who disagrees with you. You claim to support your buzzwords of “diversity” and “tolerance” and “acceptance” but the moment anyone questions your viewpoint, you disparage dissenters with vulgar labels.

Racist!

Bigot!

Sexist!

Homophobic!

Islamophobic!

Hateful!

Nazi!

Those are the only words you know. You can’t use your big words. Colleges are passing out coloring books and having “cry-ins” for you! You are children. Toddlers. When you don’t get your way, you attack fellow citizens in the streets like animals. Throwing tantrums like infants.

And you wonder why the majority of the nation doesn’t respect you? Your juvenile reactions reinforce our justification to ignore everything you represent.

You keep screaming things like, “WE WON’T BE SILENCED!”

We don’t need to silence you. You’re just starting to learn that we don’t need to listen.

Let’s do the math. 318 million people live in the United States. Only 60 million voted for Hillary Clinton. 60 million. That is a mere 18% of the country.

82% of your fellow Americans did not vote for Hillary Clinton. Think about that.

82% of the United States of America did not want Hillary Clinton to be president.

Only 18% of the country agrees with you. You are outnumbered more than 5 to 1. Despite what the media brainwashed you into believing, you aren’t even close to being a majority.

And you have no idea why.

Because the moment any mature adult tries to explain it to you, in a civilized manner, you cry, you weep, you “mourn”, you need healing, you need a “safe space”, you cover your ears and regurgitate your preprogrammed insults. Racist! Bigot! Sexist! Homophobic! Islamophobic! Hateful! Cisgendered White Power BASTARDS!

Why do you do that? You are still doing it now. You get on social media and tell everyone who didn’t vote for Hillary Clinton that we “Voted for hate” and “Support bigotry”. No. We don’t. That is why she lost. We are sick and tired of seeing celebrities and journalists trying to bully us into compliance. You honestly think that insulting us will compel us to obey you? When has that ever worked? When has mocking a group of people ever made them respect your opinion? Are you honestly that full of yourselves? You honestly think you are some kind of “holy warriors” and the other 82% of the country is filled with evil and xenophobic monsters? Really? You are that delusional? You know us. We are your friends and neighbors. We are your children and parents and coworkers. This is reality. This isn’t a dystopian fantasy novel. You are not “the chosen ones” battling the forces of darkness.

Why can’t you see the simple truth that being relentlessly condescending to 4/5ths of the country is the reason you lost? When will liberals learn that shaming people into conformity does not work? Crying that you are “offended” is not an adequate retort to vindicate your stance.

You have no idea how to engage in a genteel debate. You are incapable of participating in articulate discourse.

82% of your fellow Americans disagreed with you. 82% could see that Hillary was a deceptive nightmare.

The reason liberals find that so shocking is because you only listen to the media. They assured you that the coronation of Queen Hillary was inevitable. You never paid attention to reality. You believe blathering talkshow hosts. You trust celebrities on Twitter. You have faith in CNN polls. You get your news from Facebook feeds of people who agree with you. You remain sequestered on college campuses where you refuse to let anyone speak if they question your agenda. You think Saturday Night Live skits reflect the pulse of the nation.

Mainstream media is betraying you. Social media is feeding you what they want you to read. You never stop to consider, “Maybe if we mercilessly oppress and denigrate people with opposing views... they will never listen to us.”

Look at your beloved newscasters. Look at your braindead Hollywood actors. They are still pushing the same divisive rhetoric. They are still condescending to everyone that didn’t vote for their Queen. They learned nothing.

On 8 November 2016, you lost far more than an election. You lost the most powerful weapon you possessed - your veil of deception. We have to give you credit. Your dominance of the media worked. You had us convinced. We thought you were powerful. We thought Hillary was going to win. We thought traditional values were withering away and we believed you were changing the world. Changing it for the worse, but you were changing it. You tricked us. You succeeded. You hammered us and belittled us and silenced us at every turn and we truly thought you were winning. We thought you were taking over the nation. This election taught us, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were mistaken. In reality, there are very few of you. You represent a minuscule fraction of our society. The media gave you a loud mouthpiece to drown out all other voices, but there are far more of us than there are of you. We know that now. This election confirmed it. And we won’t forget it.

When you are done crying like babies, and finishing your coloring books, maybe you should wake up. Maybe you should try to make the world a better place by volunteering at a homeless shelter, instead of posting memes on Facebook. Maybe if you support women so much, you could assist at a rape crisis hotline, instead of retweeting Miley Cyrus. Maybe you should attempt to talk with people who disagree with you, instead of scorning them. Maybe you should try to find out why only 18% of the country thinks like you and your friends. Maybe you should accept the possibility that the other 82% of the nation knows something you don’t and we are nowhere near being as stupid as you presume us to be. Maybe those who have different opinions aren’t hateful, racist, sexist, xenophobic, redneck, bigots. Maybe you’re in the vast minority because you were wrong. And maybe the other 82% of your fellow Americans are not so deplorable after all.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe our true enemies are not one another, but rather, those who are constantly trying to divide us?

With Utmost Respect, Love & Unity,

The Flyover States

An Open Letter to Everytown Authors Council
1 June 2017

As a novelist, I believe freedom of speech is one of the most important human freedoms that American citizens have ordered our government to never interfere with.

Our next most vital right, second to our freedom, is our right to defend that freedom from all who would seek to take it away.

Any threat against our Second Amendment is a veiled threat against the First.

A few days ago, I found out about an initiative, funded by Michael Bloomberg, called the Everytown Authors Council, seeking to recruit fellow writers to encourage more gun laws.

As a National Rifle Association member, I hereby offer a challenge to all of those writers.

Come visit me in California.

Shoot some guns with me.

Educate yourself about firearms before you pass judgment on owning one.

I will shoot video of our meeting. I encourage you to do the same.

I will post our discussion and experiences online, so everyone can fairly see both of our viewpoints.

There are currently 130 writers who have volunteered to take part in the Everytown Authors Council. Part of their vow states, “we pledge to use our voices wherever and whenever we can, doing our part to help mobilize more Americans to help save lives.”

Okay. Here is a chance to honor your pledge. Use your voice to debate a fellow writer and let us discuss our views.

I look forward to seeing how many of you will accept my invitation.

Oh! Incidentally, I fully expect all 130 writers to ignore me and none of them will accept this invitation.

But if they do, can I please get an ammunition sponsor? Federal? Hornady? Winchester? Remington? Somebody? If I end up getting 10 people who agree, this is going to get expensive!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

In case you are wondering, after I posted this video on the Internet, and emailed every single author in question, not one of them responded to me... just as I predicted.

These people are terrified of a dialog.

They are only interested in a monologue of forcing their ideas on others. They fear having a rational discussion.

- Eric Muss-Barnes, January 2019

Invention
1 October 2017

Good morning. My name is Eric and I’ve invented a few new items to greatly benefit the world.

The first invention magically sends metal flying through the air.

The second invention wondrously sends metal rolling across the land.

The third invention stores massive quantities of water.

However, I must admit, these inventions do have their drawbacks. Each of them unintentionally end up killing people.

The third invention, swimming pools, are owned by 9 million people and accidentally kills 675 kids under the age of 14 every year.

The second invention, automobiles, are owned by 253 million people and causes the death of 33,804 people every year, including 1,083 children under 14.

But, I have good news! This first invention is the safest of them all. Over 357 million of these exist in the United States and it only harms 460 children and 11,000 adults. Plus, every year, this invention successfully protects over 67,000 men, women and children from being preyed upon by violent criminals.

Not only do firearms kill less adults than cars and less children than drowning, but, guns exist in greater numbers than cars and swimming pools combined. While those who hate our Constitution try to make the 11,000 annual firearm deaths sound like a bad thing, they fail to remind you that most of those 11,000 people are not innocent victims. Many of those deaths are the muggers, murders and rapists being shot in self-defense by police or civilians protecting their families. Guns are by far the least deadly of all these inventions. Maybe the media has been lying to you about how dangerous they are. Imagine that. It wouldn’t be the first time.

As a novelist, I believe the First Amendment and freedom of speech is the most important right reiterated in our Constitution. Never forget, every assault on the Second Amendment is a veiled attack on the First. The day you relinquish your right to defend yourself, you lose the freedom to speak your mind.

The State Flag of New California
29 January 2018

If my fellow Americans recall their American history, you remember the state of Virginia suffered from a great deal of political turmoil during the Civil War. As a result, residents from West Virginia decided to secede from Virginia and create a new state. This was not a quick and easy process. In fact, from the first stirrings of creating West Virginia until the day the federal government recognized West Virginia as a state, took about 60 years.

Today, there is a great deal of political contention in the state of California. As a result, there are a number of movements among California residents to secede from California and create a new state.

Treasonous socialists are looking to leave the United States and turn California into an independent country. As a patriotic American, I do not support them, as they are traitors to the United States.

Others are proposing the creation of three states - Northern California, Southern California and Central California. While this is a better solution, it’s unrealistic. Dividing California into two states offers a difficult challenge. Dividing it into three states only further complicates things and therefore makes it less likely to succeed. Plus, that type of secession doesn’t unite the proper political demographics. I can’t support that either.

In the past few weeks, I heard about a movement that I passionately support. The idea is to create a state called New California from the central and eastern counties of California, while leaving the coastal cities and counties untouched. In my opinion, this is a brilliant idea. It’s simple. It requires none of the coastal counties to change anything. They would still remain California. But the rest of us, the patriots who believe in the Bill of Rights, devoted Americans who hold the Declaration of Independence as sacred, and who have sworn to kill and die in defense of the Constitution, can live as free men and women in New California.

Personally, I have complete faith in New California and I think it is only a matter of time before it becomes a reality. Hopefully, unlike West Virginia, it won’t take 60 years to happen.

Being inspired by the ideology of this movement, I decided I could contribute by designing the state flag of New California. There was one being used already, but I felt I could improve upon it.

Most modern flags are designed to follow rules of color combinations, established centuries ago, from medieval coats of arms. The artistry of drawing and establishing these guidelines was known as “heraldry”.

All heraldic designs used a number of primary colors known as “tinctures”. These tinctures were divided into two main groups. There were two “metals” and five “colors”.

METALS:

Gold/Yellow (known as “Or”)

Silver/White (known as “Argent”)

COLORS:

Red (known as “Gules”)

Black (known as “Sable”)

Blue (known as “Azure”)

Green (known as “Vert”)

Purple (known as “Purpure”)

One of the most basic and important rules regarding tinctures in heraldic design is to never overlap colors or metals. The reason being - the human eye has a difficult time seeing the contrast between these color combinations from a distance.

You can only place metals on colors, or colors on metals.

The whole point of flags and coats of arms painted upon shields was to quickly identify friend from foe on the battlefield. When you were preparing to fire an arrow at someone 600 feet away, you had to make sure the person holding that shield was your enemy, not your ally.

Modern state flags follow these rules as well. For those who may think these “rules” are outdated and never used anymore, you use them every day. Modern traffic signs follow the standards of “colors on metals” and “metals on colors”, as a way to assure they can be read from a distance, while driving at high speeds.

The original New California flag design proposed by Sutter County, California has a number of flaws.

Based upon the previous explanation of the history of heraldry and some of the rationale and reasoning behind flag designs, you can quickly spot numerous flaws in the layout of this flag.

The field is an odd coloring of maroon, instead of a primary color. Plus, it uses a gradient, slowly blending from a dark, almost black maroon on top, to a much lighter maroon on the bottom.

The center stripe is azure on top of maroon. This is a color atop a color and goes against the rules of vivid contrast. Likewise, the canton in the upper left contains a gold star in a silver field, which is a metal on top of a metal.

The gold star is not a solid color, but rather an embossed image with a beveled edge. Again, this kind of embellishment is never used on flags or shield devices. Colors are solid, so they can be easily seen and reproduced. Gradients and beveling are not design elements that are ever used.

The text of “New California” is strangely offset. Instead of being centered in the stripe, it is pushed to the right in a way that looks unbalanced.

The motto of “A More Perfect Union” conforms to the tincture rules properly (gold atop a color) but again, it is offset in a rather uneven way. Pushed slightly to the right of center, it feels unbalanced and awkward.

Despite the numerous tincture flaws with this design, the overall layout is very balanced and aesthetically pleasing. In my design, I have tried to mirror some of these design elements (a similarly-positioned stripe and canton) in honor of this first flag design.

There are numerous historical flags which served as an inspiration for my design of the New California flag.

First is the “Gadsden Flag” from the Revolutionary War. This symbol of the rattlesnake was one of the first flags used by American colonists as the initial stirrings against the British Empire began.

Another inspiration is the current national flag of the United States of America, Old Glory with her blue canton of 50 white stars and 13 stripes to represent our founding colonies.

A flag that has been adopted in recent years as a way to honor the efforts of police and firefighter first responders are the “thin blue line” and the “thin red line” flags, which are black and white versions of the American flag, with a single stripe turned to blue or red.

Finally, there are design elements from the California State flag (namely the upper left star) which serves as a reminder of the origins of the state of New California.

Here is my proposed design for the state flag of New California including all the reasons and symbolism behind the design.

First, the aspect ratio of the flag is 19:10 which matches the current national flag of the United States of America.

The foundation of the flag is a yellow field, in honor of the “Gadsden Flag” from the American Revolution.

In the upper left is a blue quarter, matching the blue used in the canton of Old Glory. For balance and symmetry, it is a quarter instead of a canton.

Beneath the quarter is a red stripe 1/13 the height of the flag, as a way to represent the current American flag stripes. This design also respects and pays homage to the “thin red line” and “thin blue line” honorary flags for police and firefighters.

Within the red stripe are 13 five-pointed stars (known as a “mullet” in medieval heraldry) to honor the original 13 colonies of the United States.

Finally, the blue quarter contains a large yellow star to represent an individual state and an acknowledgment hearkening back to the red star on the California Republic flag.

Coloring conforms to medieval heraldic rules of tinctures and metals for maximum visibility.

The red and blue colors are designed to match the colors of Old Glory as faithfully as possible. Based on color information published by the American Legion, these are the color standards which should be used.

Red:

RGB: 191r, 41g, 48b

CMYK: 12c, 95m, 75y, 0k

Blue:

RGB: 0r, 40g, 104b

CMYK: 100c, 52m, 0y, 48k

Yellow:

RGB: 251r, 217g, 0b

CMYK: 100c, 52m, 0y, 48k

Heraldic Blazon:

Or, on a fess gules, thirteen mullets argent, on a quarter azure, a mullet or

Finally, while the flag of the United States of America is nicknamed “Old Glory”, the nickname for the New California state flag is the “New Guard”, in honor of the Declaration of Independence line which states, “when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.”

BOOK REVIEW: “The Essential Ellison” by Harlan Ellison
13 December 2013

Harlan Ellison is one of my favorite authors of all time. You like him too, you just might not know it. In a career spanning more than 50 years, he has written novels and short stories and Twilight Zone episodes and Outer Limits episodes and worked on Babylon 5 and been published in magazines and newspapers composing everything from fiction to sports essays. My introduction to his writing came by way of the new Twilight Zone episodes in the 1980’s and his wonderful rants and essays and commentaries in various interviews on the SciFi Channel. After that, I saw him doing promotional work on Tom Snyder for his wonderful book Mindfields and the writing in that book really solidified things for me. Since then, I’ve been trying to go back and read all of his previous works. Well, not all of it. The man has published over 1700 stories, most of which are out-of-print, so I’ll ever read all of them.

Harlan prides himself on being a writer. Not an author. Not a novelist. A writer. Plain and simple. And if you try to pigeonhole his writing into a particular genre, he’ll punch you in the mouth harder than I will when you try to stick my writing into a genre. He loathes the idea of being categorized into a particular style or type of writing and his varied career of more than five decades has proven his immense diversity and worthiness of being acknowledged to writing not genres, but Harlan Ellison stories. From speculative fiction to memoirs to journalistic essays and commentaries, Harlan defies categorizing at every turn.

The best compendium of his commentaries and short stories is a massive 1200-page volume called The Essential Ellison, published by Morpheus International. Note there are two versions of The Essential Ellison. One with a yellow cover, which is a 35 year retrospective and another with a maroon cover, which is a 50 year retrospective. I obviously suggest you get the 50 year version, since it has more content.

His writing is so glorious that a majority of the more than 75 stories are quite memorable. I don’t want this review to take an hour of your time, so I’ll just focus on a small handful of stories that stood out the most to me. The stories which, when you read them before bed, continue to haunt you into the next afternoon.

“The Resurgence Of Miss Ankle-Strap Wedgie” is an exceptionally long short story. In fact, I think it may be the longest piece in the book. The story is about an old movie starlet who gets a second chance in Hollywood. I have to tell you, based on that description, this isn’t the kind of story I’d ever be interested in reading. However, it’s truly one of the best stories I’ve ever read. Not just the best Harlan Ellison story, but the best story. Period. Again, it goes back to what I tell people all the time - storytelling isn’t about the story, it’s about the telling. The idea for the story is boring. An old Hollywood starlet comes back to do a movie? Who cares? Who wants to read that? But Harlan tells the story so beautifully, so poetically, it has become one of my favorite stories of all time. As a writer, it’s the kind of story that makes me throw the book across the bed and go, “Oh, man. Fuck this. I suck. I totally suck.”

Normally, I’m very confident in my writing. I often read stories and think I could have written that just as well. For most authors, I think I could do better than that. But when a writer like Harlan is in peak form, I just think, “Damnit, I couldn’t have come close to this.” That’s how “The Resurgence Of Miss Ankle-Strap Wedgie” made me feel. I couldn’t have come close to writing something that beautiful and eloquent.

I don’t want to give away any of the plot, but I will say, the story has a rather unexpected ending. It’s certainly not a happy ending. But it isn’t tragic either. Let’s call it, bittersweet. That’s why I love the story so much. Like life itself, it’s often not sunshine and rainbows, but it’s not darkness and despair either. Frequently, it’s just enough to keep us afloat. We can sail blissfully along and savor the beautiful blue skies, and there may not be a hurricane on the horizon, but it does look like rain.

“The Deathbird” is a story I am horribly depressed to have discovered at this time of my life. The story was published before I was born and I wish I had read “The Deathbird” when I was 10 years old. If only the ideas in that tale could have influenced me from a gradeschool age. The story revolves around a character having to confront God at the end of the world and discovering that God has always been the war-mongering bad guy of the universe and the Devil is the benevolent creator. I’m going to admit it right now, I’m going to use that idea. A mad god. The lord of light is actually the good guy. That floored me. That idea was such a gutpunch, I’m going to have to use it in a future story of my own. I’m not some asshole plagiarizer. I’ll give full credit to Harlan for the inspiration. But “The Deathbird” story really changed my life. It was an extra cog in the gears of my destiny that went - CLICK! - and slightly altered my course and I went, “Oh, wow! That was unexpected!” What if the “bad guy” of the universe had tricked all of humanity into thinking he was the good guy and he caused wars and strife and animosity to pit man against man? Such a simple idea. Such a disturbing idea. And one that utterly changes the entire course of Abrahamic religious history. Still can’t believe I didn’t find it when I was 10 years old. That would have been great.

One of the most disturbing stories I have ever read is “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream”. For years, I have heard the title of this famous Harlan Ellison story, but I had no idea why it was so famous. People all call it a classic work of science fiction. That’s a load of crap! This is a horror story! Just because it has computers in it doesn’t make it science fiction. This story is straight up ghastly. I don’t like horror stories. I like Twilight Zone creepy stuff. I don’t like dark and terrifying. “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” is dark and terrifying. So, that’s just my public service announcement to people. Don’t go reading this thinking it’s science fiction. No. It’s not. You’ve been lied to. This isn’t science fiction. It’s a total nightmare. Harlan has claimed that he wrote the story in about 6 hours and I have to give him credit. As much as I disliked the story for being unsettling and horrifying, he managed to create something in 6 hours that will be burned into my brain for the rest of my life. This is a story you will never forget. These days, many movies and books and even television shows have greatly pushed the boundaries of shock and terror. Movies especially are becoming tastelessly violent. Even by today’s standards in 2014, “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” is gruesome and brutal. I can’t imagine the reception it must have gotten when it was originally written in 1967. When you finish the story, you will want to look at pictures of puppydogs and kittens or get laid on a tropical beach. Just something to wake you up out of the dread so you can say, “Ah, okay. Life is still beautiful. The world is a wonderful place. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts!”

I do have one criticism of “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” and since the story has been around for over 40 years, I’m sure I’m not the first person to say this, but... the story revolves around an artificial intelligence named AM torturing the last five human beings in existence, out of his hate for being confined to a prison of circuitry. So, why didn’t they just give AM some legs? Right? If he was so pissed off about being entombed in circuit boards, just stick him in an android body. Problem solved!

Those three stories probably stood out for me the most. Nevertheless, there were many other stories that lingered in the mind long after I read them.

“The Whimper of Whipped Dogs” is very unsettling and has a wonderful sinister poetry to it, about a person witnessing a murder in a New York apartment complex. Perhaps the real horror of the story is how real it feels. A frightening commentary on the apathy and complacency of our culture. Humanity is truly nothing more than a pack of vicious demons parading around in clothing.

I love “Valerie: A True Memoir” because, goodness knows, I’ve known my share of Valerie viper ladies. Thankfully, I’ve never been stung so sharply as Harlan was in this story, but I could still relate.

“The Tombs” is a sobering account of his time spent in the New York City prison system. His descriptions are enough to make any law abiding citizen remain steadfast on the straight and narrow. You know those television programs where they take troubled kids and make them spend a day in prison, in order to scare them into straightening out their lives? You don’t need to do all of that. Just spend an evening reading “The Tombs” and you’ll achieve the same effect.

“From Alabamy, With Hate” is a true account of Harlan joining a Selma to Montgomery civil rights march in the south in 1965. The simple fact he made it out alive is worthy of a story.

“Jeffty is Five” is a story about a little boy who never ages and feels like a Twilight Zone episode I’ve seen, even though I know, no such episode exists. Something about the story makes it so easy to visualize, you can almost see a fuzzy 1985 copy on VHS and watch credits roll on the screen as it plays in your head.

“Neither Your Jenny Nor Mine” follows characters to Mexico for a cheap illegal abortion and was something that I’m grateful I can’t relate to in any way, but the haunting quality of that tale was something you can’t shake for an hour or so.

I found “Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes”, a story about a strangely enchanted slot machine in Vegas, to be a little predictable. But Harlan makes up for a predictable plot with gorgeous prose. As I’ve said many times, it’s not the “story”, it’s the “telling”, and he does tell this one so bewitchingly well.

“A Boy And His Dog” was Mad Max before Mad Max. There is a reason that “A Boy And His Dog” is considered a classic. Of course, in order to consider it a classic, you have to know what love is.

“The Museum on Cyclops Avenue” was a story I adored simply for the descriptions and the concepts of love and loss. Once again, Harlan manages to present a story idea I never imagined before. What happens when you finally meet the perfect woman, but you’re not good enough for her?

“Xenogenesis”, the final story in the book, and the final story I’ll mention in this review, is the most horrifying of all, because it recounts stories not only from the experiences of Harlan Ellison, but from that of other famous authors, about strange and inappropriate confrontations with psychotic fans. In all honesty, it’s enough to make aspiring authors cease their aspirations. Anyone who dreams of being famous need only read “Xenogenesis” and they may begin to reconsider the price of fame.

If you are unfamiliar with Harlan Ellison, The Essential Ellison is a fantastic introduction. This book showcases a vast diversity of his writing and among it’s 1200 pages, you’re treated to an excellent cross section of his prolific body of work. I love this book so much, I actually converted a copy into an ebook so I could have a backup on my Kindle. This is one I truly can’t recommend enough. This is a must-have title from one of the most influential authors of our time. At the time of this review, The Essential Ellison was out-of-print. So, it may be a little difficult to find a copy. I was lucky enough to acquire one of the last new copies, direct from the publisher, for a fee slightly higher than the cover price. I now polish it with a diaper. This is the 1961 Ferrari 250GT California of books. I therefore leave you with the immortal words of Ferris Bueller, “It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.”

BOOK REVIEW: “Mind Fields” by Harlan Ellison
27 December 2013

Mindfields is a book of short stories by Harlan Ellison, inspired by the mythic glory of paintings by Polish artist, Jacek Yerka.

Mindfields, I’m ashamed to admit, is the first Harlan Ellison book I ever bought. Ashamed because I was over the age of 20 when it was published and Harlan Ellison almost instantly became one of my favorite authors of all time, and I regret I wasn’t buying his books from the moment I could read.

Jacek Yerka paintings are so vibrant and imaginative, even the most uncreative cynic would become charmed with the sense of life and depth within them. His paintings move. They breathe. They sting with snakebite fire.

In the hands of Harlan Ellison, he bleeds the visions dry, squeezing every pulpy drop of venom from every nook and cranny. No detail is missed. No pore is unexamined. No brushstroke is ignored.

Although Harlan Ellison is one of the most prolific and award-winning authors of our time, during the late 20th and early 21st centuries, there are still going to be those of you who are unfamiliar with his work. Allow me to read you one of my favorite passages from Mindfields, a story entitled “The Silence”...

This is the cathedral in which your cowardice has been enshrined. The silence of the pulpit is the silence we heard when you did not answer cries for help. In the eaves of this place are the festooned remnants of the friends you did not come to assist. In the darkened rooms of rotted staircases are the tattered faces of lovers you betrayed - here your mother, there your father, both gone now and neither with any degree of calm or joy. Here is the sanctuary of your lost chances. There is no pastor, no choir, no stewards, no supplicants. It is a congregation of one. You will worship here all the remaining days of your life and at night your spirit will kneel on broken glass in the pews.

That one chills me everytime I read it. How I love authors who write prose as poetry.

Mindfields is not only a fantastic introduction to one of the living legends of imaginative literature, but also serves as a beautiful collection of some of the finest examples of surreal art being created during our lifetimes. Ellison inspired by Yerka is a beauty to behold. This is Shakespeare inspire by DaVinci. This is Bradbury inspired by Dali. Yeats inspired by Michaelangelo.

The thing I love the most about Mindfields is the flow of said inspiration veritably spills off the page. Between the brilliant combination of Jacek’s imagery and Harlan’s stories, it’s impossible for your own imagination to cease churning. One look at the paintings and stories start forming in your own head. Then you read Harlan’s prose and the paintings nearly come to life. You fear waters may drip upon your floor, so you hold the book less upright. You fear monsters may nip at your fingertips, so you draw your hand to the edge of the pages. No longer paintings, the images become windows to real worlds. That’s what makes Mindfields a unique work of art. A prime example of two artforms converging to create something greater than the sum of its parts. Mindfields is more than a book of beautiful artwork; more than a book of glorious short stories. Instead it’s a genuine gateway to imagination, opening doorways to otherworldly possibilities no story or image could do alone. Therein lies the power of Mindfields. Melding two incredible artists to conjure something entirely new.

Not long ago in my career as a writer, I had the great honor of being a very small part of a project similar to Mindfields called Tales From the Dark Tower. Dark fantasy artist Joe Vargo had created a number of paintings for the Tales From the Dark Tower anthology and I had the privilege of being one of the writers who contributed to it. With all due respect to the talents of Joe Vargo, I’m sure he would agree, we are no Yerka and Ellison. Nevertheless, Tales From the Dark Tower showed me a small hint of how excited Ellison must have felt when he wrote Mindfields.

My only negative comment? The book is too short. Too thin. I would have loved for it to be two, three, four times as long! Every page is a wonder to behold and I would that they numbered into the hundreds.

This is a creation I can’t recommend enough and encourage you to go buy it. This is truly a life enriching book that must be on your shelf and it will do what all great works of art should - take you to places more spellbinding than you have ever dreamed.

BOOK REVIEW: “Ariel” by Steven R. Boyett
2 January 2014

When I was a teenager and first realized my desire to become a novelist, the very first book I went out and found was at a bookstore in Parmatown Mall in Parma, Ohio called B. Dalton’s Booksellers. That book was called Ariel by Steven R. Boyett. I didn’t know it at the time, but Steven Boyett is only 5 years older than me. He wrote Ariel when he was still a teenager too. I’m glad I was blissfully unaware of this fact or it may have been horribly intimidating to know someone so young had written something so fantastic.

Originally published in 1983, although it is not a very well-known book, Ariel is credited by many as being one of the very first true urban fantasy novels. This wasn’t a book sending characters from our world into a fantasy world. This wasn’t a book mixing magic with the real world. This was a book that actually transformed our world into the fantasy.

The story takes place in our world after an event known as “The Change” and follows a young man named Pete Garey who befriends a unicorn he names Ariel. The Change happened spontaneously and inexplicably, one ordinary afternoon, and thereafter all devices using gunpowder, complex mechanics, or electricity, suddenly stopped working. Cars stopped in the streets. Planes fell from the sky. Weapons ceased to fire. And magical creatures reappeared and began to roam the towns and countrysides of earth.

Ariel has always held a special place in my heart, because it was the first novel I ever discovered on my own. Before Ariel, every book I read was recommended by a teacher, or based on a movie, or was something a friend told me about.

Ariel was unique.

Ariel was the first time I ever walked into a bookstore and found the book on the shelf and bought it.

Something about that made me feel grown up.

Mature. Responsible.

With Ariel, for the first time in my life, I was choosing my own adventure (not to be confused with the Choose Your Own Adventure books). I was taking command of my path. Picking my destiny.

Because of that, I’m also grateful I picked a great book. Would have sucked if my first foray into reading had been total crap!

The youth of Steven Boyett shows through in Ariel. The story itself has a darling innocence and naivete about it. I’ve seen some reviews of Ariel wherein people claim you need to be of a certain age to appreciate the story. Insinuating it’s just for kids.

I disagree.

To fall in love with the purity of a unicorn, you need to have kept your own innocence. Most people develop a particular sort of cynicism that makes a book like Ariel difficult to enjoy. When that veneer of too many disappointments, too many betrayals, too many vices, encases your soul, you start getting angry when you see people who are running around without being encrusted in the same tainted shell. Those bitter people won’t understand talking unicorns. Those people are dead already, because they have lost the part of their soul that used to dream.

That’s not to say Ariel is all rainbows and unicorns. Necromancers and unicorns in a dark dystopian post-apocalypse, sure. But there are no puppies or lollipops. There are demons and samurai and griffins. Maybe some Brach’s Peppermint Candy, but no lollipops.

Ariel is the kind of story with characters that become your friends. You go on that road with them. Pete is a little cynical. Ariel is a little sassy. And I think those traits are the ones we love most in our friends. No one likes some phony happy-go-lucky jerk who pretends to always shit sunshine and strawberries. We all like someone with a little sarcasm and snide.

Ariel had such a strong effect on me as a teenager I kept on forgetting it was only a book.

At one point, in junior high, I remember thinking I didn’t really need to worry about picking a high school because once The Change happened, I wouldn’t be going to school anymore. I’d be fighting to survive in the post-apocalyptic aftermath.

Awakening from that recurring daydream kind of freaked me out.

That was the first moment when I realized I may have been taking the story a little too seriously.

But isn’t that what all great books do to us? Make us get so lost in their world, we start to forget where the dream ends.

Anyway, it’s a wonderful story about first love, and magic, and the tragedy of losing the soulmate you can’t have, so you can be with someone you can. Damn, I never knew I’d have to learn that lesson for real. Bet you never expected that one to happen to you either, did you? There are many other lessons to be learned from the novel as well. Other morals and themes, to be sure, but I refuse to wax philosophical on them by cramming my head too far up my rectum like most critics, because that just puts a crimp in my neck I don’t need.

Ariel was out of print shortly after the 1983 debut, but came back into print in 2009. I suggest you pick up a copy as soon as possible. After all, you don’t want it to go out of print again. You need to make sure you have your own book as both a survival guide and as a history of the world, once The Change happens. Pays to be prepared. You never know. The Change could be coming any day now.

BOOK REVIEW: “Illusions” by Richard Bach
4 January 2014

Having unfortunately been duped by propaganda to believe the deranged and twisted mythologies of Abrahamic deathcults (fraught with crucifixions and bloody sacrifices to vengeful gods) were actually real, I didn’t find any path to spiritual enlightenment until I reached the age of 14 and finally began to think for myself, breaking free from the brainwashing dogmas of those hideous institutions. Thankfully, I never became a catamite to a clergyman in order to discover their sacred texts were pretty much evil incarnate, but I do lament that it took the better part of a decade to renounce their deceitful fictions. Would that I were only raised to accept J.R. “Bob” Dobbs as a beacon of salvation, at least I could have had a moneyback guarantee!

Consequently, I can sincerely say, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach is the type of book I wish I had discovered at the age of 8 instead of 20. Had I found it sooner in my life, I may have been able to abandon the egomaniacal lies expounded by Messianic theology that much more quickly. Perhaps I would have become a bit wiser a bit sooner, and I would have ceased being so clueless when I was much younger than 14 years old.

But, as the old saying goes, “You can’t second-guess fate.”

For those who are wondering, yes, I am quite deliberately speaking of these topics using such a convoluted mire of haughty terminology because I know that intelligent people will follow what I’m talking about and a majority of the zealous zombies indoctrinated by theistic idiocy will have no clue what the hell I’m saying. I grew up with a number of people, bless their souls, who couldn’t follow the vocabulary of Johnny Carson, let alone Dennis Miller.

While I may bemoan that the age of 20 was a far older age than I would have preferred to discover this book, things happen in their due time and perhaps Illusions came into my life at exactly the right moment. To quote from the introduction of Illusions:

“Perhaps it is no coincidence that you’re holding this book; perhaps there’s something about these adventures that you came here to remember. I choose to think so. And I choose to think my messiah is perched out there on some other dimension, not fiction at all, watching us both, and laughing for the fun of it happening just the way we planned it to be.”

Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach tells the story of a mechanic who befriends a barnstormer. The mechanic, named Donald Shimoda, is the eponymous messiah. The book follows their meeting and developing friendship over the course of a few days where the barnstormer gains a lot of wisdom about life and learns that Donald Shimoda isn’t the crackpot that most people would presume him to be. The story is wonderful. Full of deep insights and a kind of taoist existential view of the universe that can change your life. This is why you must find this book at the proper age for you. Too young and you won’t understand it. Too old and you may be too set in your ways to consider the possibilities. But, when you’re old enough to be questioning and young enough to still be searching, Illusions will find you.

Never will I forget when and where Illusions found me for the first time.

I was already a fan of Richard Bach and I had read a number of his books. One afternoon in circa 1991, I found myself in a bookstore in downtown Cleveland and I already had a number of books in hand that I wanted to buy. However, being dirt poor, I couldn’t afford all of them. I had to be careful which ones I picked to purchase. So, I decided I would open Illusions to a random page and read what was there. If the text on that page really spoke to me, I would buy the book.

I shut my eyes and flipped it open and read the words:

“Perspective - Use It or Lose It. If you turned to this page, you’re forgetting that what is going on around you is not reality. Think about that. Remember where you came from, where you’re going, and why you created the mess you got yourself into in the first place. You’re going to die a horrible death, remember. It’s all good training, and you’ll enjoy it more if you keep the facts in mind. Take your dying with some seriousness, however. Laughing on the way to your execution is not generally understood by less advanced lifeforms, and they’ll call you crazy.”

Gasping, I slammed the book shut. Needless to say, I nearly had a heart attack. And shit myself. Seizure. Incontinence. Simultaneously.

What the fuck!?

A horrible death!? Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Hold on a second. That’s metaphorical, right? Metaphorical death? Metaphorical execution? We’re not talking literal, here. Right? I want to die peacefully in my sleep at the age of 105 after a night of having sex with my 20 year old lingerie model girlfriend. That’s how I plan to go out. Not a horrible execution. Shit, man, I was just asking if I should buy a book. I wasn’t asking for metaphysical premonitions of being executed! What the fuck is that about!?

When I said I wanted the book to speak to me, I was not expecting the thing to answer me so literally.

Needless to say, there was no way that book was going back on the shelf. This thing was coming home with me.

Ultimately, that’s what Illusions became in my life - a book that truly speaks to me. In the decades since I first discovered the book, there are still quotes and lines that have stuck with me and resonated and remain just as true and profound and relevant today as they were when I first read them. The book became the sort of story you give to girls you are dating, to test them; to see if they “get it” or not. Girl doesn’t like Illusions, she’s not going to be the right kind of girl for me. That was how important the book became. When you use a book to test people you’re sleeping with, you know it’s a damn good book. Some girls passed. Some girls failed. And sure enough, the ones who passed ended up being some of the best girls I ever dated.

Those lemmings who are still blindly following devious men preaching imaginary edicts of insane and hateful gods, will most likely not comprehend or enjoy a book like Illusions. However, those of you who know how to communicate directly with the wonderment of the universe, circumventing the antiquated mendacities of ecclesiastical catechisms, will find the story to be a profound revelation. Knowing there has been at least one other soul in the universe to see things the way you do will be enough to restore some of your dissipated faith in humanity. Something like Illusions may not help you wizened souls view any aspect of life in a new way, but rather, help you to see you are not the only savior yearning to leave your post.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that you came across this review; perhaps there’s something about this book that you came here to remember. I choose to think so. And I choose to think all the joy of the universe is watching us both, and laughing for the fun of it happening just the way we planned it to be.

BOOK REVIEW: “The Killing Joke” by Alan Moore
6 January 2014

Oh, I’m so tired of Batman. Movies. Comics. Television. Internet parodies. There’s just too much of the guy.

I grew up with Adam West playing Batman. Then you had Michael Keaton play Batman which was a cultural phenomenon in 1989. Then you had and Val Kilmer and George Clooney but nobody saw those. I read The Dark Knight by Frank Miller and really, I was done by that point.

That’s why I am one of the only people on earth who never saw any of the Christopher Nolan Batman films starring Christian Bale. Plus, the whole Christian Bale voice just made me laugh in all the trailers. What was up with that? I think it was supposed to be sinister and intimidating but instead it was completely hilarious. That goofy voice made Batman no more sinister than the 1960’s television show with Adam West. Seriously, I was baffled by how audiences could be saying these movies were so dark and brooding when he was doing that hysterical voice. Christian Bale as Batman talks exactly the same way I did when I was 5 years old making prank phonecalls and trying to sound like a grownup.

Once I found out that Tim Burton and Christopher Nolan were both inspired by The Killing Joke, I knew I had no need to ever see another Batman movie because I had already read The Killing Joke in 1988. Why bother watching multiple movie adaptations 25 years later? I’ve already seen the movie in my head. Nothing they put on film can top what I’ve already envisioned.

The Killing Joke, written by Alan Moore and drawn by Brian Bolland, is considered by many to be one of those turning point kind of comics. The kind of story that skewed Batman, and indeed the comic book industry itself, into a whole new way of thinking. As graphic novels go, The Killing Joke isn’t very long. As graphic novels go, The Killing Joke is downright paltry. Truthfully, it’s a comic book. It’s too short to legitimately qualify as a graphic novel. But the story. Wow. When this comic book came out, the story was utterly shocking. This was most definitely not the Batman of Adam West. This was not campy. This was Batman in a very brutal and sadistic world. The Joker was no longer a joke. He was finally portrayed as the terrifying homicidal maniac that any true villain happens to be. And yet, there remains a great beauty and human element to the story. The good guys and bad guys are not clear cut; they are not black and white and one-dimensional representations of good and evil. For all the horrendous violence and psychosis in the story, it also inspires a heartbreaking sympathy for The Joker. His origins, as revealed in The Killing Joke, make you feel genuine pity for this monstrously deranged psychopath. When you find out what awful things the world has done to him, you start to understand why he became The Joker, and although his actions can not be condoned, they become easier to comprehend. The Joker begins the story as a genuinely decent man, but the circumstances by which he descends into his fate of becoming this fiendish criminal are a tragic and cumulative succession of misfortunes which are simply heartwrenching.

Many people often mention the fact that Alan Moore, the author of The Killing Joke, has since derided the book. In a 2000 interview he said, “I don’t think it’s a very good book. It’s not saying anything very interesting.” Later, he went on to say, “I know that I’ve slagged The Killing Joke pretty remorselessly since it first came out. I mean, when I go into a sulk about something, you know, it lasts for decades... The Killing Joke is probably not as bad as I’ve painted it. There have certainly been worse things done with Batman or with a lot of other superheroes for that matter. So in context, The Killing Joke wasn’t as bad a book as I’ve said it was, probably.”

But you have to keep in mind, we’re talking about Alan Moore. If you know anything about him, he’s a very artsy artist. Eccentric is the word. He looks like the bastard lovechild of Dan Haggerty and Charles Manson. I’ve never met the man. Never talked to him. But from what I’ve seen in interviews and whatnot, you can tell, he’s the kind of creative individual who is very caught up in his own headspace. And that’s okay. That’s not an insult to the man. That’s the way many of us are. Most writers take a strong dislike to most of their past work. Goodness knows there are aspects of things I’ve written 20 years ago that makes me cringe. Hell, there are things I’ve written 20 weeks ago that make me cringe. We are supposed to dislike older works. That proves we are learning and evolving and perfecting the craft of writing. When you’re a 97 year old writer, you should look back at the books you wrote when you were 80 years old and be disappointed that you didn’t really know what you were doing. You made mistakes. You messed a few things up. The rest of the world may hail you as a genius, and sometimes, you have those golden paragraphs of such divine clarity that even your own massive ego can scarcely believe you wrote them, but no matter how perfect your narcissism tells you that you are, you know you always fall a little short of what you thought it could have been.

That’s a long winded way of saying, “The book is pretty awesome, so take Alan Moore’s self-doubt with a grain of salt.”

If you’re the sort of person who never reads comic books, The Killing Joke is a great place to start. The themes are very mature and adult and the story is certainly not intended for young children. The Killing Joke is an R-rated movie that has been drawn in comic book form. Pick it up. Check it out. Read it for yourself. By the standards of today, in 2013, it may not hold the same shock value it once had, but just remember, when this story was published in 1988 it was a groundbreaking creation.

Go read The Killing Joke. This book has certainly earned well-deserved recognition, not only in the world of comic books, but in the world of literary influences as well.

BOOK REVIEW: “The Secret Garden” by Frances Hodgson Burnett
8 January 2014

“What does it matter if something is old? Charles Dickens said any book you haven’t read is a new book. What does it matter whether it’s old?... I don’t understand what this lemming-like dementia is about constantly having new stuff. When was the last time you read the totality of Steinbeck or Faulkner or Katherine Anne Porter or Shirley Jackson? Everybody always wants something new, new, new - and that’s what’s killing life for writers. This dementia for ‘new’ is ridiculous. It turns everybody into a back number... We’re dealing with a more and more illiterate and amnesiac constituency. It’s impossible to get a readership that will follow you, because all they know is what they knew yesterday... And so when I hear this what-are-you-doing-lately thing, or that the Edgeworks books are bringing back all of my older books, I say, ‘Yeah, they’re real old books - like five years old!’ See, I do go off on these things. And if you ask the wrong question, I get real cranky.”

- Harlan Ellison

That quote from Harlan Ellison begins all of my [video] reviews because I agree with him so passionately on that point.

Few authors are more appropriate to supersede such a quote than Frances Hodgson Burnett of Manchester. This woman wrote her books over 100 years ago and they are just as wonderful and poignant today as they were back then. Too often, language and slang can change so drastically books become difficult to understand. Read a book that was written in English 100 years ago and it’s pretty easy to follow. But when you go back 200 years. 300 years. 400 years. As language evolves, it starts to get a little harder to decipher. Frances Hodgson Burnett is so eloquent, all of her stories sound like they were written yesterday. As an novelist myself, I can only hope that a century from now, someone is talking about me and how much they continue to love my books as well.

The Secret Garden is probably the second-most famous of all the books Frances Hodgson Burnett has written. Originally published in 1910, as of 2013, there have been no less than 3 film adaptations of it - one in 1919 starring Lila Lee (sadly, this version is apparently lost), one in 1949 starring Margaret O’Brien, and one in 1993 starring Kate Maberly (who, incidentally, grew up to be one of the most radiant women on earth - Kate, feel free to stalk me anytime you’re in Los Angeles). There have also been 3 television serializations starting in the 1950’s, an anime version, and multiple stageplays including a musical in 1991 and an opera commissioned in 2013. More than 103 years after it was created, The Secret Garden continues to inspire audiences and screenwriters and musicians and readers alike.

The word “timeless” is often overused to laud stories that are too new to warrant such a compliment. In the case of The Secret Garden, the longevity of the story has proven itself and “timeless” is quite an appropriate and well-earned description.

The book takes place during the birth of the 20th century and follows the story of a young English girl named Mary Lennox who has just been orphaned in India and is sent to live with her widowered uncle on a vast and lonely estate in the moors of England.

That sounds awful, but rest assured, it’s a wonderful story!

I once watched a 1974 James Day interview with Ray Bradbury where Mr. Bradbury said that the reason people love to read is for the asides. Fictional stories are all about the asides. The most uplifting and insightful and vivid and descriptive moments in books, the parts that resonate the best are the moments when we get into the characters thoughts. When we see how they are perceiving the world around them. That kind of observational philosophy about life, shared in the narrators descriptions. Frances Hodgson Burnett is masterful at this craft. She says such beautiful things of such insight and wisdom, and yet, she says them very plainly. Very simply. In ways that even a child can understand. Hence the reason a book like The Secret Garden is considered such a classic of children’s literature. The Secret Garden has single sentences that are so beautifully written, they bring me near to tears, because the words alone feel more real and alive than any person has ever made me feel.

“There was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful.”

Intellectually, that sentence doesn’t make any sense. But emotionally, the poetry of it shines with crystalline brilliance. Those are the kind of words that make the heart glow and sing. So simple. So brief. Yet they somehow feel as if they were written in gold in your very veins and when they are spoken, something comes to life inside you. Something that has never taken a breath before and was only waiting for your soul to read those words.

This passage is far longer, but a prime example of the kind of heartwarming sagacity that belongs in children’s literature and should be reiterated to adults as well.

“In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done - then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts - just mere thoughts - are as powerful as electric batteries - as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live.

“So long as Mistress Mary’s mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child. Circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. They began to push her about for her own good. When her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his ‘creatures,’ there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired.

“So long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. When new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood. His scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was nothing weird about it at all. Much more surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place.

“’Where, you tend a rose, my lad, A thistle cannot grow.’”

You see? You must read this book. Plain and simple. Because those are only small examples of many wonderful gems of insight. You need to read this book. Because you need to remember these things.

All of us have died a little bit. All of us. I know you like to pretend you haven’t. I know you always smile and tell the world you’re happy. You cover the shadows. You put the darkness in a box and lock it away so no one can ever see it. You lie about it so much that you’ve almost convinced yourself. You need to remember that those little deaths do not define you. They do not encompass the totality of who you are. There is still light in the world and as hard as it may be to believe, there is still light in the essence of who you are. Go and read The Secret Garden and remember that you are still alive. And if there be no grand purpose to that, if there be no fate or destiny behind it, if the universe does not even know you are here, you still possess the power to conjure your own meaning and your own worth. You can still imbue yourself with all the value you desire. All you need to rekindle your dormant garden is a bit of earth, and bit of time, and to tend it with a bit of gentleness.

BOOK REVIEW: “Faerie Tale” by Raymond E. Feist
10 January 2014

Faerie Tale by Raymond E. Feist (iced) is one of my all-time favorite books because it successfully does something I’ve never seen any other author do (with the exception of J.K. Rowling in Harry Potter) and that is, he introduces an ensemble cast without making it confusing who the characters are. Most authors, even highly gifted and experienced ones, are terrible at doing such a thing.

The story of Faerie Tale is a dark urban fantasy, mixing Celtic faerie lore and a young 20th century family who move into a country home in upstate New York next to enchanted woods. I have long maintained the thing which makes stories wonderful is the telling. A great story idea, told terribly, is not a great story. A cliched story idea, told beautifully, is a magical story. You don’t need to be told the plot of this book. You already know it. You’ve seen it all before. Idyllic farmhouse. Happy family moves in. Teenage girl hates it. Young twin boys love it. A cast of character actors come into the picture and you’re visualizing Dan Ackroyd and Bill Murray. There’s an old Irish drunkard and you can’t help but imagine him looking a wee bit like Darby O’Gill. You know the story. Weird things start to happen. The level-headed mother and father are skeptical of what the twins are ranting and raving about and think it’s overactive boys imaginations. The weird things start to become spooky things. The spooky things become downright sinister and evil. Then someone get captured by the faeries and needs to be rescued.

Yeah. It’s really nothing all that inventive or original or creative. But, damn, if the story isn’t told in a way that is so wonderful and engaging and eloquent that you just need to keep reading.

Look at Romeo & Juliet for example. When you distill that story down to the prime elements, boy meets girl, they fall in love, their love is forbidden, through a series of mishaps and miscommunication, their plans to run off together are foiled and end in tragedy. To describe it that way sounds terribly boring. Yet, the way the story of Romeo & Juliet is told, it’s one of the most heartwarming, romantic and heartbreaking stories ever written.

That is what I’m trying to convey in this review of Faerie Tale. The story might sound like something familiar, something you’ve seen a million times before, but the writing is so exquisite and the way the story is told is so lovely, that you enjoy every moment of it. Just as you enjoy Romeo & Juliet, despite knowing it ends in tragedy.

My description of Faerie Tale isn’t meant to be negative or condescending. As I said, this is truly one of my favorite books. For some reason, it’s simply one of the most vivid books I’ve ever read. Even years after reading it, my memories of this story are like replaying a movie. This isn’t the kind of book with passages of quotable text so much as it’s a book drenched with visceral memories. When the characters go into the woods, you can smell the tree bark. When they go to the farmhouse, you can hear a squeaky plank of wood on the porch, even though the author never told you the porch had such a thing. You hear the peal of summer windchimes. You see the golden light trickle down a blade of grass in firefly sparks. When you read Faerie Tale, you are there. You don’t read this story, you live it.

The interesting thing about author Raymond E. Feist is, he only writes books that are part of a series. He has written 10 book series ranging from duologies to tetralogies and Faerie Tale remains the only standalone book he has ever published. Faerie Tale is also the only urban fantasy novel he has written. All the other Raymond E. Feist books are pure high fantasy novels of swords and sorcery. That may seem irrelevant, but as an author myself, I believe this is significant. Breaking out of writing the same kind of novel more than 30 times is going to give you something fresh. New. Exciting. I’ve never met Raymond E. Feist. Never spoken to him. But nevertheless, I am confident to say, as a fellow novelist, this book inspired him in a way nothing else ever had. He finally found himself in unexplored territory. I’m positive that had to be thrilling for him, and I think his enthusiasm shows within the pages.

As a lover of dark faerie tales (the theme of which is very dominant in my own duology The Vampire Noctuaries), this book is not entirely accurate to traditional faerie folklore. Raymond E. Feist conforms to about 70% of traditional stories and the other 30% seems to be entirely made up. He successfully incorporates the darker elements of the unseelie court and the cruelty and sensuality of naughty and deranged impish things. He is accurate about moving days and some faerie charms and glamours and those elements of the story are enchanting for readers who will understand the references. Those of you who are steeped in faerie myth and know a lot about it, might find some elements of Faerie Tale a little annoying, because you’ll know according to tradition, faeries might not behave this way or that. However, most people are only casually aware of Celtic faerie mythologies. Those of you who don’t know anything about faeries beyond A Midsummer Night’s Dream and a few Disney movies, won’t notice how much is kind of skewed in Faerie Tale.

This book, as I have twice reiterated, is one of my favorites of all time. The story is compelling. The characters are vividly realized. The setting comes to life. The scary parts make shadows move in the corner of your bedroom late at night. The atmosphere permeates from makebelieve pages into the very air you breathe. Faerie Tale is a magical story in the best sense of the phrase. When you’re looking for a book to take you out of your boring and mundane world, and deliver you into a place that skirts the line between dream and memory, walk the pages of Faerie Tale and you will find yourself on a path where you have always belonged. Just beware of the Bad Things. They’ll be watching you.

BOOK REVIEW: “The Neverending Story” by Michael Ende
24 January 2014

Michael Ende is an author I wish I had met before he passed away in 1995. A few years after his death, I discovered apparently he was extremely unhappy, let’s just say hated, the film adaption of his 1979 book, The NeverEnding Story.

If only I could have told him, that movie is what inspired me to become an author. He may have hated the film and what was done to his book, but for me, his story changed my life.

For anyone who has seen the 1984 film starring Tami Stronach (who instantly became the most beautiful girl I had ever seen) and directed by Wolfgang Peterson, I highly recommend you read the novel. Rest assured, I was not the only boy to fall in love with the Childlike Empress that summer. But while she remained only a fantasy to all the other boys, for me, Moon Child became much, much more.

The film only covers the first half of the book. There is far more to the story that the movie never touches upon.

The NeverEnding Story follows the tale of Bastian Balthazar Bux, a gradeschool boy who steals away in his school attic to read a magical book he has stolen (“borrowed without permission” actually) from a bookstore. If you’ve never seen the film or read the book, I don’t want to reveal anymore than that.

The NeverEnding Story taught me the magic of storytelling in a way no other book ever has.

See, I firmly believe that all great writers never make up stories. Great writers always hear their stories. The characters speak to you. They talk about their adventures, their hardships, their loves, their sorrows, their joys. Our job is simply to write it down as eloquently and poetically and articulately as we can.

Plenty of people don’t understand that.

Plenty of people don’t believe it.

They think it’s weird or some eccentric delusional trait of creative insanity. Even plenty of fellow writers think it’s weird. (By the way, you writers are the ones who suck really bad.)

That’s fine. I don’t care who believes it or not. My perceptions of life don’t require validation from others.

I live it. I experience it every single day. Stories speak to me. Characters talk to me.

Along with this philosophy, I also firmly believe that as writers, we are destined for our stories. We don’t chose our stories. Stories choose the writer. Characters decide, “We want you to be the one to tell this.”

Certain stories are destined to be written by certain writers. By the same token, certain readers are destined to read certain stories. Thus the magic flows full circle.

In that way, all writers have not only a deep personal connection to their tales, but a rather sacred responsibility to them as well. Stories are truly our children, for the souls of tales are entrusted to us, to nurture and protect, until they are ready to change the world.

Readers, I believe, touch the same well of magic. As readers, stories are like falling in love with a magic soul. Hopefully, you understand what I mean. Hopefully, you have experienced that feeling in your own life. Falling in love is one thing, but finding a magic soul, finding one you love to the core of your very being, ah, that’s a whole different experience. At least, I imagine it would be. The magic souls change your life. You could date hundreds of people in your lifetime and still never meet one magic soul.

For me, The NeverEnding Story was a magic soul of a book. This was a story that touched me in a way I had never experienced before. The power and wonderment of Michael Ende’s words gave my life purpose, gave my future a dream, gave my heart a passion, and gave wings to my hopes.

When you believe in the magic, odd things can start to happen. Serendipity favors the dreamers. These books aren’t merely entertaining or fun. These are books that conjure blizzards and thunderstorms. These are stories that make the lights go out and scare your cat into hissing at the shadows.

These books take on a biblical sanctity. These aren’t books you love. They become books you revere. Sacred texts.

The NeverEnding Story is holy to me in all the ways a book can be. Within her pages, the Childlike Empress became my one true love and the queen to whom I have sworn my lifelong fealty. Evermore her devoted knight in piety and chivalric obedience, my pen be brandished in eternal servitude to the Golden-Eyed Commander of Wishes.

I don’t know if you would love The NeverEndinng Story as much as I love it. As I said before certain readers are destined to read certain stories. Perhaps, as the character of Carl Conrad Coreander predicts, this book is not for you. When I was 14 years old, I excitedly recommended it to a friend and told him how magical and strange and wondrous it was. I told him how such weird things happened and how I was forced to read by candlelight and how the world felt so different when my journey though Fantastica was done.

And he read it.

And nothing happened.

He thought it was, “Okay.”

Dude, that harshed my bliss.

He didn’t get it.

He didn’t feel it.

For his eyes, there was no magic.

Alas, this book was not for him.

Truth be told, more likely than not, you’ll react the same way my friend did. Chances are, you won’t discover the same magic that I found in The NeverEndinng Story.

Chances are you’ve become too old and cynical to believe in any magic at all.

But if you haven’t...

If you’re still wise enough to know that dreams are not so far removed from reality. If you’re still wishing on stars when no one is looking. If you’re still searching for faerie rings, “just in case...”, then maybe, this book was meant for you.

I am only one in a long line of saviors of Fantastica. We need you. My Empress needs you. You have discovered this book for a reason.

The Nothing grows stronger everyday. Time is running out. Don’t keep us waiting.

BOOK REVIEW: “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach
7 February 2014

Books are like people. In order for a person to have a profound affect on your life, you need to meet that person at the right time. Met someone when you’re not ready and the whole relationship fizzles.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach is a story I first met too soon. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old as I recall, and I didn’t much care for the book or the movie. If I remember correctly, I don’t think I even watched the entire movie or read the whole book. It was too weird. Too strange. Too existential. I didn’t remotely understand it. Raised in a Roman Catholic gradeschool, I had already been brainwashed by years of lies that Judeo-Christian mythology was historical fact. Programmed by Abrahamic dogma in those formative years to worship a semitic zombie vampire, my psyche had been fed so much imbecilic propaganda, I foolhardily believed in burning bushes which talked to God’s Chosen Master Race. But a tale of talking seagulls? That was crazy! I couldn’t follow the story at all.

The book is very brief. It hardly qualifies as a novella. At less than 9000 words it’s barely a short story. Jonathan Livingston Seagull tells the tale of a seagull who lives with a mundane flock of birds while yearning for a more meaningful life.

During the course of the story, he learns and grows and evolves until he finally returns to his flock and is lauded as a messiah - a label he does not desire nor deserve.

The metaphors and lessons are all very obvious ones:

Make your dreams come true.

Disobey the flock.

Trust your heart.

Be careful of what people turn you into.

When I discovered the book again, at the age of 20, my entire perspective had shifted. I finally understood that every single theism on earth was followed by delusional self-righteous assholes who arrogantly presume they alone are the sole purveyors of truth. Now the book spoke to me. Now it made more sense. Now I was old enough to fall in love.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull not only changed my life, it changed the life of the author. Jonathan Livingston Seagull made Richard Bach a multimillionaire and a household name.

Why did it finally speak to me?

There was a day in my life, I recall very clearly, that was a turning point for me.

I went for a hike in the woods at Nelsons Ledges in Ohio when I was about 14 years old. At the time, my mother lived about 2 miles away from the park. During the 2 mile walk back to her house, I had a true existential moment. You know that part in the book Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury, when he realizes he’s alive for the first time. That’s what happened to me on that walk. That was my first moment of really seeing with clarity how vibrant and alive and astonishing it was to be a sentient soul experiencing the world. I noticed everything that day. The crunch of gravel on the road underfoot. The luminous saturation of color in fields and the sky, everything so vivid it was like awakening from a dream.

And perhaps that metaphor is accurate. Because I finally began to shake off the oppressive mantle of manmade religion on that walk. I finally saw that no human being on the face of this earth has ever possessed any authority to tell me my place in the universe. I came to realize that every person on earth who dared to preach and demand my relationship with God be the same as theirs was a fucking demon. Every religion that zombiefied their zealots into thinking they were better than others, or above others, or chosen in the eyes of God to be somehow superior to others, was a nothing more than a deathcult of pure and unadulterated evil. That’s when I realized that all these “believers” were victims of something ghastly. Out there on that road, among those fields, I finally saw the universe for what it was. Beautiful. Idyllic. Flawless. Impassive. The consciousness of all divine light was manifested only through my own sentience. We all stand as the conduits of God. No one has the power to define that for you.

I decided in that moment, that to find my place in the universe, I would spend more time among the country roads and the beaches and the gentle streams of woodlands. For if there were a voice of the universe, that is where it would speak to me. Not through other people or churches or synagogues or clerics or shamans. I would study no religion. I would embrace no philosophy. For I didn’t want to be tainted by the beliefs of others. I wanted no one to influence me. The only way to discover this path was to do it on my own.

So I did. I spent many years working out my own philosophy of how the world worked. What felt true to my heart. What my instincts gravitated towards. For if there were a benevolent divine force within nature, then it stands to reason that I would have to find her. Were I to seek her with an open and innocent heart, she wouldn’t leave me to flounder in chaos. The only possible destinations were truth or self-deception, but at least the possible delusions would be my own, not the force-fed dogma of others.

In time, I did find my truths, even if they were quantified against nothing more than my own moral compass. I never wrote any of this down. I just kept it in my head. My outlooks. My beliefs. My philosophies.

Then, in a few years, I stumbled into Richard Bach. I was in a bookstore, looking for a birthday present for a friend. She was having a bit of a spiritual crisis in her life and I saw Jonathan Livingston Seagull on the shelf and I vaguely remembered it was supposed to be some uplifting hippie metaphysical hogwash. I figured, since my friend was so distraught, that might be good for her. So I bought it.

When I got it home, I read it for myself and finished it in about 30 minutes. Immediately after I finished reading, I went right back to the bookstore and bought another copy for myself.

I was astonished. Here was a book that articulated the spiritual sensibilities I had already discovered. All these weird and crazy ideas I had, things I never heard anyone else talk about, were all in that book. Up until that point, I thought I was all alone. I had no idea that anyone else in the world had started to view life the way I saw it.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull helped to validate many of my opinions about the nature of the human spirit.

Perhaps everything I believe is completely wrong. Perhaps I’m entirely off base and the outlook of Jonathan Livingston Seagull really is a load of crap.

When all is said and done, and our brief time here is over, discovering the truth doesn’t really make any difference.

Soaring on seagull wings you finally see that the Goddess herself is free to be an agnostic, because nothing else matters beyond the simple glory of love and living. The overwhelming beauty and awe of the now can never be diminished. Within that thrill of knowing you are alive, of feeling it to your very core, being more awake and cognizant than you have ever been, you are living in Heaven on earth. You soar with angel wings to transcend all the deception.

In the instant of knowing I was truly alive, in that realization of our transient spark shining and extinguishing, suspended in that second is where I found everlasting life.

Reading a book like Jonathan Livingston Seagull will remind you of that moment everytime you pick it up.

BOOK REVIEW: “The Stone & The Flute” by Hans Bemmann
21 February 2014

The Stone and The Flute by Hans Bemmann was a humbling book to read. When I first read it back in high school, I wrote a review for it in the newsletter of our science fiction and fantasy club. The one thing I vividly remember stating in that review was that the mark of a great book is one that can make you laugh out loud and cry tears onto the pages. Since I was only in high school, I hadn’t read many books with the power to do that. The Stone and The Flute made me weep and laugh aloud on multiple occasions.

I still believe that to chuckle and shed a tear is the barometer of a great story. There are good stories that don’t touch your emotions in that way. But great stories? All great stories take you through that range of feelings. Any book that can make you feel such joy that you are laughing out loud and such sorrow that you actually sob, is awe inspiring. Not many novels have that kind of power in them, to run through a full spectrum of human emotions.

Author Hans Bemmann was 60 years old when he wrote The Stone and The Flute and it shows in his writing. I don’t think a 20 or 30 or 40 year old author would be capable of writing something like this. When I read the book as a teenager, I was already on my way to being a writer. What I read in The Stone and The Flute was both humbling and inspiring. Humbling because I knew at my age, I couldn’t possibly write a book that came close to approaching this. Inspiring because it made me realize how much I had to learn and that maybe in 50 years, I’d be able to create something that wondrous and magical. His achievement is even more amazing when you consider that he only wrote 7 novels in his lifetime and he had only written one novel before this. The Stone and The Flute was only his sophomore effort!

When we’re children and teenagers, we often think we’re totally awesome. We can do anything. We can do things just as good as any adult. We feel absolutely confident and sure of ourselves. The Stone and The Flute was the first time in my life that my arrogance over writing was schooled and given a smackdown. The Stone and The Flute was the first time I read something where I truly realized I was incapable of creating something that good. And I wouldn’t learn how to become that good in one year or 5 years or 10 years. I realized this book was the culmination of a writer who had been honing his craft for decades and I had nothing on him.

The main character of The Stone and The Flute is a young boy named Listener and the novel begins with his birth and ends with his death. Now, I apologize if you feel that revelation is a spoiler. I don’t see it as one. Revealing that the book spans the entire lifetime of a character is, to me, a wonderful selling point. After all, this is the only story I have never discovered in my entire life with the ambition to attempt such an audacious undertaking as spanning an entire lifetime. How many characters have you ever read about where you get to watch the whole of their lifetime? I’ve never seen any short story or novel try such a thing before. Thus, moreso than any other book I know, you come to really feel for the character of Listener. By the time you reach the end of the book, you feel you have known Listener longer than anyone else you ever met. He becomes your oldest friend. From his innocence of childhood, to his insolence of being a teenager, to his adventures as an adult, to his dignified journey into old age, you are by his side. You are a witness to all of his life.

The tone of the book is magnificent. It has the pace and demeanor of a Grimm’s Faerie Tale but it’s over 800 pages long! Now, I don’t know if you ever sat down and actually read any of the Grimm’s Faerie Tales, but to have a story of this length and magnitude maintain such a storybook resonance is utterly spellbinding. Here’s the first few paragraphs:

Once upon a time a boy was born in Fraglund, and this is his strange story. His father was a mighty man whom folk called the Great Roarer: he was tall and burly, and liked to wear his shirt open on his hairy chest. His was a tempestuous nature. One moment, he would fly into a terrible rage, the next he would be shaking with loud laughter. Yet he was known as a just man, and so the people of Fraglund had asked him to come from far away to be judge over them in that part of the country.

Now when the Great Roarer came to Fraglund to take up his duties, he brought his wife with him, a quiet woman who kept so much out of the public eye that at first many thought she was not wedded to him. She was said to be the daughter of the Gentle Fluter, of whose arts they had heard in Fraglund, although he lived very far away, beyond the great forest of Barlebogue. Folk said his fluting was so sweet that even the birds would fall still to listen to him, and so soothing to the spirit that many a man’s quarrel had been settled by the notes of his flute alone.

Such a splendid beginning. And the book maintains that storybook atmosphere for all 855 pages. Beginning to end.

Listener is unlike any other fictional character I have seen because he is portrayed so realistically. He isn’t always heroic. He is occasionally downright villainous. Yet deep inside, he means well and does come to repent for his wrongs. In other words, he’s a lot like you. That is ultimately what is so profound about this story. The journey is a metaphor into your own life, and no matter what your age when you read this book, you will at some point experience the story at the same age as Listener. Because of that, he becomes relatable to everyone. We easily see our own past and present and future in his life and it makes us all the more cognizant of how important our past and future decisions shall prove to become.

As an American, I’m not sure what the world of books and literature is like in other English speaking countries like England and Australia. However, I presume that most of us are exposed to similar books. Maybe I’m wrong, but I tend to imagine that bestselling authors in America and England are, for the most part, the same batches people. I know in America, we don’t often have the chance to read great books and novels from other cultures. The Stone and The Flute by Hans Bemmann was originally written in German and translated into English by Anthea Bell. It may be, in fact I’m almost certain it is, the only book I’ve ever read that was not authored by someone who natively speaks English. Not only was this a wonderful story, but it also made me realize what a shame it is that all people all over the world miss out on storytelling which never gets translated into our native tongues. How many great stories are out there in French and German and Japanese and Russian and Spanish that I will never get to read in my lifetime? Authors we will never hear about. Books we will never know existed.

One of the greatest things about language is the ability to articulate the commonality of the human condition. The most memorable sentences we ever read tend to be the ones which eloquently express those intimate life experiences that we think no one else ever goes through. We come across a sentence in a book and we say, “Oh, my gosh! This person thinks that everytime they step into the shower!? I do that too!” That is the commonality of the human condition. That’s one of the most inspiring and uplifting things to encounter in writing. That serendipity of realizing we relate to each other as people in ways we never expected. And to think, all those books, from all those cultures, written in languages that will never be translated, how much we are missing. How many beautiful stories we will never have the chance to share.

But, thanks to Anthea Bell, The Stone and The Flute by Hans Bemmann is not one of those stories. This glorious German masterpiece is a story that the entire English-speaking world can enjoy. That is reason enough to read this story. Read a copy of The Stone and The Flute and expose yourself to a viewpoint from another culture and see the beauty of a lifetime through the eyes of another world.

BOOK REVIEW: “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” by Gary Gygax
7 March 2014

The first edition of the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Player’s Handbook, written by E. Gary Gygax, is only one of a trilogy of rulebooks necessary to play the seminal roleplaying game. My original intention was to do a review of this book alone. However, the more time I put into trying to write a review, the more I realized there is really no way to talk about this book without talking about Dungeons & Dragons as a whole. Because this single volume is only one piece of a larger encompassing game, it doesn’t make any sense to just talk about one book. Therefore, this review will not focus exclusively on Player’s Handbook, rather I will also discuss how the volume fits into the scope of the game, along with the other core rulebooks.

My virginity was lost at the age of 12. Not my sexual virginity, my Dungeons & Dragons virginity. That was when I was first seduced by dice and rulebooks.

The first time I ever heard of Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), I was in the 6th grade, and within my circle of friends, one of the boys was telling us stories about his uncle playing this really elaborate boardgame that supposedly took days to learn how to play. That was the most vivid thing I remember about it; learning that the game was so complicated, you didn’t just read a pamphlet of rules in 10 minutes, but instead you spent days learning the instructions. At that time, we didn’t understand the concept of a roleplaying game. We thought it was a boardgame like Monopoly or Clue or Chess or Checkers and I distinctly remember my friends and I laughing at the stupidity of playing a game that would take so long to learn. What was the point? We thought it was crazy. What kind of losers are going to waste days just to learn the rules of a boardgame? Why would you do that? How could the game possibly be any fun if it was that complicated?

Over the next few weeks, we learned more and more about it. Players would make up imaginary characters like elves and warriors. Another player, called a Dungeon Master was like a referee or a movie director and he would run the game and play all the other roles of monsters and describe imaginary environments and so forth. Playing the whole game was kind of like a table reading of an improvisational theatrical production, with a medieval storyline, where you get to play a character that you invented yourself. That was starting to sound a lot less stupid and kind of fun! My friend sat in on a game session with his uncle and we heard all about the mythological creatures and magic and wizards and adventures and it started to sound really, really cool. Learning the rules might take a long time, but we began to understand why it was worth it. So, we decided to give it a shot. Among my friends, I believe I may have been the first or second person to buy the Basic boxed set of Dungeons & Dragons. Eventually, all of my friends played D&D, but in the beginning, I’m pretty sure there were only two of us to buy the original boxed set. We both read the rules and we figured it out and we had a lot of telephone conversations trying to understand what the rulebooks were talking about. And what the hell do you do with the crayon? By the end of the week, we tried to play that first game module, The Keep on The Borderlands, and it was awful. We had no idea what we were doing. We thought the Dungeon Master was supposed to actually read the module verbatim to the players. It was terrible. Total disaster. Wasn’t fun at all. We didn’t even use the crayon to color the dice. Never figured that out until months later. Instead I used it to underline rules in the rulebooks. That was a bad idea. It was a black crayon.

Yet, for some reason, we stuck with it. We didn’t give up on Dungeons & Dragons even though that first game session sucked so bad. I think maybe the simple fact that we had spent an entire week reading the rules made us determined to not give up.

Like many kids back then, we didn’t realize that Dungeons & Dragons and Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (AD&D) were completely different games. We presumed they were a progression: Basic to Expert to Advanced. Makes sense, right? We didn’t understand that the Expert Dungeons & Dragons box set was a sequel to the Basic Dungeons & Dragons box set, but the hardcover Advanced Dungeons & Dragons rulebooks were not a sequel to the Expert set, they were in fact, an entirely new system of rules.

So, we played the Basic game.

Then we progressed to the Expert game.

Then I became the first person among my friends to buy AD&D.

In order to play a proper game of the first edition of AD&D, you needed a bare minimum of three books:

1. Player’s Handbook

2. Dungeons Masters Guide

3. Monster Manual

Those three books are the staples, the foundation of the game. As their names imply, Player’s Handbook is for the players. It explains how to create different types of characters and what their capabilities are within the game. Dungeon Master’s Guide is for the referee and it lays out all the rules of how gameplay works from random encounters with mythological creatures in the countryside to rolling dice to determine the outcome of epic battles and swordfights. Monster Manual is a reference book for the Dungeon Master to populate his fantasy world with his choice of hundreds of fantastical beasts from orcs to goblins and of course, dragons. The first edition of AD&D ended up being comprised of over a dozen hardcover rulebooks and I owned them all. However, the other 10 books in question are all optional supplements. Only those initial three are the essential ones.

Needless to say, since D&D and AD&D are different games, when I bought the Player’s Handbook, I was right back to square one. My friends and I had been playing D&D for months and I knew the rules of D&D pretty well. Because we all presumed AD&D was just another expansion, when I hit those hardcover books, I had no clue what was going on. I was completely baffled. And this time, I didn’t have any other friends to bounce chapters off of. Nobody else owned the hardcover books yet. I was on my own. Slowly, I began to realize that this was a totally different game, and it was a lot better! I was really excited and I couldn’t wait for all my friends to get copies of the books too. Once that happened, once all my friends had collected the AD&D books, we left the Basic and Expert box sets behind and never looked back. We were all about AD&D (an acronym which may confuse those of you in the insurance industry).

Reading the AD&D rulebooks was truly kindling the tinder of my imagination. The magical aspect of roleplaying games is that once you read the book to understand the rules, you constantly go back to reference the rules. Simply reading about imaginary spells and monsters and magical items would set the wheels in motion. I’d start to visualize different plots and scenarios and ideas for characters and villages and storylines and dungeon maps and treasures and who was guarding those treasures and why. Over the years, I literally invented dozens of AD&D characters that I never even used in the game. Dreaming them up was just as fun as playing a campaign with them.

The game itself, and the joy of playing it, occupied my time for years. All through junior high, and well into highschool, AD&D was a huge part of my friendships and my fondest memories. During the 6th grade, instead of staying out on the playground during lunch, my friends Jerry Jarzabek, Chip Reynolds and Keith Riggs would sneak back into the school, so we could play AD&D for the lunch period. We had all night gaming sessions with Ted and Chris Smith and Aaron Reitz and Mike Rozack, where we had sleepovers and quite literally played all night until the sun came up. Those evenings are sepiatone Polaroids of cozy sleeping bags fluffed thick as summer clouds fogging the floors among piles of dice and rulebooks. Grand adventures and crazy schemes and silly plots and scary battles and thrilling characters and epic conclusions.

Back in 1983, Player’s Handbook was unquestionably one of the most important books of my junior highschool days. One that I read over and over. One that shaped and informed my social interaction, enriched my imagination, and educated me in new ways to appreciate mathematics, history, geometry, spatial relations, cartography, illustration, and storytelling.

Thankfully, those original three AD&D rulebooks were reprinted in 2013, allowing for an entirely new class of 6th graders to start playing the roleplaying game that started all roleplaying games. The original. The venerable. The immortal. Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.

Pick up a copy for yourself. And don’t forget to buy the dice. Don’t worry, these days, the numbers are already colored in. No need for the crayon anymore.

“The secret we should never let the gamemasters know is that they don’t need any rules.”

- Gary Gygax

BOOK REVIEW: “A Voyage to Arcturus” by David Lindsay
21 March 2014

Back in the winter of 2000, while living in Cleveland, Ohio, I crewed on the Academy Award Nominated film American Splendor starring Paul Giamatti and my friend Madylin Sweeten.

A few days into the production, I handed out copies of my first novel, The Gothic Rainbow, to various members of the cast and crew. Two days later, Paul Giamatti gave me a copy of one of his favorite books - A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay.

Paul Giamatti is a bright guy, earning degrees in both English and Fine Arts from Yale, where his father was a professor. When such a well-educated gentleman recommends a novel, you tend to listen and Paul told me, “This is a really bizarre book. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

Wow. He was right on both counts.

A Voyage to Arcturus is one of the strangest books I’ve ever read. David Lindsay is like a literary Terri Gilliam, even though A Voyage to Arcturus was published 20 years before Terri Gilliam was born.

David Lindsay was 40 years old when A Voyage to Arcturus was published in 1920 and it was his first novel. By today’s standards, this book is completely surreal and strange. “Kooky” as my grandparents would have said. I can’t imagine how people must have reacted when it came out almost 100 years ago. Readers must have been tripping their balls off. The story is about a man who travels to another planet and goes on a voyage across the alien landscape, meeting a myriad of outlandish characters along the way. I’ve always loved stories that are very avant-garde and experimental in nature. Stories that break the conventions of writing and don’t follow the standard paradigms and established story structures are often the greatest joy to read. In that sense, A Voyage to Arcturus does not disappoint. The saga has no real plot per se. I mean, the main character is traveling across this planet, but there isn’t much of a defined goal or purpose in mind. Or, maybe I’m just not educated enough to understand the purpose. Supposedly, the characters he encounters represent different teachings of philosophy and his experiences in the tale are reflective of these various principals. Heck, I didn’t catch any of that. I just enjoyed the story as a very queer odyssey into a strange universe (not like “limp-wrist” queer I mean like “far-out” queer). In truth of fact, critics who have cited the philosophical metaphors may be over intellectualizing a little. After all, when an alien at the start of the fable asks the main character why he came to the planet, the main character even replies, “Will you think it foolish if I say I hardly know?... Perhaps I was attracted by curiosity, or perhaps it was the love of adventure.”

Our protagonist has no idea why he’s there, or what he’s doing, and neither do we. It’s fantastic. How exhilarating to encounter a piece of fiction that doesn’t lay out a storyline, but instead merely says, “Come along with me. I’m not telling you where we’re going or why. Let’s just go.”

The journey of the main character, named Maskull, is entirely solitary and linear. Meaning as he meets different people along his pilgrimage, they never reappear later in the story. That approach to storytelling certainly breaks conventions. We’re accustomed to the hero meeting people who join him on his quest and accompany our hero until the very end. But such is not the case in A Voyage to Arcturus. Maskull meets people, interacts with them, sometimes only briefly, sometimes for several days, then he moves on. Again, it’s a very weird way to tell a story and yet, it still works. There’s something quite refreshing about reading something so unusual and unexpected.

Not only is the world filled with astonishing landscapes and peculiar creatures, but as the story goes on, the main character develops new appendages like a tentacle growing out of his chest which later is turned into a third arm through some magic crystals. At one point he grows a third eye, which of course gives him the power to see things differently. In that way, it kind of reminded me of Alice in Wonderland. Just as Alice changes size and shape as she moves through wonderland, so too does Maskull in A Voyage to Arcturus constantly have new sensory organs appear and wither away, depending upon where he is and whom he is with on his adventure.

One part of the story that I loved and really stood out to me (and again, from reading more philosophical studies of the narrative, it seems I’m not the only one who was left awestruck by this passage) was the part where Maskull describes the color of a plant, which reads:

But what was peculiar about it was its colour. It was an entirely new colour - not a new shade or combination, but a new primary colour, as vivid as blue, red, or yellow, but quite different. When he inquired, she told him that it was known as “ulfire.” Presently he met with a second new colour. This she designated “jale.” The sense impressions caused in Maskull by these two additional primary colors can only be vaguely hinted at by analogy. Just as blue is delicate and mysterious, yellow clear and unsubtle, and red sanguine and passionate, so he felt ulfire to be wild and painful, and jale dreamlike, feverish, and voluptuous.

Wow. Was that amazing or what? Therein lies a case where the book will always be better than the movie. How could you possibly capture ulfire and jale on film? Impossible. Unfilmable. You couldn’t do it. That is the kind of writing I love. The idea of a new primary color and the attempt to describe it? What an inventive and innovative thing to write. And how intriguing to describe something that truly defies the imagination. I have a damn vivid imagination, but I can’t picture ulfire or jale. I see ulfire as maroon. I see jale as a shade of violet. But those aren’t primary colors. So the way I’m picturing them isn’t correct. This is why I adore a book like A Voyage to Arcturus. Not only does it challenge you on a philosophical and intellectual level, but the author paints such a grand and fantastical world, it even challenges our imagination to visualize it. Heck, I even love the names of the colors. Ulfire and jale are wonderful words. Easy to pronounce. Not outlandish and ludicrous. They sound like genuine names of colors. You can easily imagine those words printed on Crayola Crayons... only I have no idea what the hell the crayons look like.

If you’re looking for a novel that is very mystifying and beautiful and imaginative and literally paints a world in colors you have never seen, check out A Voyage to Arcturus. As the book is nearly 100 years old, it is now in the public domain, so you can get ebook versions for free. As Paul Giamatti said to me, “This is a really bizarre book. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

BOOK REVIEW: “A Little Princess” by Frances Hodgson Burnett
4 April 2014

After I became a fan of Frances Hodgson Burnett, I did a little research on her. She lived to be 79 years old from 1849 to 1924. Turns out that back in her time, she was an incredibly popular author. I don’t mean she was merely successful. I mean she was a celebrity. Famous. One article I read called her the “J.K. Rowling of her age.”

I find that easy to believe. Her work is rife with verisimilitudinal descriptions. My favorite thing!

There are three things I love in a story. Great dialog. Poetic prose. Poignant verisimilitude. Notice I made no mention of plot or characters. Great characters and amazing storylines fall flat without those other things.

Since the original publication of the book in 1905, A Little Princess remains immensely popular and has been made into a motion picture 5 times between 1917 and 1997 and there have been nearly an equivalent number of television versions; Not to mention, approximately 8 theatrical productions.

The premise of the story is that a little English girl named Sara Crewe, living in India, is sent to a boarding school in London while her father returns to India to run a diamond mine. The 1997 movie version changes the school location to America with the father going off to fight in WWI, which I think is far more perilous and compelling, but of course, WWI didn’t begin until 1914, a full 9 years after the book was written. So, there was no way the book version could have incorporated WWI into the storyline because WWI hadn’t existed yet. In the movie, during that scene where Sara is saying goodbye to her father, I cry like a little girl everytime I see it. Seriously, I refuse to watch that film in the presence of other people, because because I sniffle like a baby. It’s emasculating and pathetic. I’m Indiana Jones. I’m Han Solo. I’m James Bond. I can’t be getting all weepy when a little girl says goodbye to her dad. But I do. Everytime.

Due to the changes in language and slang and the idiosyncrasies of the evolution in literary trends, books that are a century old can often become difficult to follow. However, once you start to read some older novels, you discover the problem isn’t the language, it’s just bad writing. Have you ever read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain? Obviously, Mark Twain is revered as one of the greatest American authors of all time, but that book is horribly written. Within the first ten pages, Tom’s Aunt Polly recites an entire page of exposition aloud, while standing in the yard, to absolutely no one. At least I think it happens in the yard, Mark Twain doesn’t seem to like to write descriptions of locations. Aunt Polly just starts talking out loud, explaining all sorts of details about the story, to herself. There are no other characters around. Then a few pages later, Tom is talking to his aunt, then he’s getting into fistfight which I think might be happening in front of his house. But since Mark Twain doesn’t bother to give any description of where Tom is at, I really have no idea where the heck the fight takes place. Mark Twain deserves his impeccable reputation as an essayist, but he’s one overrated novelist.

Obviously, this is not a review to criticize Tom Sawyer, it’s a review to praise A Little Princess. I’m only citing Mark Twain to prove a point. The point I’m trying to make is, I was once of the mentality that many old classics were terrible books. What I have come to learn is, great writing is timeless. Bad books will always be bad books. Great books will always be great books. Don’t be like I was. Never presume a book will be bad, just because it was written 100 years ago. Never presume a book will be good, just because the author is considered a national treasure. Some of the so-called “classics” are complete crap.

Classics like A Little Princess are golden milestones in the history of English literature. A priceless treasure that shall remain of value until the demise of humanity itself.

Frances Hodgson Burnett is an enchanting author. Like all my favorite writing, she just weaves the perfect tapestry of language to describe the emotions and thoughts of her characters. She writes in a way that makes me jealous because she so readily captures the human heart in such simple words. Perfect words. Words that could not be rearranged with synonyms and find the same meaning. For that is the ultimate alchemy of gifted authors, their sublime talent at finding exactly the right words, for exactly the right feelings, and arranging them together in a canvas so flawless, that to displace a single syllable would make the entire image dissolve into dust.

One such sentence reads:

“But what does anything matter when one’s Magic has just proved itself one’s friend.”

Without any further explanation, we know exactly what that means. That single sentence gives me chills. To think that just one other person understands that feeling and can put it into words is astonishing.

“It’s true,” she said. “Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess. I pretend I am a princess, so that I can try and behave like one.”

That is one of those passages I have never forgotten since the moment I read it. To think that even for one moment in this world there was a single soul who thought with such nobility in her heart is inspiring in a way I am incapable of articulating. Were I ever to become the father of daughters, they will all read that and be taught they must take it to heart. And of course a son would learn he must behave as no less than a prince. But of course, that would first require courting a mother who already held such integrity and well, there’s not much hope of that. Those girls only exist in stories. That’s why we write them.

When the first girl I ever loved Michelle, was a child, her mother Brenda forbade her from playing with a troublemaker down the street, because Brenda feared this naughty girl may be a bad influence on her daughter. Michelle, at the time only 4 or 5 years old, looked at her mother and said, “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I might be a good influence on her?”

Brenda never tried to stop my love from playing with that girl again. Michelle is the kind of girl who was the embodiment of Sara Crewe. As Michelle died more than 20 years ago, there no longer exist princesses of such integrity. Nowadays, such girls only exist in myth and legend.

“How it is that animals understand things I do not know, but it is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the world understands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul.”

There. The words that everyone knows. The words everyone understands. Yet I’ve never seen it described so perfectly.

“And there Sara would stand, sometimes turning her face upward to the blue which seemed so friendly and near - just like a lovely vaulted ceiling - sometimes watching the west and all the wonderful things that happened there: the clouds melting or drifting or waiting softly to be changed pink or crimson or snow-white or purple or pale dove-gray. Sometimes they made islands or great mountains enclosing lakes of deep turquoise-blue, or liquid amber, or chrysoprase-green; sometimes dark headlands jutted into strange, lost seas; sometimes slender strips of wonderful lands joined other wonderful lands together. There were places where it seemed that one could run or climb or stand and wait to see what next was coming - until, perhaps, as it all melted, one could float away. At least it seemed so to Sara, and nothing had ever been quite so beautiful to her as the things she saw as she stood on the table - her body half out of the skylight - the sparrows twittering with sunset softness on the slates. The sparrows always seemed to her to twitter with a sort of subdued softness just when these marvels were going on.”

That is beauty so grand it soothes like warmest waters yet skewers the breast with knitting needle heartache. How can it be? How can it be to find others of my tribe upon pages a century old? With such paragraphs you begin to wonder, is this a ruse? Could it be a coincidence? Are these cruel tricks of the light shimmering across a mischievous universe of time and space? Are such words the only ones this person could ever speak to my heart? Or is there something real? Is there a magic to the workings of the world that I have merely forgotten?

For me Sara Crewe is so much more than a fiction. She is a daughter child, a sister comrade, a wise mother and a companion bride. There are no real humans who see life the way she and I do. Only the ones of which I can dream.

A Little Princess is about something that no living soul possesses. This is a story about kindness and fortitude and compassion. And it is about holding onto those things in the face of cruelty and hopelessness and loneliness and death and barren places where we sit imprisoned.

A Little Princess is better than anything I’ve ever written and I fear better than anything I will ever write. This story is a beacon for our tribe. This story is one of the markers. You found this review because it’s time for you to meet Sara Crewe. You need to read her story. You need her to accompany you right now. This point in your life is when you were meant to become friends with A Little Princess. She might be a good influence on you.

BOOK REVIEW: “The Crow” by James O’Barr
14 April 2014

The Crow by James O’Barr is a stark black-and-white graphic novel you can’t talk about without mentioning the author’s motives behind writing it. Although the story may be fictional, the soul of the book is painfully real and any proper discussion of the novel has to marry the reality with the fantasy.

James O’Barr grew up like many of us. He was an awkward outcast. Solitary. A loner. Isolated.

When he was in high school, a miracle happened. He met a girl. Not just any girl, but a beautiful, amazing girl who fell in love with him. Beverly Ann.

Beverly was his angel. A radiant princess who was out of his league. The kind of girl he wouldn’t expect to notice he was alive and she picked him. She fell in love with him. At last, the universe had given him hope. Light. At last, the darkness was dispelled.

But of course, as those who are born into shadow know only too well, the universe can be cruel. Brutal. Merciless. Sometimes the light is only made brighter so the shadows can become darker. We are merely the fool jesters of a mad god king.

In 1978, James O’Barr’s fiance was murdered by a drunk driver.

Those of you who have never experienced the pain of such a loss can’t imagine the silence of hate. Losing the only thing that matters to you doesn’t fill you with sadness. It fills you with a fury no word has been invented to describe. An anger that can extinguish the sun.

The Crow was James O’Barr’s catharsis. This book was his way of surviving and coping with a hurt that no one could ever hope to cope with. He has said himself, in many interviews, that creating the comic was no help. In fact, drawing each page seemed to be dragging him deeper into the darkness he was trying to escape.

He has encapsulated rage and sorrow and gingerly inserted them into the pages like a timebomb. There they sit. Entombed in coffin quiet. Awaiting you to ignite the charge.

The Crow tells the story of Eric Draven and his fiance Shelly Webster. Both of them are senselessly murdered in a horrible act of random violence. For those of you who saw the 1994 movie with Brandon Lee in the eponymous role, that was an important plot point which was needlessly altered. In the movie, the couple is killed for defying eviction orders masterminded by a gang leader. Although the motive was not justified, there was a motive. In the book, there’s no motive at all. Fate. Destiny. The wrong place at the wrong time. Such a key point makes the book that much more tragic.

The beauty of The Crow is that it applies to the lives of everyone. One day, one horrible, unforgettable day, we all experience the anguish of those we love being stolen from us.

The way we lose them doesn’t matter. Illness. Accidents. Murders. Suicides. In the end, the only thing that matters is the fact that they are gone. That your life turns empty for the loss. That a light was extinguished too soon.

When you live that moment yourself, when that terrible day arrives, a book like The Crow will become the requiem of all the heartache you can’t put into words.

Every line. Every image. The abyss in every drop of ink will become your voice when you no longer have the strength to speak.

There are books in this world that are not about plots or stories. Instead, they stand as testaments and masterpieces to articulate feelings you can’t possibly express. The Crow is a master work of raw and unrefined emotion, giving a tangible form to the unmitigated rage of mourning.

My own life has a lot of strange connections to The Crow. In 1993, I was a stand-in for Jeff Imada on the film Double Dragon. Jeff had been the stunt coordinator of The Crow motion picture starring Brandon Lee as Eric Draven. Marc Dacascos, also a cast member of Double Dragon, went on to play Eric Draven in The Crow television series.

While writing my first novel, Michelle, the first girl to ever claim she loved me, committed suicide. Less than a year later, I discovered The Crow. Shelly. Michelle. Eric Draven and Eric Muss-Barnes. We were not so different from each other. Sometimes, on bad days, it could be difficult to remember which one of us was real and which one of us was fiction. Which one of us didn’t exist? Exist is a nebulous term, is it not?

20 years later and sometimes it’s still hard to tell.

This isn’t a book review like you were expecting but The Crow isn’t merely a book. The Crow is quite literally the personification of bereavement. Lamentation given a tangible form.

The Crow will be a story you can relate to like no other. Someday. If you haven’t lived through the torture of losing someone you love, it will happen. Next year. Next decade. Twenty years from now. But sooner or later, that day shall arrive for you, as it arrives for all of us.

On that day, Eric Draven will become your dark angel too. Your pain will be the razors he carves into his skin. Your heartbreak will reflect back into your eyes through the black wings of The Crow.

On that fateful, fateful day...

The Crow won’t be a book.

The Crow won’t be a story.

The Crow will be your salvation.

And sometimes, just sometimes, The Crow can bring your soul back, to put the wrong things right.

BOOK REVIEW: “The Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger
2 May 2014

Few things irritate me more than people who constantly insist the world is so different now and things change so much. This typically happens between people with age differences. Notice I’m not singling out any particular age group because they are all equally guilty of this narrow-minded behavior. Grandparents tell college kids the world is so different now. College kids tell gradeschool children the world has changed so much for them. Children in junior high tell adults they don’t understand how much the world has transformed. See? Everyone does this. Preteens. Teenagers. College students. Adults. Senior citizens. All of you think your age makes you special. All of you out there, every generation, is guilty of deluding themselves into believing your age group is somehow unique in all of human history and therefore, no one outside of your age group can possibly comprehend what your world is all about or what you are going through. No matter what generation you identify with, your mind is clouded with self-important misinformation and misguided delusions of grandeur based on nothing but your birth certificate.

Stop it. All of you, just stop it. Stop thinking your generation is so goddamn extraordinary - and again, notice, I’m not singling out any particular generation. It doesn’t matter which generation you are in because all generations exhibit the identical stupidity and ignorance. From birth to death, we’re all the same, yet you constantly insist that the world has vastly evolved, compared to every generation that is not your own.

First of all, allow me to redefine the word “generation” for you. I need educate you, because you’re using it wrong.

Within the minuscule and irrelevant decades of your lifetime, we often define 20 years as a generation. Right? Give or take, but that’s a good approximation. A newborn baby is a “different generation” compared to a 20 year old and a 40 year old is a “different generation” from a 60 year old. Can we all agree on that? 20 years is the typical cutoff.

Now, let me tell you, that’s wrong.

That viewpoint is a very selfish and feeble-minded perception of time.

In truth, generations actually span a much larger range of history. And frankly, you already agree me, so long as it’s outside of your lifetime.

Allow me to give an example. Do you see people born in 1820 and 1840 and 1860 as being very different? Do you perceive those groups of children as “new generations”?

No! You see them as people born in the 1800’s. Correct? You don’t think of them as separate generations. You lump them all together. Why? Because you have an infantile perception of time. When you look at moments of human history that occurred decades or centuries before you were born, the word “generation” takes on a new meaning. Instead of “generations” originating every 20 years, you might acknowledge spans of 50 or 100 years. Right? Obviously a person born in 1830 and 1930 are clearly different generations. But, when we are talking about decades from past centuries, like 1820 and 1840, we don’t really differentiate that 20 year span as a new generation.

Therefore, I reiterate, the perception of every 20 years being a “new generation” is wrong. Inserting yourself in your rightful place in a larger cosmic timeframe, a “generation” is defined as the time between the lifetimes of every living relative we meet while we’re alive. The bookend of those family members represents our generation.

For example, the oldest living relative I ever met was my great grandfather. He was born in the late 1800’s. If I ever have children and greatgrandchildren (which is never going to happen because it would require meeting a woman with a pulse, but bear with me), then my generation would end with their deaths. That’s the true definition of a human generation - it’s the span of time within which your life has touched other living souls. Those people consist of your generation.

My definition of “generation” is superior. Because my definition reminds you that humanity is one, and we are far more connected and similar than anyone seems to be aware of. Regardless of our age-difference, so long as we are alive upon the earth at the same time, then we are of the same human generation. This is our time. This is our generation.

Let me repeat that. Because it’s important. It’s important for you to stop alienating everyone you didn’t go to high school with. So long as you and I are alive on this earth at the same time, we are of the same generation.

What does all of this have to do with a book review for The Catcher in the Rye?

I made this review in December of 2013 and author J.D. Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye over 60 years ago, in 1951.

Once upon a time, I read a commentary from a schoolteacher who lamented that none of her students related to The Catcher in the Rye. She then drew an ignorant conclusion - that the voice of Holden Caulfield had grown obsolete with the current generation. That’s bullshit! The truth is, she had an entire class full of lousy phonies. The whole point of The Catcher in the Rye has always been that 99% of people aren’t going to get it. Most people aren’t going to relate to it. That’s the whole idea! The book was never meant to appeal to teenagers just because they are teenagers. The book is relatable to anyone, at any age, who isn’t a fucking lemming. Most people are braindead goddamn sheep. The Catcher in the Rye isn’t for them and it never was. The fact that a teacher had a class full of kids who didn’t appreciate the book isn’t any great shock. But to presume that the problem is a generational one is forgetting that most people, of every generation, are a bunch of pudding-brained reality-show-addicted zombies surgically grafted to their cellphones and televisions. These aren’t people capable of critical thinking or exerting free will. They are the children in the rye. They aren’t the catchers and they never will be.

The explanation is truly that simple. All the children will hate it. Only the catchers will understand it.

Anyone stupid enough to think The Catcher in the Rye is a book about teen angst and you stopped relating to it when you became an adult, missed the point. The truth is, you never understood it. You’re nothing but a big phony and Holden would have let you walk right off the cliff, because lousy phonies like you could never be saved. You were always a lost cause.

Those people who dislike the book often become very defensive and argue that just because they dislike it doesn’t mean they don’t understand it.

Um, yes it does.

The book is about the rage of having to deal with the blissful ignorance of humanity. Don’t you see? Everyone should share in that anger. Remember that old saying? “If you’re not pissed off, you’re not paying attention.” Thus, to deride people by saying “you didn’t understand it” is a compliment. We are giving you the benefit of the doubt. Because if you truly understood the story and you still disliked it, there is something clearly wrong with you. So when we fans of the book tell you that you didn’t understand it, shut the fuck up and concede to that. The alternative is that you’re a fucking demon. Because if you see what’s wrong and you just don’t fucking care, then you are part of the goddamn problem.

The Catcher in the Rye isn’t about whining teen angst. Not at all. Never was. Anyone who perceives the book as such has no reading comprehension skills. Although, considering the broader degradation of intellect in western culture, that’s not shocking. The story is about the frustrations of how oblivious people are to the world around them. For gods sake, J.D. Salinger tells you the entire meaning of the book in the fucking title itself! Ever notice that there has never been a negative review to comment on the title? That’s because people who dislike the book aren’t intelligent enough to spot the obvious. The entire meaning of the book is about the blind childish stupidity of the world and how Holden just wants to be The Catcher in the Rye, the only one mature enough to see above the problems of the world and protect all you kids from falling into oblivion. Dreaming of being the savior to you all. You can’t see how fucked up you are because you can’t see the cliff. We stand above you not in arrogance, but because we’ve just been here a little longer than you. Why the the fuck do you think he used that as the title? There’s nothing to debate or discuss or analyze. The fucking meaning is right there. There’s nothing cryptic about it. It’s as clear as a punch in the fucking nose. You fucking sissies have probably never been in a fistfight, so you wouldn’t understand that metaphor.

If you ever stop relating to that, if that message ceases to resonate with you as you grow older and you suddenly think The Catcher in the Rye is about some whiny prep school jerk, written in the voice of an obsolete generation, then you have devolved into a phony of the worst kind. You’ve become a traitor to your own ideologies. You never understood what it means to be The Catcher in the Rye. And you never will. The price you pay to maintain your ideals is a lifetime of isolation and accepting that fate without regrets. Preserving your ethics is a charge you’ve never possessed the fortitude to do.

Nothing changes.

You can instantly tell those readers who remain true to themselves and those who compromise and become phony. In that vein, The Catcher in the Rye is another “dating test” book. Never go out with a girl who doesn’t like this book. Never go out with a girl who doesn’t love this story. She’s not worth it. She has nothing to offer.

For those of you who haven’t read it, The Catcher in the Rye centers around Holden Caulfield, a teenage boy who was kicked out of his prep school and spends a few days wandering the streets of New York City. The book has no plot. No antagonists. No action scenes. No love interest. By the end of the book he ends up institutionalized for his nervous breakdown but as a person who had dated and loved those girls who end up in institutions, that’s a load of crap. There is nothing wrong with Holden. There’s no justification for him to be locked in the looney bin. The world is flawed and deranged. You know the old saying, “In an insane world a sane man must appear insane.” I said there are no antagonists in the story, but I misspoke - the culture itself is the antagonist and those who see the insanity of our society too clearly are typically the ones we shut away. The story breaks all the conventions of storytelling structures and does so in a way that is absolutely poignant and captivating. The kind of book you read in one sitting and when you look at the clock, you’re stunned at how quickly the hours flew past.

Holden is an idealist. A dreamer who really wants to the world to be better than it happens to be and he meets all these people and has all these conversations and slowly comes to see how his view of life and his idealism is simply not shared or understood by the rest of the world around him. The rest of the world conforms to compromise and too readily eschews any nobility or idealism. Although it was written over 60 years ago, it still resonates with an insightful meaning and it reflects a kind of exasperation that is just as prevalent today as it was in 1951.

One statistic I found claimed the book still sells 250,000 copies a year. I have no idea if that’s true or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Author J.D. Salinger passed away in 2010 and all of us who were alive in that year, shared the lifetime of J.D. Salinger. Even through it was written decades before I was born, this book and his writing was a voice for your generation and mine.

In closing, allow me to apologize for one thing. Forgive me for doing a review on The Catcher in the Rye and using the terms lousy and phony. There is no greater cliche than an imbecilic book reviewer using Holden Caulfield idioms in order to appear as a hip and cool genuine fan. That shows a pretty weak and pathetic lack of creativity. I got a bang out of that. Compared to J.D. Salinger, we’re all a bunch of crumby flits. That killed me.

“In America the young are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves the full benefits of their inexperience... In fact, it may be truly said that no American child is ever blind to the deficiencies of its parents, no matter how much it may love them.”

- Oscar Wilde

BOOK REVIEW: “Faeries” by Brian Froud & Alan Lee
16 May 2014

Faeries by Brian Froud is unique among any books I’ve ever read. The book part reference manual, part artist sketchbook, part short story compendium, and some would dare say, part anthropological fieldguide. Faeries isn’t a book that can be neatly tucked into a tidy description. Like the author Brian Froud, Faeries is truly in a class by itself.

Written and illustrated by Brian Froud and Alan Lee (mostly known for his conceptual design work on The Lord of The Rings films and his uncredited design of Legend by Ridley Scott), Brian is a world-renown fantasy artist and author of several books featuring his second-sight hypnogogic images of the realms of faerie. In addition to his wonderful illustrative talents, Brian Froud is also responsible for the conceptual design of timeless films such as Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal. He also worked on the wonderful Jim Henson television series The Storyteller.

During the summer of 2003, I had the great honor of meeting Brian Froud, two days in a row. The first time we met was at the illustrious Labyrinth Masquerade Ball (which took place in Santa Monica that year) and the next time we met was at a little curio shop where he was doing a book signing, I believe somewhere over in Brentwood.

Wonderful gentleman. At the Masquerade Ball, I hung out with Brian, and his lovely wife Wendy, and I chatted with their son Toby for a time as well. Wendy is an incredible artist in her own right, helping design characters such as Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back and the gelflings Jen and Kira in The Dark Crystal. Wendy and I discovered that I actually used to take family vacations up near the little town in Michigan where she was born, Traverse City. We reminisced about that for awhile and had a great chat. We hung out for a good hour or so, just talking. That was when they told me about the signing the next day and invited me to come along. Strangely enough, no one seemed to recognize Brian or Wendy Froud, so they weren’t being swarmed by people pleading for autographs or anything. We were kicking back in a little lounge area, all by ourselves, overlooking a wrought-iron balcony onto hundreds of people who were milling about on the dancefloor and socializing in other parts of the ball.

The next day, I arrived at the book signing about 2 hours early, because I wasn’t interested in getting anything signed, but I simply wanted to hang out with Brian and Wendy again. And it was wonderful because, once again, no one had shown up yet. We had the shop all to ourselves on a quiet Saturday morning and we sat around having a charming conversation in this quaint and lovely little store for a good hour or so. And that was it. I never kept in touch with the Froud family. I never saw them or met them again. On two unassuming summer days in 2003 in Los Angeles, I just had one pleasant evening and one serene morning of hanging out with some of the greatest fantasy artists of my time.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re wondering why the hell I’m talking about hanging out with Brian Froud when this is supposed to be a review of his Faeries book. What does my stupid Hollywood namedropping have to do with the book? Right? But talking about hanging out with Brian Froud does make for a legitimate review of the Faeries book, because his visionary talent ties into who he is as a person, as well as the artwork of the book. When an author like myself is writing a novel, that’s a makebelieve story that may only reflect a fractional facet of my own personality. Faeries is the type of book that reflects an integral part of who Brian Froud happens to be. So, telling you that he and I shared a delightful discussion during a magical moment is very relevant to reviewing Faeries.

Faeries has been in print for over 20 years and for good reason. Faeries is an endless well of inspiration, influencing the imagination of tattoo artists and novelists alike. Brian Froud images have ended up on the hips of beautiful women and the Celtic legends have imbued novels like my own. The stories and faerie tales contained in Faeries are dreamy and compelling and stand as an enchanting combination of newly invented fiction combined with age old folklore. The artwork is enrapturing and every pencil-line, every brush-stroke promises to reveal new secrets each time the book is opened. You will constantly find yourself discovering a treasure trove of images and imaginings you never saw before. Imbued with the magic to constantly unveil itself to you, the book is something you will return to again and again. Because the images hold such richness and detail, everytime you read the book, it will feel like you are opening up to pages you had never noticed before.

Movies like Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal and Legend are loathed and derided by most of the world, because most of the world is filled with zombies and devils and those who are dead to all magic. The few of us who love these movies and these worlds are of a different breed. Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal and Legend speak to a very particular and peculiar type of person. Those films are still cherished as the favorite movies of certain people, even 30 years after they were made. To me, that kind of ageless appeal correlates directly to the spirit imbued into those motion pictures though the magic of Brian Froud’s vision. Brian Froud sees the world in a way that all of us instinctively understood as children, yet we soon forget. Brian has never forgotten. Brian never lost sight of how the world looked when we were still young enough to know that magic truly exists. Only when we become older do we become stupid and uneducated and robbed of our wisdom. As children, we are still insightful enough to recall what the world really looks like. That is why all of Brian Froud’s artwork looks so familiar. From movies to television to books like Faeries, we have all seen these worlds before. We know them. We remember them. Somewhere in our collective subconscious, we remember when The Crystal cracked. We were there when the Skeksis and the Mystics appeared. We have been lost in that very same labyrinth before. We know those walls. We can still feel their texture.

How is it that we know those things?

Why do we remember that stuff?

How does Brian Froud recall enough to reconstruct those dreamscapes on movie sets and in the pages of Faeries?

Pick up a copy of Faeries for yourself and you’ll start to find the answers. I’m willing to bet the images will all look a little familiar to you. You’ve seen these seelie and unseelie courts before. In dreams. In nightmares. In childhood memories you’re not sure really happened or did you make them up? You know you’ve seen these creatures somewhere before. For some of us, you’ll love a book like Faeries, because it always reminds you of home.

BOOK REVIEW: “Our Movie Year” by Harvey Pekar
31 July 2015

This review is going to be very weird because with this story, the borders between comic books, movies, and real life simply don’t exist.

As fans of American Splendor know, all the comics written by Harvey Pekar were based upon is own life in Cleveland, Ohio. The first American Splendor comic came out in 1976 and for the next 34 years, until his untimely death in 2010 at the young age of 70, Harvey created one of the most innovative (and unfortunately one of the least known) bodies of literature in the history of the English language.

Back in December of 2001, producer Ted Hope and filmmakers Bob Pulchini and Sheri Springer-Bergman were in Cleveland to film what would become an Academy Award Nominated movie adaptation of Harvey’s comics books. I was luck enough to be on the crew of that show for the entire shoot and in fact, you can see my name in the end credits.

In keeping with making comics about his life, Harvey Perkar made an American Splendor comic called Our Movie Year which chronicles his experiences on and after the film. So, there was a comic book, which inspired a movie, which I worked on, which inspired a comic book, which lead to this review of me talking about the comic and the movie and my being there.

Uh. Yeah.

At this point, I have no idea if I’m reviewing books or movies or sharing my real life experiences. For me, that’s part of the excitement of reading Our Movie Year by Harvey Pekar. For me, it’s all of the above.

Harvey and I knew each other. I met him while filming the movie. Spent time at his house, met his wife Joyce and his daughter Danielle. Talked with him a few times. He was just as gruff as he appears to be in the comics and movie. Harvey was the genuine article and then some.

There is a scene in the beginning of the book where Harvey is pointing at the reader and he says that he hopes you will one day be lucky enough to work with people like Ted, Bob and Sheri. But I did! I was there! You know how strange it is to know a real person who is talking to you as a character in a comic book, about things you really experienced?

Like all of the American Splendor comics, Our Movie Year is illustrated by different artists and is made up of small vignettes. Some long. Some brief. But all of it serves to give a nice feel for the experiences and the odd assortment of characters Harvey associated with. Which is a strange thing to say because in the case of American Splendor, the word “characters” is a double-entendre. They are comic book characters. But in real life, they are quite the characters too.

One of the people outlined in the book is Toby Radloff. Toby had his 15 minutes of fame on MTV during the 1980’s when he did a series of odd little promo spots for them. The very first job I ever had was working at White Castle Hamburgers on the corner of Pearl and Brookpark in Cleveland. Toby loved White Castle Hamburgers and one of his MTV spots was done at that restaurant. Imagine my shock when I’m watching MTV and there’s this eccentric nerdy guy doing a promotional spot at the White Castle hamburgers where I used to work!? Freaked me out bigtime.

On my very first day on the crew, I actually had to pick Toby Radloff up from his house and drive him to the set. There we were. Me and MTV’s Genuine Nerd, Mr. Toby Radloff, chatting in my car for 20 minutes about movies and comics and music video television.

Harvey has a great line in an untitled, one-panel comic where he says, “Lookitme - whutta disapointment I turned out to be - and just when I needed myself the most.” That’s poetry, man. Certainly a line everyone can understand. Letting down people we care about is bad enough, but it’s even more pitiful when we let down ourselves.

Ultimately, I think the biggest problem with Harvey is that he entered artistic mediums that the general public simply doesn’t care about. He was a jazz critic for many years and was very knowledgeable about about jazz musicians and the history of jazz. But who the hell listens to jazz music? Jazz has never exactly been a huge part of the culture. Sure, everyone knows jazz music exists. We have all heard jazz music. But if you grab random people on the street and ask them to name three famous jazz musicians, I bet they can’t do it. I’m not saying anything bad about jazz, I’m just pointing out that Harvey Pekar was reviewing and collecting records in a genre that was never very popular.

Same goes for his writing. He wrote comic books. Within the United States, nobody reads comic books except a small percentage of the overall population. What’s more, the people who do read comics, only read superhero stories. In fact, some of the coolest comic book shops here in Los Angeles don’t even stock American Splendor, but they have plenty of DC and Marvel titles.

Harvey was an artist who worked in a niche that few will ever pay attention to and he captured facets of working class Americana across 4 decades in a way no one else has. Historically speaking, his work is truly destined to become timeless and revered. Like so many greats of literature and art, he’s going to become very famous many decades from now and everyone will say, “How did people not know about Harvey Pekar!? What a shame that during his lifetime he never gained the fame and fortune he has today!”

A predominant theme of American Splendor that is rather distressing are his money woes. Harvey had a steady government job and a comic book that was turned into a motion picture. Despite all of that, he still had a rough time making ends meet. Now, I don’t know anything about his income. Maybe he wasn’t struggling so much after all. Maybe he just liked to maintain the down-and-out poor-artist image because that’s the mainstay of his stories. Maybe he was terrible at managing his finances and another person with his income might be just fine. Or, maybe he really was broke all the time. Like I said, I don’t have any way of knowing the answer to any of that. All I do know is this: I love his comic books and when we love the work someone creates, it’s always a bummer when they seem to constantly toil for recognition and success.

One of my favorites is a story called “Birthday” illustrated by Frank Stack. The reason I like this one so much is because the artwork done by Frank really compliments the story. His images are this bizarre kind of chicken-scratch style and even his word bubbles have this kind of manic aesthetic to the lettering. The strange thing is, from a purely technical standpoint, the Frank Stack drawings are probably the worst in the book. They are the least realistic. They almost look like unfinished sketches done by someone in a highschool art class. Yet paired with his stresses and worries about finances and broken stereos and leaking bathtubs and all the mundane crap that we all deal with, there’s a beautiful verisimilitude to those chicken-scratches. The illustration of Frank Stack may not look how the world actually appears, but they look the way the world sometimes feels.

My one big disappointment with Our Movie Year was that it mentions very little about filming the movie. Most of the stories in the book talk about all the experiences afterwards. Now, granted, it only took a month to shoot the film. Obviously in a book about a movie year, I’d expect the next 11 months to comprise a majority of the book. But, in a 170 page book, Harvey literally only talks about the filming process for a page or two.

It also veers off for for almost 40 pages for commentaries about jazz musicians and albums. After the release of the American Splendor movie, Harvey started to get more freelance writing opportunities. In essence, some of the stories in Our Movie Year are just illustrated versions of his musical commentaries. While it may be befitting to the title of the book to chronicle stories he had the opportunity to publish after the film, I bought the book to read about his filmmaking experiences, not to learn 40 pages of jazz history. That’s my only complaint about the book. Other than that, the other 130 pages are fantastic.

As it turns out, Harvey Pekar was also friends with comic book artist Alan Moore, who is one of the most famous comic book artists of the late 20th and early 21st century. I had no idea they knew each other and it was great to read about their friendship and the two of them hanging out in England.

All of the works of Harvey Pekar are wonderfully relatable. Maybe not if you’re still in college or younger. But once you end up working a job that you have to keep in order to continue paying the rent, you will relate to the everyman struggles of Harvey. The stories in Our Movie Year aren’t relatable in the way his other work is because, after all, I can’t relate to being flown all over the world to promote a movie based upon my books. Can you?

In that aspect, Our Movie Year veers away from the down-and-out melancholy of typical Harvey Pekar stories. But honestly, that’s kind of wonderful. Seeing a person you admire gain some appreciation and laurels is fantastic. Instead of lamenting that you can’t relate to his experiences, you’re just happy that he had them and you get to live them vicariously through the work.

As for me, I have to wrap up this review and get back to writing my sixth novel. After all, as Harvey Pekar said, “It’s better to be an artist than a critic.”

MOVIE REVIEW: “Zero Charisma” by Andrew Matthews & Katie Graham
28 March 2016

Back in 2014, I wrote a blog called “Why Nerdy Losers Hate Fake Geek Girls” and I know it upset a lot of people. Well, okay, it didn’t upset a lot of people because I don’t have more than a few dozen people paying any attention to what I create. But it upset a few people. Basically, I said that a lot of hateful and bitter nerds deserve what they get. They bring their alienation on themselves and just because the world treats you like dirt is no excuse to become a vindictive jerk. I ended up deleting it, and I’ll explain why later.

After I watched the movie Zero Charisma and it really got me thinking about that topic again.

I first started playing AD&D back in 1983 and for the next decade, I played a huge array of role playing games from Star Frontiers to Gamma World to Marvel Super Heroes to Vampire: The Masquerade. Zero Charisma was marketed as a comedy about a group of tabletop gamers. I figured it would be a fun film I could relate to. Not true at all. This was not a fun and lighthearted comedy. Instead, it proved to be an intense emotional story that hit a little too close to home. Sure, there were funny parts (there’s a Joss Whedon reference that nearly had me rolling off the couch), but overall, this film was definitely a drama. Dramedy as the indy film parlance is fond of saying. One of those movies with a misleading trailer that seems quirky and upbeat. In truth, the movie is a touching and sentimental character piece.

The lead actor, a gentleman by the name of Sam Eidson, in the role of Scott Weidermeyer, delivers a moving and powerful performance. The film is basically about Scott living at home with his grandmother and running his own fantasy role playing game. Like a lot of geeky types, Scott is one of those people who is very self-absorbed and self-centered, but he doesn’t realize it. As a result, he ends up slowly destroying his friendships and his whole world kind of falls apart. The interesting flipside of his character is that he’s also genuinely sensitive and heartwarming.

The reason this film touched me so deeply is because I am Scott Weidermeyer.

You ever watch a movie and wonder how the characters can be so blind to their failings? You know what I mean? The characters on the screen are doing something incredibly stupid or unbelievably selfish or ridiculously insensitive and we think, “That’s so dumb. No one would ever act that way. This movie is so unrealistic. Why would someone make such an obvious mistake in their life? They are so clearly screwing up. How can they not see this?”

We smugly think we’d never behave that way ourselves. Movie characters are so one-dimensional.

That would have been what I thought when I was watching Zero Charisma if Scott hadn’t paralleled my life so closely. No, I haven’t gone through the same experiences scene for scene. But I have most definitely been a selfish jerk who loses all of his friends and finds the world abandons you, and then you play the victim, and wonder why life is so unfair. I’ve done that. I’ve played that game. I’ve been the Game Master. Far too many times.

Being sensitive and emotional is actually very commonplace for people who are self-absorbed and egotistical. That seems like a contradiction, but it’s not at all. Typically, the psychology works like this: You are a gentle soul who is very kind by nature. The world doesn’t appreciate you. The world finds no value in you. No matter how much you achieve, no one cares. Family and friends run you down and ridicule your ambitions. No one supports you or has any faith in you. As a result of this rejection, you try to compensate by getting cocky. Since no one seems to acknowledge anything you have accomplished, you start to boast and brag all the time. You feel if no one is going to value what you are worth, you’re going to make damn sure you constantly remind everyone how awesome you are. As a result of the repetitious arrogance you begin to project, everything backfires. Now, the people who never appreciated you, just end up resenting you. While they used to ignore you because they thought you had no value, now they ignore you because they think you’re a narcissistic bastard. Because you are honestly emotional and sensitive, this new wave of rejection makes you enraged. You slowly transform. Instead of being depressed and feeling sorry for yourself because everyone ignores you, you begin feeling angry and full of animosity because nobody likes you. That is the pattern. Very simple. Very common. Many of us repeat that process over and over. The inevitable downward spiral which results from treating sensitive people like crap.

That is the exact character arc of Scott Weidermeyer.

But that character arc is not fiction.

I have lived it. So have a lot of geeks and nerds. There is a fine line between Mr. Sensitive and The Hulk. Why do you think all of us have the exact same favorite line in The Avengers? The one we all relate to. You know exactly which line I’m talking about. “That’s my secret, Captain. I’m always angry.” The unspoken creed of nerds everywhere.

The secret of Bruce Banner, by the way, is accurate. Don’t deny your anger. Learn to control it. One of many problems with our culture today is that people think anger is a bad thing. But anger is a natural human emotion. You’re supposed to get angry in your life. Look at the sociopolitical problems in our world and you need to get angry. Never getting angry doesn’t mean you’re laid back and well-adjusted - it means you’re missing a vital facet of the human condition. Repressing anger and pretending it doesn’t exist is a bad thing. Ranting and venting and getting things off your chest is healthy.

Which takes me back to that essay I mentioned earlier, “Why Nerdy Losers Hate Fake Geek Girls”. Maybe I was wrong. Zero Charisma really got me thinking that maybe I was a bit too harsh in my condemnation of angry nerd boys. I stand by my conviction that emotionally scarred boys have no right to be hateful towards pretty girls just because they’re pretty. That is absolute crap and there is no justification for that kind of behavior. But I certainly have no right to belittle anyone for becoming angry over being mistreated. Maybe I just saw far too much of myself in those people.

Scott Weidermeyer is like Gollum - he’s a horrible character, yet we feel sorry for him. Scott did bring everything on himself, he may have been a mean-spirited oaf who drove his friends away, and he certainly shouldn’t have started the fight at the end of the film, but despite all of the things he did wrong, despite all of the selfish mistakes he made, we still pity him. Why? Why do we feel such compassion for someone who is such a twatwaffle?

Because we see ourselves in him. Because we each mask the same kind of anger and sensitivity and selfishness. He tries to cover up all of those things. Pretending he isn’t full of rage, when he’s always furious. Trying to be aloof and act like he’s not sensitive, when he feels everything so deeply. Convincing himself that he’s generous and altruistic, when he’s condescending and manipulative. Worst of all, he’s one of those pompous jerks who feels jilted by the world because he is convinced that everyone is too ignorant or jealous to appreciate his genius. Never does it occur to him that maybe he spends too much time expecting the world to appreciate him and not enough time working to earn the recognition he feels so entitled to possess. Lots of people act that way. We demand society to value our potential instead of doing something to prove our worth. Scott Weidermeyer is the poster child of all nerds. He’s the archetypal representation of all that we are.

Scott Weidermeyer is exactly the kind of nerd I was ranting about in my essay. When I wrote that essay, I didn’t recognize it, but as I watched Zero Charisma, I instantly realized he and I are two sides of the same coin. Like I said, it is always so easy to spot the flaws of characters on a movie screen. How easy it is to get angry with people when their horrible behavior is a mirror of our own. That’s why ranted about nerds like Scott Weidermeyer in my essay. After watching Zero Charisma, I am painfully reminded that I’m no different from him.

Worse than that. I’m more like Miles. During the course of the film, the character of Miles (portrayed with great nuance and false modesty by actor Garrett Graham) is the nemesis of Scott. Miles is just as horrible and manipulative as Scott, but in a subtly different way. Miles is one of those hip and cool pseudo-geeks. He’s got his life together a little bit more than Scott does. Miles has a house and a beautiful girlfriend. Sadly however, Miles is the kind of guy who rubs it in your face. He pretends to be humble. In truth, Miles is an insecure prick who likes to surround himself with losers, so he can feel better about himself. Scott is the only character to recognize this, because it takes one to know one. How easy it is to feel superior to others with our single charisma point when everyone around us has zero. Scott is proven right later in the film when Miles fails to invite any of the gamers to a party he’s throwing at his house. Miles pretends to be a nice guy, but he actually just uses people to validate himself. Just like I do.

Scott and Miles are like all of us. Monsters and angels. They always see themselves as heroes, even when they do things that make them villains. Neither one of them are as terrible as the other thinks, but neither one of them are as good as they think of themselves.

Perhaps the film Zero Charisma has been marketed as a comedy because life is darkly funny. We’re not awful people. We’re not rapists and murderers. We’re not muggers punching little old ladies in the face. All in all, we’re decent human beings who just got a little lost along the way. Being sensitive means that once someone holds a mirror up to your bullshit, you feel pretty damn guilty for all the crap you pull. By the end of the film, Scott begins to recognize that in himself. Hard for good people to admit when they’ve behaved badly. Comparatively speaking, when marked against the unspeakable atrocities millions of people commit against one another everyday, there is something hilarious about beating yourself up so hard for such minor transgressions of selfishness.

Zero Charisma has truly become one of my favorite films. After I saw it for the first time, I immediately went back and watched it a second. I’ve now seen it about 4 or 5 times. Directors Andrew Matthews and Katie Graham said in their press kit, “Our main hope is that audiences will come to love the character as we do, be entertained by him, and maybe be surprised that they ended up empathizing with someone who possesses none of the characteristics of traditionally ‘likable’ characters.” They have certainly succeeded with that. Scott is a jackass, yet we can’t help but like him. As one of my favorite authors once wrote, “How easy it is to be compassionate when it’s yourself you see in trouble.” If you’ve ever felt like an outcast geek or nerd, you have to watch this movie, because you’ll see yourself in it. If you’ve ever wondered why you don’t have any friends, you have to watch this movie, because you’ll understand how selfish you are. If you’ve ever tricked a beautiful girl into being your girlfriend, but she leaves once she sees you for what you really are, you have to watch this movie, because you’ll realize what a manipulative jerk you’ve been.

Zero Charisma teaches that painful life lesson: If you claim you’re a “nice guy”, unfortunately, you probably are. And there’s usually nothing remotely likable about those of us who cleave so tightly to that delusion of piousness. Chivalry is probably a trait you wish you had, not one you honestly possess. Hidden beneath our altruistic nobility are hidden agendas of selfishness we aren’t ready to face.

But the good news is, once you accept how wrong you have been, all of the animosity fades away and you remember that your sensitivity and ideals are still at the core of your being. Even if you occasionally fail to live up to your most valiant morals, you never abandon them. Slowly you come to remember that despite being ignored and unappreciated and abandoned by the world, you can stop being angry about it, because kindness and compassion and empathy have always been the foundation of who you truly are.

BOOK REVIEW: “Herding Tigers” by Daniel Philpot
16 April 2016

Mister Daniel Philpott, more commonly known by his stagename, Danny Blitz, saved me from becoming homeless in December 2004.

He didn’t do it on purpose. He didn’t know he was saving me from financial ruin. Nevertheless, the man was one of my angels and I will be forever grateful to him.

All my life, I’ve had a hard time finding jobs. Nothing special about that. I’m sure you might suffer from that curse too. It can typically take me months, sometimes years to find work. Back in December of 2004, I got laid off yet again and I didn’t have enough money to cover my January rent. Needless to say, I was in a panic the likes of which I had never been in before. In less than 30 days, I would be on the streets.

Having sent out some resumes the night before I lost my job, Danny called the day I was laid off and scheduled an interview with me the next day. He hired me on the spot. I couldn’t believe it. Here it usually takes me months to find work and I had a new gig in less than 48 hours. Danny was my miracle. He rescued me, without even knowing he was doing it.

Danny was a rockstar. I don’t mean that as a euphemism. I mean it literally. He was a guitarist and a singer in a band and his music was getting on MTV and used on popular television shows. I even got his permission to use one of his hit songs in my skateboarding video. Like so many artists, years of persistence were paying off and he was finally getting his well-deserved big breaks.

All of that changed in October of 2003, when this tall burly muscular tattooed rockabilly badboy suffered a massive seizure at work caused by a cancerous brain tumor when he was only 39 years old.

Tragically, the rushed surgery performed to save his life resulted in partial paralysis of his left hand. Just as our rockstar was starting his meteoric rise to the top, he would never be able to play guitar again. Sounds like the cliched script of some awful television melodrama on one of those chick cable networks, but it was his true story.

Danny Blitz passed away in August of 2012. He was only 48 years old. I hadn’t spoken to Danny in about 5 years, but his music came on at random from my computer in December of 2013 and I decided to hop on the Internet and look him up. That was how I discovered he had died 16 months earlier. I was never able to find a cause of death. I don’t even know what happened to him. I imagine it may have been complications from the cancer, but I don’t know for sure. Not that it matters. All that matters is the fact that he’s gone and he was a damn good man.

I also discovered Danny published a business book in 2009 called Herding Tigers. Obviously, I had to buy it.

Herding Tigers expounds on the programming philosophies of Danny and how he thought teams should be run and organized.

Personally, I disagree with many of Danny’s philosophies regarding software development. He’s very adamant and passionate about his views, but I think they are mistakes simply because I have always held the stance that you never dictate workflows. As a programmer myself, I believe developers should be given the freedom to create in the environment they are the most comfortable with. For example, in Internet development, the technology managers should never dictate the language sites are created in. Developers should be free to use whatever tools they want. ASP. PHP. Java. Cold Fusion. Python. jQuery. Frameworks. Bootstrap. Flash. Angular. Whatever you want. Shouldn’t make any difference. As a manager, your job is to hire the best people to produce the best work. Dictating the tools they must use to create that work is ignorant and ineffective. That’s like forcing a mechanic or a carpenter to use a certain brand of hammers and wood. No one does that. What matters is building a quality house to please the homeowner. The tools used to construct it are irrelevant. Computer nerds should never dictate the tools used either. Yet, of course, no one thinks the way I do. There are very few computer nerds who share my philosophy. Most are all a bunch of zombfied trend followers. They don’t care about your ability to build a house or what the client needs. They only care that you are using the newest and fanciest tools to do the work. They love to brag about being on the cutting edge far before they ever think about the needs of the users.

My philosophy is not remotely popular and I guarantee that 99% of people involved in Internet technology and software development would say I’m crazy and stupid and naive and my approach would never work. All I can say to that is, I’m right. They’re wrong. And my opinion will always be worth more than theirs. Weren’t expecting that response, were they? After being told all their lives that they’re so special, they weren’t expecting to discover that they’re not. When they hire mindless fools like themselves into menial jobs, managers should lord over the drones and dictate their every move, since they tend to be incapable of thinking or recognizing the need for work to be done without being told. But when you bring bright and confident and innovate people into work with you, at jobs they have the authority to define, they will soar higher than you can imagine and carry your company with them.

But 99% of the computer nerds don’t know that. And they never will. Because they are the ignorant numbskulls who fail to understand that the only job of a boss is to give his or her team the resources to accomplish a task. When one needs to dictate workflows and micromanage tasks, it is because that manager is an incompetent failure who hired idiots in order to make himself look smarter. Everyone knows if one were an exemplary manager, you will always hire people who are smarter than you, and let them do their job.

None of this is intended to disparage Danny. He was a fantastic manager and when I worked with him, he did all the positive things I’m speaking about. He let me do my thing. He never dictated anything to me. And as a result, I produced advertising materials which garnered anywhere from $30,000 to $100,000 per weekend in sales. On a personal level, I think he was magnificent. I just disagree with some of the philosophies he outlines in his book, such as encouraging Agile development over Waterfall. Again, I am of the belief that talented people need to work the way they are most comfortable. Workflows should never be ordained from management or anyone else. But that’s just me.

Computer nerds in 2014 will disagree because they are like vapid women buying the latest trendy shoes. They only do what their peers tell them is cool. They can’t deviate from what their fellow lemmings are commanding.

All my life, people have accused me of being cocky and arrogant. They say I am quite the narcissist. I have no problem admitting that. People have said the same thing about Danny, but I think that’s part of the reason I loved the guy. Danny and I couldn’t have been more different. He was this intimidating God-fearing rockabilly dude from Texas. I’m an ignostic apatheist scrappy cross between Peter Pan and Rocky Balboa. Yet there was something undeniably affable about this smug rockstar. Danny called himself a War Tiger, but don’t let his bolstering fool you, the truth was, he was a big old kitty cat.

Go buy his book. Keep a little of his memory alive. Allow his voice to be heard. Listen to the roar of the War Tiger.

Danny always sung high praises for my work as a graphic designer and he often called me a “gentleman and a scholar” and a “God among men”.

Perhaps I am a God among men, but we who are Gods know angels when we see them and like I said earlier, Danny, you were an angel. I’m sad you’re gone but I’m so very grateful you were here. Rest in peace, my brother.

MOVIE REVIEW: “Sucker Punch” by Zack Snyder
3 February 2018

Emily Browning is one of my favorite actresses and I’ve only seen her in two films - Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events and Sucker Punch.

Few things are more exasperating than seeing a great movie or reading a fantastic book and watching it fail miserably because the general public never came to appreciate it.

When I first saw the trailer for the Zack Snyder film Sucker Punch, it looked incredible and I couldn’t wait to check it out. I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t see the movie in the theatre, mainly because it had such awful reviews and negative word-of-mouth. The fact this fantastic movie was derided by so many people just goes to show how ignorant filmgoers can be. The truth is, Sucker Punch (much like Natural Born Killers) is a phenomenal movie that was horribly underrated. This story is incredible and it’s become one of my favorite motion pictures of all time. I don’t even know how many times I’ve watched it at this point. Upwards of probably 15 or 20 times. I’ve seen it so many times I even spotted the Wilhelm Scream - when the dragon slams into the bridge and knights fall off the battlements.

When Dr. Sigmund Freud famously said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” he was referring to the fact that not every phallic shape is an affectation for a penis. Sucker Punch is an absolutely fantastic movie. Unfortunately, since it featured women in action roles, most critics were unable to accept the fact that sometimes a taco is just a taco. Like a sea of zombie lemmings, braindead critics immediately began to proselytize the identical rhetoric about the film and throw around trite words like “feminism” and “empowerment” and “exploitation” and “sexism” and lots of other pseudointellectual crap that meant absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Why is it that when a movie like “Stand By Me” or “The Outsiders” or “Predator” or even “The Expendables” is released, no one talks about “masculinity” and “chauvinism” and “boy power”? When action movies are filled with nothing but men, gender is not a discussion point and society accepts it as a movie. When action movies are filled with women, every critic suddenly feels the need to dissect the film into feminine metaphors and political statements. Why are film critics that juvenile? Why do they all feel the need to make comments about the genitalia of the characters?

When Star Wars: The Force Awakens came out, a friend of mine even said, “I love that Rey and Finn are strong female and black characters. It’s great to see that change.” That level of politically-correct-ignorance made me want to vomit.

What change!?

Princess Leia and Landro Calrissian were strong female and black lead characters in the original Star Wars trilogy. Rey and Finn are nothing new! They are not a change! These politically correct morons have gotten people so brainwashed, they think every representation of a leading woman is a cinematic innovation.

Princess Leia in Star Wars.

Ripley in Aliens.

Sarah Connor in Terminator.

Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman.

Strong women are not new. Not special. And everytime you act like they are, you are insulting all the strong women who came before. That sounds like a chauvinist, not a feminist.

Sucker Punch is a brilliant movie because it’s told with an elegant poetry. The naughty bits of the main characters are incidental. So for those assholes who criticized Sucker Punch and did nothing but discuss the outfits the girls were wearing - fuck you. Fuck you and your adolescent obsession with tits. Grow the fuck up and pay attention to the story. Sucker Punch was not making statements about female empowerment anymore than Jaws was making statements about fishing.

Stop plastering your own political agendas on the rest of the world and learn to accept things at face value. A cigar is just a cigar. Sucker Punch has a great story with a message of human empowerment, not female empowerment. I loved and related to these characters because of their struggles and hardship. Just because they didn’t have dicks between their legs doesn’t mean I couldn’t understand them. I still connected to them, just like I connected to Rey in Star Wars. I don’t have to see a male character on screen in order to empathize with the story and I guarantee you that girls are intelligent enough to relate to male characters in the same way.

I’ve seen some people analyze this film and they are way off and they miss a lot of key points in the movie. I’ve seen others get it close, but they miss the mark as well. I’m not interested in supporting or contradicting any of those other criticisms. I’m just going to address my views and I think once you see my take on the story, you’ll understand why it was so misunderstood.

This is really an analysis of the film, not a review, so prepare for spoilers.

The film exists not on 3 levels, as most people think, but on 4...

The first level is the theatre world. This world only appears at the very beginning and the very end of the story. This world establishes the bridge from our world into the movie. Thus the very opening shot foreshadows the layered worlds we are about to encounter. This is where Sweet Pea is narrating at the opening and closing of the film. She’s breaking the fourth wall and talking to the audience because she is telling us the moral and the message of the entire story. When she speaks of angels at the start of the film, as a voiceover on top of Babydoll, we are foreshadowed the roles that Abby Cornish and Emily Browning are really playing. Babydoll is not the hero. Our narrator, Sweet Pea, is the hero. Babydoll is her angel.

The second level is the “real world” of the film, which is the insane asylum world.

The third level is the one where people get confused. The third is the brothel world. The brothel world represents the imaginary world that Babydoll enters in order to cope with her time in the asylum world.

The fourth level is the dream world where all the kick ass battle scenes take place. Those are obviously the dream-within-a-dream of the brothel world.

As the film opens, we see a montage of Babydoll in the asylum. Now, it gets very perplexing for people, because there’s a flashforward time-jump that everyone misses. That timejump happens when Babydoll is on the sofa, in her therapy session with Dr. Gorski. We are given a clue of the impending timejump by the metronome. The metronome, obviously, denoting the passage of time. Measuring a beat.

Immediately following the metronome shot, we see Babydoll being strapped in the chair, about to be lobotomized. Now, the film becomes far more clear when you understand that everything which occurs in the brothel world actually happens between those two shots.

Some people have argued the entire film is an imagined reality by Sweet Pea. I said I wouldn’t address other criticisms but this is one I have to mention because, even Zack Snyder has suggested the whole thing might be in Sweet Pea’s imagination. He’s wrong. That just means the director is either fucking with people or he doesn’t understand his own film. That’s not an insult. I’m a writer. I’ve put over a million words on paper and as a novelist, I freely admit there are some surreal and dreamy aspects to my first novel I don’t fully understand myself. Just because you create artwork doesn’t mean you understand it. So, it’s not an insult or arrogance to say there may be aspects of Sucker Punch that Zack Snyder himself doesn’t understand as well as I do. Maybe he could read my novel and explain some things to me that I found confusing. Sometimes, the audience connects to our work on a deeper level than we do. So, Zack, buddy, if you don’t follow your own movie, that’s okay. I’ll lay it out for you.

So where was I? Ah, yes, imagined reality. No. It’s not. The asylum is the real world. In fact, if you pay close attention, you’ll notice that once we enter the brothel world, the only time we ever go back into the asylum is when Babydoll is outlining her escape plan. This is how we know, the brothel is imaginary, but they really are planning an escape from the mental institution - because the 4 objects they require are shown back in the asylum world.

Zack Snyder’s son plays the young boy who appears in the war and at the bus station. Now, he’s a key character because just like Scott Glen, he appears in the dreamworld and in the realworld. That’s yet another reason some people think it’s all imaginary. But no. The boy is another angel character. Just like Babydoll. He’s a guardian angel, watching over Sweet Pea. Making sure she’s on the right path. He watches her in the dreamworld and he guides her onto the bus in the real world. Remember at the beginning of the film, Sweet Pea foreshadows this by saying angels can take on many forms. An old man - the bus driver. A little girl - Babydoll. Or, in this case, a little boy. Since they are angels, the man and boy are able to transcend two planes of existence - the dreamworld and the real world. Got it? So the boy, the old man, and Babydoll - all three of them are angels.

I can’t commend this movie enough. It’s dark and sinister and creepy and exciting and tragic and funny and magical and imaginative. Most of all, it throws you for twists and turns you down complexly unexpected paths. The first 6 minutes are some of the most visually artistic scenes ever committed to film. The soundtrack with Emily Browning singing covers of The Pixies and The Smiths is just astonishing. The greatest part is all the hints that are dropped, like Sweet Pea calling herself the star of the show. Asking Babydoll to send her a postcard from Paradise.

I should also add a heap of praise onto Oscar Issac for his portrayal of Blue. As the orderly in the asylum, he’s a smarmy and wormy character that you just want to beat the crap out of for being a filthy little rapist. As the club owner in the brothel world, he’s a terrifying homicidal maniac and you don’t know if he’s going to hug you or shoot you. He gave a fantastic love-to-hate performance that I think went largely overlooked. Thankfully, he’s starting to get more roles in bigger films, so I think Hollywood may have realized the kid has talent. Congratulations, Oscar.

One thing that Zack Snyder was correct about in his commentary was the idea that the end of the film is the Sucker Punch. The first time I watched the movie, I was gutted by the fact that Babydoll sacrifices herself for Sweet Pea. I couldn’t believe it. Babydoll was the hero! She was the character we had grown to love and root for. And what horrible tragedies befell her. Her mother dies. Her stepdad tries to rape her. She accidentally kills her own sister while trying to protect her. Then she gets thrown in an asylum. Every beat was so unfair and tragic. We want Babydoll to escape. We want her to find some kind of salvation. When she sacrifices her own freedom for Sweet Pea, the girl we liked the least, the bossy one, the one who didn’t believe in herself or her friends, it’s a sucker punch alright.

That was the moment I fell in love with this film. The first time I saw it, I hated this film in that moment. I hated that Babydoll didn’t escape. I hated that she sacrifices herself. But when I thought about it more, I loved it. As she herself says, “It’s the only way this ever could have ended.” It was beautiful. Heartbreaking, yes. Yet I fell so in love with the story because of that brave and devastating twist. Or maybe it was when Blondie is handholding that .50 Cal machine gun and mowing down zombie Nazi troops. Vanessa Hudgens and a .50 caliber machine gun? Babydoll may be my dreamgirl, Emily Browning may be one of the prettiest girls on earth and one of my favorite actresses, but in that moment, Blondie was sexy incarnate. Had I been standing there, I may have pulled out an engagement ring and slipped it on Vanessa’s hand.

Speaking of gorgeous women, I offer one final commentary about the much discussed femininity of the film.

Feminism and empowerment, by their very definitions, are insulting words. Women’s empowerment? Female empowerment? What a grotesque backhanded compliment. Suggesting a need for empowerment implies inferiority. After all, when someone innately personifies the embodiment of their greatest strength, they do not require empowerment. The strong are already empowered. They don’t need to talk about what they already possess. Only the weak seek empowerment. This is why these notions of feminism are so degrading to women. I love girls. I always have. Even when I was a little boy, I saw girls as my equals, my peers, my playmates. I was never one of those boys who thought girls were icky or had cooties. I had a girlfriend when I was 4 years old. Heather Lyttle. Beautiful brunette. She was 5. I started out with older women. I adore girls. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized my attitude towards females was quite atypical. Most boys treated girls very differently. They were either asshole chauvinists who treated girls like garbage, or they were asshole “nice guys” who paraded around with a phony white knight act, constantly trying to defend girls and stick up for them. I didn’t relate to either of those schools of thought. Were I a knight, I always saw girls as shieldmaidens to my knighthood. Girls were never damsels in distress who needed me to save them. They were my companions and compatriots on the battlefields of life. Why would I condescend to rescue a girl when I’m relying on her to be strong enough to have my back?

Remember, the world is what we make of it.

Maybe in your imaginary brothels and insane asylums, girls are weak and frail things who need to bolster themselves with badges of feminism to feel empowered. But I have met my angels with savage weapons. Dazzling Empresses and fierce unicorns and tiny dancers who rise like a Phoenix. In my world of dragons and samurai demons, girls have all the weapons they need. And they fight.

September 11th
11 September 2004

11 September 2001

The day, when none of us who were over the age of 8, will ever forget where we were.

I slept in. Missed the whole thing until I was driving in to work at about 11am. The mayor of Cleveland was on every radio station doing an emergency broadcast. He said there was a reported possibility of terrorists on a plane at Hopkins Airport, so they shut the airport down.

He said they also shut down Burke Lakefront Airport.

I thought, “That’s weird. Why would they shut down the other airport too? Well, I guess they’re just being extra cautious.”

Then the mayor said that they “recommend evacuating all skyscrapers downtown, in light of the tragedy that has happened in NYC.”

That was when I freaked out.

What!? What is he talking about? What the hell happened in NYC!? What “tragedy”? And WHY on earth would they recommend evacuating ALL the freakin’ skyscrapers!? What could have POSSIBLY happened to warrant such a suggestion!? . . . Holy crap! What the hell is going on?!

The remainder of the mayors press conference was all about the possible terrorists at Hopkins Airport. They never talked about NYC again. So I had no idea what was going on as I frantically scanned the radio stations. I had watched “Red Dawn” with Patrick Swazye one too many times when I was 14 years old, so my mind was racing.

When I got near downtown, it looked like a ghosttown. No traffic. No one was there. I felt like I was in some weird sci-fi movie like “Night Of The Comet” or something. Finally, when I arrived at work, they had the TV on and I found out everything.

“Terrorists flew two commercial jets into the World Trade Center in NYC and BOTH towers collapsed!”

Holy freakin’ cow.

Being raised in the 80s, with the threat of nuclear war, WWIII, The Terminator, and a Max-Max-future looming over our heads during the Cold War everyday, I calmly just said, “Well, how about that? . . . So it begins . . .”

And I put my lunch in the fridge, as I contemplated asking the hot lipstick-lesbian in the office to sleep with me, because I figured, eh, it’s worth a shot, because we might not have a planet in 24 hours!

Bob With No Hands
19 July 2005

Okay. This here is the story of “Bob With No Hands” and it is a little inspirational tale with a moral or two at the end.

Now, whenever life gets me down, or I am bummed out and feeling sorry for myself, or just not wanting to get out of bed in the morning, I remind myself of “Bob With No Hands” and I always feel a little better.

So, here goes.

Once upon a time, I was talking to a dear friend of mine (i.e. ex-lover/fuckbuddy named Dawn Roman), and she was relaying a story which involved her pal, Bob With No Hands.

In the middle of one of her sentences, I interrupted her.

“Whoa, whoa. Wait a second,” I said. “Back up a minute. . . Did you just say. . . Bob With No Hands?”

“Yes,” said she.

“Who the hell is Bob With No Hands? ... And do I even WANT to know?”

She chuckled and began to relate to me the story of Bob With No Hands.

Apparently, back in the day, Bob With No Hands was once just plain old Bob.

Well, our good buddy Bob was a morose, suicidal soul who had decided that life was no longer worth living. That was it. Game over. He was finished. So, he came up with a plan to end it all. Does Bob decide to slit his wrists? Perhaps overdose on sleeping pills? Maybe bungee jump without the cord? Nope. Like a James Bond villain, he comes up with a more elaborate plan. Cut himself in half with a laser, you think? No! His scheme was to load-up his car with homemade and otherwise-acquired explosives and drive down to Florida from Ohio to do the deed of blowing his butt off the face of this fine little planet.

So, on his trip down to the Sunshine State (an ironic place to go for something as dreary as self-destruction), he gets pulled over by a State Trooper. Why? I dunno. Maybe he was taking advantage of the chance to drive 100MPH for the last time in his life.

As Mr. Trooper is walking up to Bob’s explosive-laden vehicle, Bob takes a hand grenade, pulls the pin, and sets it in his lap.

When our friend the Trooper arrives at Bob’s car window, he asks Bob (currently “With Hands”) what he has there. Bob, being the considerate fella he is, kindly holds the grenade out the car window to show our curious Mr. Trooper.

The Trooper immediately sprints back to his car and ducks for cover out of harms way ... and a few moments later, our good buddy Bob, becomes (drumroll please) Bob With No Hands! ... No, please. You don’t need to clap. Really.

So, here I’m thinking, okay - this is a guy with so many problems, and so much pain, and heartache and turmoil in his life, that he wants to die. I don’t know WHAT his problems were. Was he failing school? He lost his job? His grandfather molested him? He got a shitty haircut for prom? His fiance left him for a dachshund? Who knows? I have no clue. The point is, now, all of those problems which drove him to this depression remain in his life. They all still exist ... PLUS, in ADDITION to everything that made him want to die, NOW he has no !@..$% hands!

Shit. What if he WAS suicidal over a girl? Even if he finds a new love, he’ll never be able to run his fingers through her hair ... NEVER ... Think about that for a minute ... How depressing is THAT?

So, you see, kids, we can learn two morals from this story.

Number one - No matter how bad things are, no matter how depressed you are, no matter how much is going wrong in your life, it can always get worse. So, be grateful for the good things you DO have. After all, remember, if you are typing emails and reading websites, it is REALLY likely that you at least have your hands ... Or at least ONE hand. So, clearly, you are a little better off than our ol’ pal Bob at this point.

And our second moral? Number two? Simple ... Don’t play with hand grenades. They are dangerous for children, puppy dogs, and other living things.

So ends our storytime, kids. Drink your milk. Eat your cookies. And get some sleep.

And remember, until next time, keep reaching for the stars ... unless you’re Bob because you can’t reach for very much with no hands ...

The Runs
3 April 2006

One of the webforums I read posed the question of what was ones most embarrassing moment.

So many of the stories people told were absolutely pathetic; Dropping a lunch tray in the school cafeteria; A skirt flipping up in public; Accidentally kissing the wrong twin sister. Dumb things like that, which are hardly embarrassing at all.

To quote Richard Dreyfus in Jaws, “I got that beat... I got that beat.”

I knew I could show up all those stories with a tale of personal embarrassment to put all the skirt-flip stories to shame.

Listen up, dear reader. Be enlightened to true embarrassment. For I have a real-life yarn that is on par with the “naked in highschool history class” nightmare that we all have.

The year was 1991.

Like so many misguided youth, aimlessly wandering into adulthood with no real direction or focus on where to go or what to do with my life, at the age of 20, I had the brilliant idea that I was going to join the military.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

So, the question then became - which branch of the military would suit me the best?

Well, there was no way in hell I wanted to be on a freaking boat or submarine in the middle of the damn ocean. Forget that. No way I’m gonna be shark chum from another U.S.S. Indianapolis. Got it Mr. Hooper? Navy is out.

Okay. What other options are there? Well, I had seen way too many war movies to have any interest in being a member of the “cannon fodder” known as the infantry. So you can forget about the Army or Marines. I’m not gonna have some tough old buzzard screaming at me about his beloved Corp and asking if my parents had any children that lived. I also had no intention of marching around with a bunch of 19 year old kids with guns, through landmine-infested deserts or jungles. That is NOT my idea of a good time.

I’ve always loved aviation. Air Force! I could maybe work on aircraft. Hey, that’s pretty cool. No infantry to serve in. Woohoo! Perfect! And in the worst case, if there is a war, I’m stationed on a military base, surrounded by billions of dollars of guns and missiles. I can hide under my bunk like a pansy-assed bitch while the Marines march in and defend us. Awesome!

Air Force it is then.

So, in preparation for basic training, I decided I needed to start running on a daily basis, to get in shape as much as possible before I got shipped off to serve good old Uncle Sam.

Normally, I just would run a mile around my block, working on getting faster and faster each time. I had been doing so for a few weeks, and was getting pretty good and drastically improving my times. Plus, I knew that one lap was exactly half a mile. Made it easy to gauge my distances.

One fine summer afternoon, I decided I needed a change of pace (literally and figuratively). I chose to go to the local highschool and run a mile on their comfortable, spongy, rubberized track. The school was a good mile or two from my house, so I rode my 12-speed bicycle to get there.

Arriving at the track, I locked my bike to the chainlink fence and began my run. After the first lap around the track, my stomach was feeling a little woozy.

No big deal. Kept on running.

Second lap, the “woozy” in my tummy moved down a little lower. I was feeling kinda gassy. My bowels were churning a bit.

Hm. No big deal. Kept on running.

Third lap, I was starting to really need to go to the bathroom. But, I only had one more lap to make it a mile. Then I could head home. No problem.

I was sure I could hold it. Mother Nature wasn’t calling that loudly... at first...

With every step, I swear the poo in my intestines was being liquified like the grapes a fat Italian woman would stomp into wine. By the end of the fourth lap, my guts were making noises like Jabba The Hutt being shoved through a meat grinder.

Uh oh. I really, really, really have to take a dump.

I rushed over to my bicycle. My mind started racing, mapping out the neighborhood. No public bathrooms anywhere nearby. Were there? Damnit. No. No stores. No nothing. Everything is residential. And the closest stores are in the opposite direction of my house and about the same distance away. Wait. Wait! There was a library right up at the corner. Yes! Public library! Perfect. Maybe I could make it there.

Holy cow. I have never had to poop so bad in my life.

I hopped on my bike and started to ride. My guts were bubbling. As I began to pedal away, unable to sit on my bicycle seat, it felt like someone had just jammed a fistful of Vaseline up my ass.

Oh, no. No. No. No. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, NO!

I made it about 200 feet when my pulsating sphincter muscles just relaxed open and let loose like an incontinent grandfather at the family reunion. Warm, peanut-butter colored, liquified, ca-ca just poured out of my bunghole like a soft-serve ice cream dispenser. Right down my pants. Dripping on my shoes and flinging off the pedals of my bike.

And the smell? I think the odor alone may have been the equivalent of mustard gas. My children are gonna have birth defects because of the fumes I inhaled from my own rectum.

Great.

I am 20 years old and I have just shit myself in public. Good times!

Okay. Now what?

I have to ride my bike 2 miles back home with underwear that are full of sewage-scented oatmeal, pants that are streaked with crap-stains, and I smell like a tampon in your dead grandmas hoochie.

As I rode my bike, the warm Anus-Cream-of-Wheat just kept squishing around my buttcheeks and running down my legs more and more.

This would not do.

I had to clean out my britches before I got home, or they would just ooze a muddy trail all the way back to my house.

Plus, it just felt really, really gross.

So, I rode my bike across the grass and snuck behind the school in some bushes. This whole time, I’m terrified that some 6 year old girls are gonna come running around the corner towards the playground, and see a grown man hiding in the bushes with his pants down, scooping diarrhea out of his underwear. I could see it now - they’d run back to their dad screaming and he’d storm over to beat-up the sick pervert in the bushes. Wonderful. I’ll get arrested for indecent exposure, and be listed as a sex offender, because some little kids saw my bawdy parts.

Checking one last time that there was no one around, I pulled down my britches and did my best to pour the remaining soft-serve shit-cream out of my briefs. Not much I could do about the streams of the chunky goo that had poured down my legs. Using some leaves, I did my best to wipe away as much of it as possible and flung it deep into the shrubs.

None of those efforts made much difference. The entire ass of my pants was still wet, along with dark brown rivulets trailing down both legs. Why the hell did I decide to wear light-beige khakis that day?

Alright. I just needed to get back home. Yeah. Okay. Once I leave the grounds of the school, I can sneak up backroads and sidestreets and hopefully avoid being seen by anyone before I get to my house. Perfect. And as long as I remained downwind from pets or small children, hopefully my scent wouldn’t kill anybody.

Or so I had planned.

Because, you see, dear reader, I haven’t even gotten to the embarrassing part yet. Oh, no... Read on... Please, read on.

There was a stoplight at the alleyway that lead away from the school. It was the only time I would need to be anywhere near a main road. No problem. I could just stay back away from the street and wait for the light. None of the cross-traffic could see my moist and stinky ass from that vantage point.

Although ...

The carload of teenage girls, who pulled up the alleyway from behind me? Ohhhh, yeah, they could see my ass really quite well.

First I heard the car. My whole body tensed up.

Then I heard the giggling. Like I said, it was a nice summer day. So all their windows were rolled down.

Much to my chagrin... they were downwind. And I think they caught the stench that would permanently reduce their bosoms by two full cup-sizes.

Could it be an old guy by himself in the car? Could it be a young married couple? Could it be an ugly woman all alone? No. It had to be a carload of attractive, teenage girls. Perfect.

Ordinarily, this would be the instant where the storyteller might say, “I nearly shit myself” ... But at that point, “nearly” would be an understatement.

“Ewwwwwwww! LOOK! THAT GUY SHIT HIMSELF!”

I dared a brief glance towards the car. Therein I saw 5 hot girls, all around 17 or 18 years old, howling with laughter harder than any girl had ever laughed in the history of the world. The only satisfaction I gained from the moment was fantasizing about running towards them and flinging handfuls of my foul butt-yogurt at their car and maybe hitting one in the face with a nice patty of crap, like some revolting cream pie.

When the light changed, it was really difficult to ride my bike away because I was approximately 3 inches tall at that point. The driver of the car didn’t seem to have any problem peeling away as fast as possible from Creepy Poop Guy.

The remainder of my trek home was rather uneventful. I even had to laugh at myself quite a bit. I mean, after shitting your pants in public, what is the most humiliating thing that could happen? Probably something along the lines of ... oh, I dunno ... being mocked by a carload of cute teenage girls? Right. So, hell, at that point, what did I have to lose?

I got home; Cleaned up; And made sure to keep my jogging confined to trips around the block from that point forward.

And cut down on bran.

Thankfully, the experience never happened before or since, and I run a hell of a lot farther and harder now than I did back then. There are three reasons I tell the tale now. First, I learned that it’s not all that unusual and it’s actually very common for it to happen to marathon runners at the end of a race due to fatigue. Second, it was 15 years ago, so who cares? Third, it’s pretty damn funny if I choose to have a sense of humor about it.

To this day, I often look back on that event and I wonder about those cute girls in the car. Where are they now? What became of them? And how often do they still laugh, telling people the story about seeing the guy on the 12-speed with gooey crap running down his pant legs?

Ladies, if you’re out there somewhere and you end up reading this ... I’m still single. Coffee?

Oh. And incidentally, in case you were wondering, no, I never did join the Air Force after all. Like I said, it was a confusing time in my life and I had no direction for what I wanted to do.

I guess you could say I just didn’t know if I should “shit or get off the pot.”

Apparently, I did both!

Ten Imaginative Years (a.k.a. “How I Wrote My Novel”)
30 March 2007

(The title of this blog is an homage to “Ten Imaginary Years” - a biography published in the 1980’s about The Cure.)

Ten years ago, in 1997, I published my first novel, a vampire story called The Gothic Rainbow.

The more I thought of it, on this 10th anniversary, it seemed an ideal opportunity to share the journey of spinning my dark little yarn, a decade after the event. Many people out there are young dreamers who aspire to be successful artists - musicians, actors, authors, illustrators, and more. Sounded like a wonderful chance to encourage youthful daydreamers by telling the story of how attaining my dream enriched the entire course of my life. I guess you could say, I have a good story on my hands, and it would be good to speak for people who have no voice.

But we’ll get back to that later.

The story of writing The Gothic Rainbow begins with the movie The NeverEnding Story.

I’ll never forget sitting in that air-conditioned movie theatre at Parmatown Mall in Cleveland, Ohio during the summer of 1984 and seeing The Childlike Empress (undoubtedly the prettiest girl I had ever seen at that age) speaking to me and the others in the audience about sharing the adventures of Bastian and Atreyu.

What if the things she said were true? What if the power of dreams and wishes truly could span other worlds and alternate realities? What if all we dream somehow exists, in some other realm? As a young boy, that was the first time such notions were ever presented to my fertile imagination.

The wonderment and magic of that moment genuinely changed me forever.

A childhood consumed by Star Wars and AD&D finally made sense - I was always a storyteller; but up until then, I never knew it. (Whether or not I was any good as a storyteller is a different matter entirely, but I’ve always been one.)

Thanks to the influence of seeing The NeverEnding Story as a film, I read the novel. Reading it was another exceedingly magical event, and a significantly powerful influence. Although, as was so often repeated in the novel: That, however, is another story and shall be told another time.

Afterwards, I started to read other books and anthologies incessantly. Nevertheless, as Mr. Coreander pointed out in his bookstore, I didn’t read classics that were “safe” stories. To this day, I’d rather hunt bookstore aisles and trust my intuition to lead me to the enchanting novels on the shelves; the ones no one else knows about, but speak to me. I got a subscription to Amazing Stories Magazine and read every issue cover-to-cover multiple times and collected comic books and even more role-playing games. All through my teens, I knew writing was what I wanted to do; to make a living as an author.

When I turned 18, I finally felt ready. I began to pen my first novel - a high-fantasy book called The Gothic Rainbow. The title was derived from a castle in the story with huge, arcing, obsidian spires - similar to the Skeksis castle in The Dark Crystal.

Slightly beyond 100 pages into the story, I got stuck. I had no idea where to go next.

Crap.

I had read about famous authors like Ray Bradbury and how he’d sit down at his typewriter and bang out entire novels with no outline. He could just write. I aspired to accomplish the same thing.

Unfortunately, I had to scrap my whole book and start over.

My second-attempt ended the same way.

So did the third.

Needless to say, I was quite frustrated and disheartened at that point. Here I had over 300 pages of material, three novels, none of which were complete. Defeated, I put aside the notion of writing. Why bother? I couldn’t seem to finish anything I started. I was just a wannabe. I was no Harlan Ellison. Who was I fooling?

During the summer of 1992, I was taking a few classes at a community college.

In an advanced English course, my professor, Dr. James Sheridan, was very supportive and encouraging of my writing. He invited me to participate in an independent-study program over the summer - design my own curriculum.

Taking him up on the offer, I proposed writing a novel.

I thought if forced to write with a deadline, it would help me finish.

Dr. Sheridan approved the idea, with a caveat that skeptically inquired, “Umm ... Do you know how long it takes to write a novel?” He didn’t think I could do it. Heck, he had a Ph.D. in English and he never wrote one.

I was sure I could finish! I had all summer! Each of my other books had reached 100 pages in a week or two. Surely I could complete a full novel during a whole three months! Would be easy.

At that time in my life, I was a hardcore clubkid. Two or three times a week, I’d be at clubs like The Alter House and Smart Bar and Metropolis, dancing to the likes of The Cure, Skinny Puppy, Nitzer Ebb and Siouxsie. I was also playing lots of Vampire: The Masquerade Role Playing Game published by White Wolf. (No, I was not LARPing - there are avenues of geekdom that are even too geeky for me. I had to draw a line somewhere. No dice on no dice - I was all about the d10, baby.)

Some of the oldest advice for writers is: “Write what you know.” Hence, due to the influences of clubbing and role-playing, instead of a traditional fantasy novel with wizards and elves, I decided to pen a dark and brooding mythological tale. I wanted something that reflected sinister faerie folklore magic, mixed with the modern fetish/underground/alternative nightclub scene. I never saw any movies or read any stories with a goth/industrial “faeriepunk” setting and the idea sounded incredibly cool to me. Filling the story with references to alternative music and reverting to the title of my first novel, I began to write a vampiric faerietale called The Gothic Rainbow. This time, the title was describing the flying buttresses of a cathedral-turned-danceclub.

For my final project to Dr. Sheridan, I turned in a whopping ... eleven pages. (Along with a dash of embarrassment and profuse apologies.)

Gee, I guess he had been right after all - writing a whole novel over the summer wasn’t so easy.

Thankfully, he was kind enough to give me an “A” on those eleven pages. Sadly, he died of natural causes at the end of that summer and despite his encouraging grade, I never had the opportunity to hear his opinion of my story. Disappointed in myself and discouraged for not finishing under my deadline, I put those eleven pages aside and forgot about them.

Six months later, to pay for my college classes, I was working a terrible job as a commission-only salesman. Know what I was selling? Electrolux vacuum cleaners. No fooling. Like the guys in the 1950s, wearing sportcoats and fedoras and going door-to-door? Yep. That was me. Seriously. Can you picture a 21 year old guy with a ponytail selling vacuum cleaners? It’s so absurd that I find it utterly hilarious when I look back on it now. What the hell was I thinking?

As you might well imagine, this was not a lucrative career.

I worked long hours. I made no money. I was completely miserable.

There I was, a few years out of high school, living at home, taking some random college classes, working an awful (albeit comical) job that I loathed, possessing no skills or experience to get a better job. I had no direction whatsoever. I was totally lost. No idea what the heck I was doing with my life. For a brief time, I even signed up to join the Air Force, and then backed out at the last moment. I had no idea what to do.

Finally, the simple idea hit me - if I truly throw all my effort into fulfilling my lifelong dream of being a novelist, I’ll still work long hours, I’ll still make no money ... but I’ll be happy!

Yes!

I’ll have direction. I’ll have purpose. I’ll have a goal. Something to strive for. Something to keep me motivated. Something to achieve in my life. Best of all, I could publish the book myself! Why not?

After such soulsearching during a cold and overcast December morning on the beaches of Lake Erie, I quit my job that afternoon and began writing every single day. Owning up to the fact that I didn’t possess the Ray Bradbury-esque talent to just pound-out complete books with no planning, the first thing I did was outline the entire story, beginning to end, to avoid getting “stuck” as I did in my first three novels.

Living with my grandparents, I announced unto them my plans, and they were kind enough to be supportive, allowing me to remain unemployed and write until I was finished with the book. I figured it might take me a year.

It took three.

Considering the drastic inaccuracy of my time-estimate, as you might expect, the journey of writing The Gothic Rainbow was far more difficult than anticipated. My writing style often becomes very surreal and dreamy and in order to reach the mental-state to write such ethereal prose means I need to deeply immerse myself into the tale psychologically. Part of the difficulty in doing that is the concentration required; the other difficulty was lingering in such depressing emotions for extended periods of time.

The advantage to writing that way is gaining the capacity to envision an extraordinarily vivid world. The most common compliment I ever hear regarding my writing is that my stories are extremely easy to visualize - that reading my work can be like watching a movie. Oddly enough, that is quite similar to how I imagine passages I write; but instead of a film, it’s more like remembering a dream. I don’t just see what I write; I hear it and smell it and taste it and feel it too. My fiction is completely tangible to me.

As I wrote The Gothic Rainbow, single scenes would play in my mind over and over. I simply wrote each scene in multiple passes, slowly adding more details each time. Subsequently replaying the movie in my head would reveal more and more layers and textures to the sounds and scents and the tone of dialog. Gradually, I would simply elaborate upon the missing nuances until an entire scene was articulated as clearly as I was envisioning it. If you have read the book, you will notice that even the dialog has certain letters of words italicized; because I could hear the way characters were speaking, and for the sake of clarity, I knew it was vital to convey every little inflection of speech.

Naturally, going into this project, I knew writing a novel was a long and difficult process. I just had no idea how long or difficult it would become. Plus, I wasn’t the only one who had a hard time with my book.

Friends and family had difficulty with my writing too, because I kept the entire story a secret from absolutely everyone the entire time it was being written. Not one soul on this Earth knew anything about the tale; Nothing about the characters, or the plot, or the genre, or anything. Not even the girl I was dating for 4 years knew a thing about it. The entire yarn was a secret. People only knew I was writing a novel. Nothing more. Couple that with taking three years to complete and plenty of people doubted I was writing a book at all.

On a cold night in January of 1996, the last sentence of The Gothic Rainbow dripped from my pen.

Finished. At last.

When the book was finally done, I sought to self-publish the story. I intended to get a job, work full-time, take out a loan, print up copies of the book and sell them.

Not only was writing the novel a challenge, getting a job proved to be far more difficult than I imagined.

I was willing to work anywhere. Retail stores. Fast food restaurants. Gas stations. Janitor. I didn’t care. I just needed money for my book. It was my obsession for so many years, I had to put it out there into the world, no matter what the job that paid for it. Willing to endure any possible employment, I applied everywhere I could. If there was a sign in a window, I was filling out an application.

The problem was, I had really hurt my job prospects writing that novel. With no practical work experience for years, no one wanted to hire a bum like me. Plus, when they found out I had written a novel, they suddenly saw me as being very ambitious. That worked against me too, because places such as gas stations reasoned I’d quit after 3 months to take a better job, so why hire me in the first place?

Too little experience to be hired for a good job. Too much ambition to be hired for a cruddy job. I was screwed.

Took me 8 months to become gainfully employed. That’s 8 months of looking everyday, all the time. Even my very-supportive-girlfriend was starting to doubt me and act like I was some kind of lazy slacker by the end. No one could believe that an ambitious, hardworking, intelligent young guy could have such a difficult time finding work. Clearly, I must have been doing something wrong or not trying hard enough.

I eventually got a break at one of those one-hour photo labs. It was an independent franchise and the store owner, being an entrepreneur, admired the ambitions of my novel and wanted to help me out. So I got the job.

It was rough. I didn’t have a car and it was a 40 minute commute across town during a Cleveland winter. I had to borrow my grandfathers car or get a ride from him in order to get to work. Thankfully, he never complained though. My blue-collar grandparents had a strong middleclass work-ethic, and were so thrilled I landed a job, they were more than happy to assist with transportation.

In a few months, I was able to save up some money and get a car. A little while longer and my grandfather co-signed a loan for me, so I could get my novel printed. (Where, oh, where, was Lulu.com when I needed it?)

Finally, 4 years after I began, The Gothic Rainbow was real. I was no longer a wannabe novelist. I was a real novelist. It was no longer a dream - this was reality. I did it. I conjured it from thin air. Magic. A dream that only existed in my mind was now a physical presence in the world; I could hold a copy of a book in my hands and say, “I wrote this.”

The Childlike Empress had spoken true after all - when we do what we dream, the magic becomes real; the magic begins when you believe.

All our lives we are told if we work hard, and trust our hearts, and fight to reach our dreams, we can attain them. We can do anything.

I don’t believe that anymore.

What life has shown me is even better.

I’ve learned that life is a journey, and there are no goals to attain - only endless successions of paths to travel. Life has shown me, if we trust our hearts and strive for our dreams, the journeys will rarely lead us to the goals we anticipated; yet frequently give us greater rewards than we ever imagined.

Where did The Gothic Rainbow lead me? Everywhere. Wonderful places. And nowhere near the places I had hoped.

I once saw a movie where a grandfather was speaking of his grandson and he said, “I’ll tell you something about him, and I say this with love - he’s a failure at everything he has ever tried ... except life.”

That is a great way to describe how my journey has gone with The Gothic Rainbow. The book itself didn’t go far, but it carried my life in amazing directions. For example, thanks to the computer skills I taught myself in the fields of publishing and layout and Photoshop during the process of putting my novel together, I moved on from the one-hour photo lab and landed a job at a professional photography lab, working in the digital department; Learned tons there about photography, graphics, printing and design.

Turns out, right around that time, this new thing called the Internet was getting really popular. “Maybe I should learn to build websites and make one to promote my book?” I thought. So, I learned. Thanks to those skills, I secured a better job at a tradeshow company, building a photographic database to track all of the graphics in their warehouse. From there I moved to a web design firm, then to a Creative Director position, all the way out to entertainment companies in Los Angeles.

Even my relocation to California was funded from a settlement of copyright infringement upon The Gothic Rainbow.

But it wasn’t just career and residency improvements that were seeded from the creation of my novel. Personal relationships were affected too.

I met a schoolteacher who read my novel and invited me to her highschool as a motivational speaker to inspire her students. Since I’ve always been a “closet wannabe English teacher” ala Mr. Keating in Dead Poets Society, it was a wonderful opportunity to step into that role, even if only for a day or two. I met bands and musicians I respected and gave them copies of my novel - Toni Halliday, Switchblade Symphony, Henry Rollins, Siouxsie Sioux and more. On the flipside of meeting artists I admired, I discovered I had fans also. At an art gallery where I was showing my artwork from the book, I met a gorgeous teenage gothgirl who couldn’t believe she was talking to the author of The Gothic Rainbow. Who knew novelists could have groupies? I had no clue! We hung out at the gallery that night and ... well, let’s just say that afterwards we had a great evening together.

That, however, is another story and shall be told another time.

The list goes on and on - countless extraordinary people and opportunities, all of which can be traced back to my novel. The point I’m trying to make is this - the book never sold many copies, thus for a long time, I was displeased and felt I had “not been successful” with it. Blindly, I was looking only at finances and sales.

Foolish.

No, my novel was not a financial success. But who cares? In terms of all the other fortunes it bestowed upon my life, it delivered far greater riches than I ever dared imagine. I’ll take fantastic career opportunities and amazing life experiences (especially at art galleries) over booksales any day!

My novel failed at everything I ever tried ... except life.

Ultimately, what was the point? Why did I write the book? Why do anything creative? From novels to movies to photography, I am always telling stories in different artistic mediums. Why? Why am I a storyteller?

The traditional answer is self-expression, right? That is what most authors and painters and musicians will speak about. Self-expression. Telling the world what they think and feel. Making a social commentary. For me, that answer never seemed valid. The notion of self-expression holds a certain presumptuous arrogance and narcissism that doesn’t feel true to who I am. Self-expression? ... Who cares what I have to express? Who cares what I think? My thoughts and experiences are no more or less valid than anyone else. Why should my social commentary hold greater relevance than what someone else has to say? Maybe that was why I always instinctively shunned the label of “artist” - I never wanted to be associated with the arrogant delusions of grandeur that “artists” profess by their stereotypical motives of self-expression.

Then I saw an interview with the late Cameron Duncan, a 16 year old New Zealand filmmaker. In the interview, he spoke about making a short film regarding his fight against cancer and said, “I have a good story on my hands, and it would be good to speak for people who have no voice.”

That quote blew me away.

That was my answer.

This young kid possessed the wisdom that eluded me for years. His one sentence gave me a whole new perspective on art I never considered before.

Why do I do creative projects? Why do I write? Why do I make movies? Why do I shoot photos? Why am I a storyteller?

Because when you have a good story on your hands, it is good to speak for people who have no voice.

Yes. That is it.

If the power of dreams and wishes can change the world, just like The Childlike Empress said, then being that voice is my highest motivation. No. More than that. It is my obligation. Other people can call themselves artists for the sake of self-expression. For me, I require a loftier ambition. I am of the opinion that art is far more admirable and noble when done not for self-expression, but for human-expression; To convey thoughts and feelings in the hope that fellow members of humanity can relate to those emotions, and find a voice to speak things they lack the vocabulary to articulate.

Clearly, with all my novel continues to bring to my life, altruism of that nature does have personal rewards too.

Well, that just about sums it up. Now you know a little behind the story of how and where my novel has brought my life. You see how I got where I am, and where I’m starting for the rest of the trip. That’s my story, kids. And I’m sticking to it.

Stick to your own ambitions as well. Hold steadfast to your wishes. Cling to those dreams. You may not reach them as quickly as you hope. You may have countless setbacks and be forced to fight for them longer and harder than you expected (and once you get there, they may not bring what you’d imagined). But if you keep moving forward, you will attain anything. Never falter. Never quit. Never surrender. Failure is not an option.

Imagine. Wonder. Live. Love. Laugh. Speak ... Especially for those with no voice of their own.

Never follow your dreams ... catch them.

All Relationships Are Temporary
23 December 2007

My childhood was spent being raised by my maternal grandparents in the 1970’s.

Neither of my grandparents were very affectionate people. That is not to say they were mean at all. They weren’t cruel or hateful. They just weren’t expressive of emotion in any way; good or bad. They never yelled at me or raised their voices. By the same token, they never were very gentle or loving either. That’s just the way their WWII generation always behaved. Emotions were an aloof thing. Sit up straight. Eat your vegetables. Brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Flush. Boys don’t cry.

One afternoon, while visiting my grandparents after I had moved out, my grandfather walked into the livingroom. Distracted with returning a newspaper to the magazine rack, he looked at me, broke eye-contact, and offhandedly said, “You know, Eric, I know I never show it, but I really love you.”

I got rather misty-eyed the instant he spoke the words. I couldn’t get over it. They never said such things. Never. I didn’t say anything at first because I was so stunned. I think I eventually managed to stammer, “Um, well, yeah, I know. I love you too. Very much.”

One night, when I was about 10 or 12 years old, I was laying on the floor in the livingroom, surrounded by toys from Christmas. It was a rare time when my mother was over the house, and she and my grandfather, thinking I was asleep, began to talk about me. My grandfather told my mom, “I love him more than life itself. You know that, Judy? More than life itself. You know, I pray to God everynight that He will let me live long enough to see the kind of man Eric grows up to be. That’s all I ask. That I can just live to see him grow up. I pray everynight for that.”

Although I was so young, I was old enough to realize what a heavy and profound thing he was saying. I never heard anyone talk that way before. I couldn’t imagine anyone saying those words about me. I remember in that moment, I wanted to grow up to be a man my grandfather would be proud of. If God would grant his wish, and allow him to live long enough to see me grow up, then I had to make sure I upheld my end of the bargain, and would become a man he could be proud to call his grandson. I prayed he’d live long enough to see that too.

After I moved out of my first apartment, I rented a house from a friend for awhile. My grandpa came over to visit one afternoon.

There was a screened patio, off the back of the house, and my grandfather excused himself to go outside and smoke a cigarette. I stood inside the doorway, gazing outside and watching him. It was bright and sunny out, so he couldn’t see me standing there through the shade of the two screen doors.

I can still see his profile as he stood there in the sunshine.

As I watched him, I began to cry. The tears poured down my face. I wept and wept and couldn’t stop.

I was crying because I knew he wouldn’t be alive much longer. I knew he didn’t have much time left upon this Earth. He wasn’t sick. Wasn’t hospitalized. He was perfectly healthy and fine. There was no reason for me to lament an impending demise.

But I knew. Something wasn’t right.

I could feel Death upon him. The Horseman rode close. Very close.

Two weeks later, in June of 1998, my uncle Jack called me at work to tell me grandpa had died. Heart failure.

I sighed one long breath, said, “I’ll be right home,” and hung up the phone.

That is how Death enters our lives. With single phonecalls.

I thank you for the freedom

When it came my time to go

I thank you for the kindness

And the times when you got tough

And papa I don’t think I said

“I love you” near enough

- Dan Fogleberg, The Leader Of The Band

At the funeral, I didn’t shed a tear. Seeing his body in the casket, I just felt a wistful farewell. People asked me all day if I was okay. Friends and relatives commented with concern on their faces, “You haven’t cried at all.”

I just smiled and replied, “I know. I did that 2 weeks ago.”

No one understood what I was alluding to, of course.

But no one ever asked.

And it’s true. I never cried once at my grandfather’s funeral.

Because I had already seen Death upon him, two weeks earlier.

My grandparents knew each other all their lives. My grandmother was only a few years younger than him, and she met him when she was 14 years old. A month after his death, I was visiting with my grandmother one evening and keeping her company since she was home all alone.

As long as I live, I will never forget that night.

She was sitting in her chair, watching television, and I was sitting across from her on the couch. She began to cry and was talking about grandpa and how hard it was to not have him there. It was very strange to see her cry. As I have said, they were not emotional people. It was expected for her to weep at the funeral, and she did. It was not expected among her generation to remain mourning a month later. I was rather taken aback by her tears. She apologized for crying.

“No. No,” I said. “Don’t ever apologize to me for that. You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re supposed to cry. You’re supposed to miss him.”

That was all it took to open the floodgates. She began to cry harder. I got up, walked over to her, and kneeled down next to her chair. I put my arms around her and her tears poured stronger than ever. She wept into my shoulder and sobbed, “Oh, Eric. I miss him SO MUCH.”

I kept wanting to say, “It’s okay,” like they do in the movies. But I couldn’t say it was okay. Because it wasn’t. How could I attempt to comfort her anguish with such trite words? She knew that man all of her life. How could she possibly function without him? No. I didn’t say it was okay. I didn’t dare to say something so trivial and false. So I just held her in my arms and didn’t say anything but, “I know... I know.”

“I miss him so much,” she repeated. In that moment, her voice cracked and faltered. You know how a person’s voice can change octaves when they are sobbing? That is what hers did. And it became so youthful and frail. I couldn’t see her face. But I knew, I was no longer holding an old woman.

I knew, if I could have seen her face in that instant, I would have seen I was holding onto that 14 year old little girl, who missed her boyfriend, and was completely lost without him.

My heart broke into a million pieces.

It still does everytime I retell the story.

That was the moment when I learned that every love and relationship in our lives is only temporary. It was a lesson I will never forget. Friends. Lovers. Spouses. Children. Siblings. None of them will be with us forever. Sooner or later, we will all lose everybody we care about. Your kids. Your wife. Your husband. Your sister. Your brother. Your mom. Your dad. One day will be the last day you ever see them.

Moreover, it served as a reminder of how fleeting the beloved events of our lives are too. The happiest and most sorrowful days are transient moments in time. Those profound realizations changed everything. Utterly transformed my outlook on every facet of life and interpersonal relationships. Forever.

With that realization, I felt overwhelmed with the most serene and comforting inspiration I had ever known. For the first time, I could see how vital it was to cherish every friend, every lover, every relative, every human being who enters our lives. Absolutely none of them are ever guaranteed to be a part of our lives, yet every single one is guaranteed to only be temporary. Every. Single. One.

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe... All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.”

- Batty in the movie BladeRunner

Even if you meet your future-spouse as a teenager and you are married all your lives, the chances of you and your spouse dying simultaneously are almost impossible. Sooner or later, one of you will die first... and the other will be left alone. Even though my grandparents were married for over 50 years, my grandmother was the one left alone in the end. She couldn’t live without him.

She died 83 days after grandpa did.

That night, as I held my grandmother in my arms, not only did I learn that all relationships are temporary, but I learned that my grandparents were just as frail and full of emotion as any of us. They weren’t so distant and removed after all. They had a lot of heart and passion in them, just like everyone.

Ever since my grandpa passed away, I’ve always been saddened by the fact that none of the people I will love in my future will ever get to meet him. That’s a bummer, because I sure would have wanted them to know him. My grandpa was a part of the Greatest Generation - a strapping 22 year old kid on The Day Of Infamy; a man of wonderful humor - always quick with a joke and a smile - with a playful twinkle in his eye. He was a masterful craftsman and could build just about anything out of scraps of wood and a hacksaw. At his funeral, I witnessed numerous gradeschool friends, whom I had not seen for years, come to pay their respects. Not only did he effect my childhood, but he had enough impact on the childhood of my friends that they would miss him as well. That’s just the kind of guy he was. He was imperfect and had his share of flaws, to be assured. But the man truly had a good heart. And when all is said and done, that’s all that matters, really.

I haven’t attained a whole lot in my life. But I hope that when he died, my grandfather had his prayers granted, and I was a man he was proud of. Everyone - my mother, my grandmother, my uncles, my aunt - they all would tell me about how much my grandfather would brag about me, to everybody he met, and how proud he was of me. I certainly hope he was. Because I really couldn’t be anymore proud of him.

Godspeed, grandpa. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I love you. To paraphrase Harlan Ellison, no doubt the lumens of heaven brightened a thousandfold by the addition of your gentle soul. May you forever rest in peace.

Los Angeles really IS full of flakes... who knew?...
21 August 2004

Los Angeles really IS full of flakes... who knew?...

“It’s not you. It’s me. I just have a lot to work on in my life right now. My career and/or relationship-baggage needs to be my focus.”

I’d like to date a girl who does NOT give me that little speech. I’ve heard it at least 6 times in 3 months. The repetitiveness is causing it to lose it’s entertainment value.

The people I’d like to meet don’t seem to exist in Los Angeles.

I’ve lived here a year and I’m starting to see that.

I want to meet friends and people of substance. It would be especially nice to meet some nice girl who wants to have a real, genuine, old-fashioned romance. You know - one where we talk once a day, and hang out 3 times a week, and have picnics on the beach, and sleep over each others place. And you know what? I’m starting to realize that such a relationship is not possible in this city.

The reason it can’t happen is because Los Angeles is full of people who are incredibly self-centered and who do nothing but worry about their careers 25 hours a day. Everything revolves around me, me, me. Career. Networking. Physical trainers. Plastic surgery. Acting classes. Auditions. Film school. All ways to advance oneself. Improve your reel. Better yourself. Look more attractive.

“Read my script...”

“See my work...”

“Come to my show...”

“Look at what I can do...”

But it’s all superficial. It has nothing to do with the moral fiber or character of a person as a human being.

Now, I’m not passing judgments or saying that it is wrong to be that way. It is fine. There is nothing wrong with wanting to improve your professional life and striving to further your career. I want that for myself too. But I also want a balance between career success and personal growth. I’m starting to realize that the only driving motive of most people in this town is to improve their careers. People don’t want to get to know you because they think you are a cool, fun, interesting person who would make a great friend. No. They only want to get to know you if they think you have some skill or talent or ability or contacts that will benefit their professional life.

For example, I have met countless girls who are eager to work with me as a photographer. “Sure, let’s schedule a time. Let’s do a shoot. I need new headshots.” Whatever.

But to hang out afterwards? Go have dinner? Check out a club?

Nope. Too busy. No time.

But when my abilities as a photographer will benefit them - THEN suddenly I’m a valuable person to use and take advantage of. Er, oh, I mean, to “network” with.

Like I said, that is okay. I want those “networking relationships” too. But, as a friend once said, “You can’t network 24 hours a day.”

Indeed.

In ADDITION to those professional relationships, I want some quality friends and an incredible girlfriend who all want to hang out and build interpersonal relationships. That is what is most important to me in life. People. Each other. Friends. Family. Loves.

And I’ve barely met anyone in Los Angeles who values such things. Building quality friendships takes time and effort and dedication. No one in Los Angeles takes the time to build personal relationships and just hang out with each other (unless they think it will further their career or their business). People flake out. Cancel plans. Make no efforts.

I’m really starting to think I came to the wrong place. The things I want the most out of life and people don’t seem to exist here.

As Robin Williams says in Dead Poets Society, “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Now medicine, law, business, engineering; these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, THESE are what we stay alive FOR.”

Los Angeles seems to be filled with people who sustain life... but are alive for nothing...

ADDENDUM: Since I first posted this, I’ve had about 3 or 4 people ask me if I was talking about them, and I was NOT thinking of them at all when I wrote this. What does that say about the accuracy of what I have written? What does that say about the way these people see themselves?... Rather unsettling, isn’t it?

Time Is Of The Essence
24 August 2004

Time.

It’s all about time.

How much time do we have to live?
At what time in our lives do we meet?
Do we live in the past?
Do we worry about the future?
Are we living in the moment?
Will she change her mind sometime?
Time...
Time apart.
Give them some time.
She’ll come around in time.
Stop wasting time.
It’s only a matter of time.
Time is everything. Time... is of the essence...
To quote Lord Of The Rings:
“I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.”

“So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. -”

“ - All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you.”

Indeed...

Timing is everything...

And time is one thing you can have faith in.
If you are losing your faith and you are lost in the shadows and you have no faith or hope, you must hold onto something infallible.
Time.
Time is one thing you can always rely upon.
Time will never let you down.
Time is something you can always believe in.
Time will always be there. Unwavering.
For as long as you live, you have time.

What if I end up in a coma?

Don’t be a smartass. Time still passes if you’re in a coma. We’re not talking about some science fiction aberration of time. We’re talking about the way actual people experience time from day to day. And for you and everyone who reads this, we experience the passing of time, the rising and setting of the sun, as constant, dependable truths.
So stop being a smartass.
You have time. Guaranteed.

Yes. Okay. And with the inevitability of time comes the inevitability of change.

Exactly.
Now, that is no guarantee of things improving.
False hopes are not helpful - so don’t cling to the illusion that things will automatically improve in time. They won’t. Change is a guarantee. Positive change is not.
So, remember, things might only get worse and worse. Life might grow more dismal and bleak by the hour.

But...

But things CAN improve too.
You need faith and hope?
Then you have it.
Time is faith.
Change is hope.

Time is faith.
Change is hope.

Time is a thing in which you can have absolute, unshakeable faith. Time is a guarantee. How much time you have is not. But time itself is a guarantee.

And everything changes in time.

Precisely.
Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. But change is unavoidable. Changing for the better is not a guarantee. Things might change for the worse too. But change itself is a guarantee.
Remember the old quotes:
“All tragedy is temporary.”
“This too shall pass.”
Everything changes.
Nothing in the universe is immutable.

Right...
So now the question becomes:
Is there any way to influence change so that it brings positive results? So that changes bring more light instead of more darkness?

Yes.

How?

First, you need to see that the universe moves in patterns and all movement contains inertia.
Remember Newton’s First Law?

Yes. Newton’s First Law of Motion states: “An object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion, with the same speed and in the same direction, unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.”

Exactly. That law does NOT apply only to physical movement. It applies to all patterns, movement and inertia in the universe. So if things are going bad, they will tend to keep going bad. If things are going good, they will tend to keep going good. Until some outside force changes things.
Let’s use money for example.
If you are poor, chances are, you will stay poor. Everything works against you and it gets harder and harder to dig yourself out of a hole. Your credit goes bad. You get charged financial penalties. You lose more and more money all the time.
Unless some very powerful “unbalanced force” happens, like winning the lottery.
Same goes if you are very wealthy.
Chances are, you will remain wealthy. You have investments. You collect interest. Property values go up on your home. The momentum of your finances perpetuates itself.
Unless some very powerful “unbalanced force” happens, like you get sued for millions of dollars.

Right. Financially, you have a lot of inertia when poor, and lots of inertia when wealthy.

Exactly. And if you are completely middleclass in terms of your financial fortitude, it takes very little inertia to change things for bad or good. For example, you could get a big raise at work, or get fired. Since your pattern and your inertia are not strongly leaning toward being wealthy or poor, it takes very little “unbalanced force” to change things into opposing extremes.
And those changes are all about Newton’s First Law.

Change is movement. Change is motion. Change is inertia.

Correct. The sun rises and sets. The tides flow. The seasons change. It is all movement. Movement equals change. Change equals movement. Therefore, as long as time exists, change, movement and inertia will exist too.

Yes. Everything changes. Always. Change is inevitable.
But the patterns and inertia determine how drastic that change becomes.

Exactly.
People who drive the same route to work each day fall into a routine and patterns and believe their lives are stagnant and unchanging.
That is not true.
It is not stagnant. There is change. Their speed varies. The weather is different. Their clothes change. Everything. Constantly changing. However...

The problem is that the changes in the pattern are too subtle to make a big difference.

Right.
Want small changes?
They already happen everyday.
Want bigger changes?
Take a different road to work.
Want drastic changes?
Get a new job.

I understand.
Time is a guarantee.
Change within time is a guarantee.
Patterns within the inertia of change determine the outcome from moment to moment in time.

Exactly.
And the inertia of those patterns is directly proportional to the “unbalanced force” required to alter the motion.
If you do nothing and make no effort, it is likely that your life will not change much.
But it might, if there is an unexpected “unbalanced force” that suddenly happens.
If you make small changes in the patterns of your life, it is also likely that your life will not change much.
And again, it MIGHT change drastically if there is an “unbalanced force” that suddenly happens.
If you make large changes in your patterns, it is likely that your life will change drastically very fast.
For example, suppose you change the pattern of your life by deciding you are going to rob a bank. That is a large change with potentially enormous positive or negative results. If you get away with $1 million, your life will change drastically for the better. If you get caught, your life will change drastically for the worse.
But if you make large changes in your patterns, it is also possible that your life won’t change much if the preexisting inertia is strong. Instead of one big change, you may need a prolonged series of changes to get the inertia and momentum flowing in the direction you desire.

Swimming against the current.

Or going with the flow.
It is all about your inertia as you move through time.

The deeper the hole you dig yourself into, the harder it becomes to get out.

And the higher you soar above the clouds, the harder it becomes to get your feet back on the ground. You learned that with hang gliding. Once you got to a certain altitude, it gets more difficult to come down. And it gets easier to remain as high as you are. Remember?

Yes. I remember. Very clearly.

If you’re riding a bicycle at 30mph, you need to squeeze the brakes harder to stop than if you’re riding at 5mph.

Yes. Because the effort to make changes in ones life needs to be stronger in proportion to the inertia at which ones life is currently moving.

Yes.
Remember that one.
“The effort to make changes in ones life needs to be stronger in proportion to the inertia at which ones life is currently moving.”
Emotional patterns and psychological inertia are exactly the same as physical inertia. Once the momentum begins, and the longer the inertia moves, the stronger the force required to deviate from the path you are moving upon.

Drastic change in the pattern equals a drastic change in life.
Minor change in the pattern equals a minor change in life.

You got it.

It’s not psychology.
It’s physics.
As Harlan Ellison once wrote, “If you understand that there is no such thing as chance, but only patterns we do not understand, you will cease to believe in . . . coo-coo distractions from clear thinking.”

So summarize your formula, professor...

Time is a guarantee.
Time is the one thing we are assured to have.
Time is the one thing in which we can have faith.
Change is an inevitability which exists within time.
Change equals hope.
Change is where all the potential for a better life exists.
Change is governed by Newton’s First Law of Motion.
Ergo, the changes in our lives are determined by the patterns of our inertia.
Drastic changes in our lives require drastic changes in the patterns. Minor changes in our lives require us to make small alterations (or no alterations) to our patterns.
Right?...
Did I miss anything?

You’re off to a good start...

Drums
9 September 2004

Children rebel against their parents.

That is the natural way. The natural order down through countless generations of humanity.

My mom was a hippie.

So, as much as I think the whole “peace and love” hippie attitude is a good and positive thing, I can’t help but constantly desire to make little jabs at the subculture of “tree-huggin’ hippies” and neo-pagans.

Therefore, I hesitated when my friend wanted to take me to the Venice Beach Drum Circle.

Oh, please! A whole beach full of damn tree-huggin, dreadlocked hippies who haven’t bathed since before going to a Pearl Jam concert in 1991? No thanks. I don’t need to smell funk and weed mixed with sage and sea brine. I’ll pass.

But I went. Because she really wanted me to go.

And sure enough, once we got there, it was exactly what I expected. Lots of tourists. Lots of drums. Lots of dancing. Just as I thought.

Bah. Damn hippies.

But, the thing about children who rebel against their parents is that they usually agree with their parents in some way, but don’t want to admit it.

As the rhythm of the drums filled the air, the voice in my head spoke clear as crystal - “The reason you make fun of this stuff is because this is a part of who you are, and you are scared to death to accept it.”

Damnit.

Yes. It was true.

About 10 minutes earlier, I told my friend about some things in my life that have been bothering me for a long time. And she asked me, “What is it within yourself that is preventing you from healing?”

I didn’t have an answer. Until I stood at that circle.

And again the voice kept repeating - “The reason you make fun of this stuff is because this is a part of who you are, and you are scared to death to accept it.”

SHUT UP!

But it wouldn’t shut up.

And it began to flow with the rhythm of the drums.

And the answer hit me - “Eric, the reason within yourself that you do not heal is because you no longer know how to live in the moment.”

Yes. I am constantly looking toward the future or the living in the past. I’m never allowing myself to experience the “here and now” in my life. I am never in the present. I am never in the moment.

Instead I constantly revel in joyful memories, wallow in painful ones, or worry and plan and work about the future.

And life is passing me.

And that is pain from which I am not healing. I am not here. Now.

As Yoda said of Luke, “This one, a long time have I watched. All his life as he looked away. To the future. To the horizon. Never his mind on WHERE HE WAS. Hrm? What he was DOING! Hrm. You are RECKLESS!”

My friend asked me to dance with her in the circle.

I said no.

5 minutes later, I told her I was ready. She was surprised and shocked. “You’re going to dance?”

“Of course. I can’t stand here and not dance. But it’s all in the timing.”

How To Stop Image Thieves On MySpace
13 September 2004

One of my photographs was stolen and illegally resold a few years ago. Ever since then, copyright infringement and image theft have become important issues to me.

Yesterday, a friend on MySpace had her images stolen and used in someone elses profile.

So, I have come up with this set of guidelines to help those of you who encounter this problem on MySpace. Follow this step-by-step, and you can quickly stop people who steal your images.

---------------------------------------------

STEP .1:

Copy the web-address of the imposters profile who stole your work and save it.

STEP .2:

Copy the exact web-address of your original images AND the stolen images and save all of those web-addresses. THIS IS OF VITAL IMPORTANCE AND YOU MUST BE PRECISE AND DETAILED IN GATHERING THIS EVIDENCE. Get the EXACT web-address for each STOLEN image and for each ORIGINAL image! For example, you’ll save something like this:

This stolen image:

http://www.imagethief.com/whatever.jpg

is originally from here:

http://www.originalowner.com/whatever.jpg

STEP .3:

Write a very simple, short email with all the facts spelled out. Don’t get mad. Don’t call names. Don’t make threats. Just state simple facts. Write something like this:

I have had my images stolen and illegally posted by this person:

http://www.myspace.com/imposterprofile

They stole these images:

Their first stolen image:

http://www.imagethief.com/whatever.jpg

is originally from here:

http://www.originalowner.com/whatever.jpg

Their second stolen image:

http://www.imagethief.com/whatever2.jpg

is originally from here:

http://www.originalowner.com/whatever2.jpg

Their third stolen image:

http://www.imagethief.com/whatever3.jpg

is originally from here:

http://www.originalowner.com/whatever3.jpg

I’m sure you don’t appreciate being lied to. You may want to inquire why this imposter is posting stolen photos on their profile.

STEP .4:

Use the power of MySpace in your favor, with 3 simple aspects of the site:

A. - Messages

B. - Bulletins

C. - Forums

A. - I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that you send that email to the imposter. Right? WRONG! Go to the imposters profile, and send that email to all of the imposters FRIENDS! Be sure to remind them that this imposter is ON THEIR FRIENDS LIST. Again, do not call names. Do not make threats or get mad. Just present the facts.

B. - Post a Bulletin of that email to all of YOUR friends. Tell your friends to ask this imposter why they are lying. Again, emphasize to your friends that they should be MATURE and not to call the imposter names and not to make any threats. Just present the facts.

C. - Post a message of that email to the Forums page.

You see, if you email the imposter, they can just block you. Or they can remove the images. So, do NOT contact the imposter. Instead, expose them to all of their friends AND all of your friends because, well, the imposter can’t block all of THOSE emails. Let the imposters own friends bust them. Let your friends nail them too. Dozens of people will email the imposter before the imposter has a chance to delete the photos. Their theft will be revealed and they will be unable to remove the images in time to prevent people from discovering their lies.

STEP .5:

Chances are, after you do all of that, the imposter will be SO embarassed and humiliated that you will never need to send a single message to them. However, if you decide to contact them after giving them all of this information, remind them that under United States Copyright Law, Chapter 5, Paragraph 506, removing a copyright notice from an image is subject to a $2500 fine:

http://www.copyright.gov/title17/92chap5.html

And under United States Copyright Law, Chapter 5, Paragraph 504, copyright infringement is furthermore subject to stautory damages of up to $150,000:

http://www.copyright.gov/title17/92chap5.html

STEP .6:

If they still do not remove the images, inform MySpace with the same information. You can email MySpace AND send a paper letter to: Copyright Agent, MySpace.com 6060 Center Drive, Suite 300; Los Angeles, CA 90045

---------------------------------------------

Remember, copyright infringement is illegal and there ARE laws protecting you against this. Do not resort to juvenile name-calling or threats. Simply gather your facts and present the evidence in a cool, calm manner. You don’t need to get carried away with angry emotions. Just gather your hard, solid proof and expose their illegal activities to all their friends, your friends, and the MySpace community.

Perspective on Tsunamis (a.k.a. “Surf’s Up!”)
30 December 2004

As of 30 December 2004, the death toll from the 2004 Boxing Day tsunamis in Asia has reached over 116,000 people.

No doubt, a tragic thing for survivors and victims families to deal with.

Some have said that it is so tragic because far more lives were lost than the 3,000 people killed in the terrible destruction of the World Trade Center on September 11th.

I never thought that mathematics should dictate the depth of human grief, but what do I know?

So, you want to talk about statistics? Okay. Let’s talk about statistics. Let us measure the relevance of “tragedy and human lives” in pure numbers. Whip out the calculators, folks. Get ready to do some math.

In this case, how wonderfully merciful is mother nature compared to mankind? How soon we forget events as recent as World War II:

16 April 1940: The Soviet Union began to kill 15,000 Polish officers in the woods of Katyn.

13 November 1940: The German Luftwaffe launches 652 bombers on London (called the “Blitzkrieg”) killing about 40,000 British civilians in six months.

April 1942: Japanese troops kill 250,000 Chinese civilians (“Operation Sei-Go”).

April 1943 to April 1944: 16,000 POWs and 80,000 Asian slave laborers die during the construction of a 415km Japanese railway between Thailand and Burma.

27 July 1943: A British bombing erases 6 square kilometers of downtown Hamburg, killing 40,000 civilians in two hours.

13 February 1945: Two waves of British bombers annihilate downtown Dresden, killing somewhere between 250,000 to 135,000 civilians.

5 March 1945: The USA conducts the second firebombing on Tokyo, destroying most of the city (25 square kilometers) and killing about 100,000 civilians.

6 August 1945: The nuclear bombing of Hiroshima kills more than 100,000 civilians.

8 August 1945: The Soviet Union attacks Japan, killing 500,000 Japanese in two weeks.

9 August 1945: The nuclear bombing of Nagasaki kills more than 100,000 civilians.

Do the math, kids. Those are just a few highlights. That is 1,491,000 people.

Most statistical resources concur that approximately 56,000,000 to 58,000,000 people were killed during World War II.

Interesting, isn’t it? That the figures vary by as much as 2 million? To think that 2 million lives are the “give or take” on the statistics?

People so often speak of the 6 million Jews killed during World War II (about half of which were Polish, incidentally), as if the Jews were the ones to suffer the greatest loss of life. They call it the “Holocaust” and cite it as such a monumental human tragedy. But statistically speaking, those deaths account for a mere 11% of the lives lost during that war.

11% is a holocaust?

I bet you didn’t know that approximately 7.5 million Chinese were killed during World War II. That is only the unarmed civilians, by the way. If you want to include military, the number jumps to 9.5 million. That’s right. Over 50% more Chinese were killed than Jews.

Don’t believe me? Go look it up yourself. Do some research.

Why don’t people ever talk about the “Holocaust” of the Chinese? Are Jewish lives worth more than Chinese lives?

“I felt a great disturbance in The Force. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.”

- Obi Wan Kenobi

To have over 100,000 people die in a natural disaster is indeed tragic. The survivors of the Boxing Day tsunamis in Asia do deserve help and compassion. No doubt about it.

But I do take offense when I hear the Secretary General of the United Nations, Kofi Annan, being quoted as saying, “This is an unprecedented global catastrophe that requires an unprecedented global response.”

Bullshit.

It turns my stomach when I hear people say that the Boxing Day tsunami catastrophe is unprecedented. Because those who do not remember history are doomed to repeat it. Ironic that such a misinformed statement should come from the Secretary General of the United Nations, since the United Nations was formed as a direct result of World War II.

But do you think it’s unfair to compare a tsunami to a war? Does that seem like comparing apples to oranges? Would you rather compare apples to apples?

Okay. Fine. Let’s compare apples to apples.

Since the Boxing Day tsunamis were caused by an earthquake, well, let’s look at statistics for death tolls in earthquakes, like these:

9 August 1138: 230,000 killed in Syria.

23 January 1556: 830,000 killed in Shansi, China.

16 December 1920: 200,000 killed in Gansu, China.

1 September 1923: 142,000 killed in Kuato Plain, Japan.

22 May 1927: 200,000 killed in Xining, China.

5 October 1948: 110,000 killed in Turkmenistan, Russia.

27 July 1976: 255,000 killed in Tianjin, China.

(Damn, a lot of Chinese get killed by earthquakes and wars.)

(Source : U.S. Geological Survey Earthquake Hazards Program)

And last, but certainly not least, let’s not forget that 126,000 people died less than 20 years ago, in 1986, as a direct result of the “human error” that caused the meltdown of the Chernobyl, Ukrainian nuclear power plant.

So, when you put it all in perspective, what are the Boxing Day tsunamis?

A tragic loss of life? Deserving of compassion and support from the global community?

Yes. Absolutely.

“An unprecedented global catastrophe?”

Uh, I don’t think so. Not even close.

There have been plenty of other “global catastrophes” to be sure; Many that have killed far more people.

So, keep the victims and their families in your prayers. Donate some money to the Red Cross. Yes. Great. I agree. These people have suffered a terrible loss and deserve much kindness. Undoubtedly.

But let’s not belittle the loss of life from past disasters by blowing the newest disaster out of proportion and acting like the loss of life is somehow “worse” this time around. Because this latest disaster is far from an “unprecedented global catastrophe” - it is simply one more to add to the list.

That’s life, kids. Welcome to Earth.

But let’s end on a happier statistic, shall we?

There are approximately 6 billion people on the earth in 2004. During World War II, the population of the world was approximately 2.5 billion. That means that the 58 million who died in World War II account for less than THREE PERCENT of the world population. 2.32% to be exact. And by today’s standards, the death of 58 million would be a mere 0.93% of the total population of our tiny little globe.

Now drink your milk, have a cookie, and go to bed. Because unless you’re Chinese, I don’t want to hear you bitching about ANYTHING.

Sweet dreams.

Eric’s Series of Unfortunate Events
15 January 2005

My name is Lemony Snicket. As you may know, it is my bleak task to tell you about the series of unfortunate events that befell the Baudleaire children, Violet, Klaus and Sunny.

Few people know that there is a fourth Baudelaire orphan. The equally unfortunate, Eric. Eric has not been seen or heard from by any of his friends in ages. And, I have been put to task of updating the lot of them, so they might know where he has vanished to.

First of all, he is working a new job that is about a 2 hour commute each way. Eric wakes up at 6:00am and gets home by about 7:00pm. So, between working and driving, he is spending about 13 hours a day with the job. He works in a tiny, windowless office with 8 other people, sitting in front of a flickering monitor all day. All he does is sleep and work. No time to go out. No time for friends. It is quite trying on him.

Even though he is working, his finances are the worst they have ever been in his life. Therefore, he’s really stressed-out as he struggles desperately to crawl out of the financial void he has fallen into. Since he is so tense, he keeps getting sick. He has been doing everything to avoid it - getting plenty of sleep, eating extra food, taking vitamin C, taking echinacea pills, drinking lots of liquid, washing his hands more often than normal. But it seems to be of no use. Just today, he is starting to get his third bout of flu in the past 6 weeks. Eric keeps getting healthy, then getting sick all over again. So, that has been keeping him out-of-the-loop too. When he’s not at work, or looking for work, or stressed-out over money, he is usually too ill to do anything but sleep.

His motorcycle - Eric’s only means of transportation - died on the highway almost a month ago. The tragedy of that event was that the motorcycle is less than a year old. He bought it with the specific intent of having a brand-new, reliable means of transportation. Again, a wise plan that seems to have failed him miserably. The engine tore itself apart and it’s still under warranty, so he needs to wait for parts to come in. So, he’s been waiting for that to be fixed. He’s had a rental car, but he has to get rid of it this Sunday because he simply does not have the money to keep it any longer. Looks like he will be car-pooling to work. Although, he lost the phone number of the person he is supposed to ride with. Let’s hope no one forgets to pick him up . . .

What else?

Hm. Let’s see . . .

Ah, yes. How about highlights of the past year?

So, his first full-year in Los Angeles - Eric’s apartment flooded in a rainstorm and destroyed all of his carpet; he lost 2 different jobs and spent 6 months unemployed; he crashed his motorcycle 3 times, resulting in 2 expensive visits to the hospital (without medical insurance); he could not walk and was on crutches for 2 weeks due to spraining his ankle in one of the accidents; his car was vandalized and totaled; and he had half a dozen romantic relationships, which each lasted less than a week.

As you can see, this is all proof enough that he is indeed a forgotten Baudelaire orphan, for no series of unfortunate events could come in such a short succession to anyone but a Baudelaire child.

However, even though Eric has little reason to be cheerful, he does his best to maintain a positive attitude about these events. Sure, his apartment flooded. But, he always wanted new carpet. And as a result of the flood, he got it. He lost 2 jobs. Sure, that is tragic. But, he also managed to find 2 jobs in the first place. And that is encouraging. He may have crashed his motorcycle multiple times, but he owns a motorcycle. That is something he has wanted since he was a child. So, it is rather inspiring to know he has fulfilled yet another childhood ambition. Although he couldn’t walk for 2 weeks, it was the result of massive crosswinds blowing his motorcycle off the highway at 70MPH. For most people, that would be death or a permanent disfiguration. The fact that he managed only a sprained ankle is quite fortunate indeed. Although his car was vandalized and too expensive for him to repair, he gave the vehicle to charity. So, the money helped the Make-A-Wish Foundation and helped make a kids dream come true. As for the brief encounters with womanly romance, well, at least he had those opportunities in the first place. And really, that’s not so bad at all.

So, Eric extends his apologies to all his friends for not keeping in contact. Life has just been beating him up, then letting him get up, then kicking his behind again, then letting him get to his feet, then shoving his face in the dirt, then letting him stagger up, then kneeing him in the privates, then . . . Well, you get the idea.

All who have heard the tale of Eric Baudelaire have said the same thing. They offer a compassionate frown and say, “Things can only get better.”

Believe me, I can only hope that is true. And no one wishes it to be true more than Eric himself.

I do not know how the remainder of his tale shall unfold. Life does seem to maintain some sort of natural balance and equilibrium. And therefore, one would think that a series of fortunate events must be just around the bend, in order to compensate for the struggles of the past year. Let us hope, dear reader, that things begin to improve for all the Baudelaire children, Violet, Klaus, Sunny and Eric.

Yours,

Lemony Snicket,

on behalf of Eric “The Forgotten Baudelaire Orphan”

What Are Friends For?
10 February 2005

A telephone conversation with my mother once went as follows. She asked me if I was dating anyone.

“No. I mean, I sort of saw this one girl a few times recently. But I’m not now. It was nothing serious. So, no. Not seeing anyone really. Nope.”

There was a long pause followed by an even longer, disapproving sigh. “Eric,” she gently declared, “You just need to find a girl you can have sex with.”

My eyes damn-near shot out of my skull. “MOM?! Excuse me!?”

“What?” she replied, innocently. “I’m just saying.”

I was dumbfounded. Sure, she was liberal and all, but this crossed the line. This was even a little too much for MY wacky, hippie mother to be telling me. “But - But you’re my MOM. I mean - you’re not supposed to say things like that!”

“Well, why not? I’VE done that sort of thing in my own life,” she continued. “You know, just gone out and found some hot guy that I could get into bed and just fuc -”

“ - MOM! My God! Okay! Okay! Will you just - That’s enough! Okay? You can stop right there. I don’t need to hear this! Too - much - information.”

Obviously, we all know our parents had sex or we wouldn’t be here. But when ANYONE starts to talk about their sexual escapades, it causes the listener to IMAGINE those escapades. And despite what Sigmund said, I don’t care if she’s a supermodel, no one wants to imagine their mom fucking. Freud was a cokehead.

She laughed and said, “Well, I guess that’s just the hippie in me. But really, it’s no big deal. It’s just sex. Just fun. You need that. There are plenty of open-minded girls out there who would be interested in you for that. Ask one of your friends. You know lots of girls.”

Clearly, in her well-meaning attempt to be supportive of my sex-life, the woman had completely lost her mind. I chuckled snidely, “Yeah. Sure. I’ll just ask my female friends to have sex with me. Great idea, mom. That would be a quick way for me to lose a lot of friends.”

“Ohhhh, why do you say that?,” she scolded. “Just ask. If the girl isn’t interested, it doesn’t mean she’ll stop talking to you. Why should she? She should be flattered that my handsome son wants to sleep with her.”

Was this my mom or my pimp?

“Ooookay. Um, so, what are you telling me?” I said. “You’re telling me that you don’t want me to go out and have a serious, meaningful relationship with a woman? Instead I should just have casual, meaningless sex?”

“No, of course not,” was her answer. “I want you to be happy. Eventually, with the right girl, a nice romance would be wonderful. But in the meantime, sometimes it can be fun to just get laid.”

Wow. You know, when she put it that way, I realized that she really had a good point. And suddenly, hearing her phrase it so simply, it didn’t seem so sleazy after all.

Maybe bluntly propositioning someone for sex - especially a friend - shouldn’t be deemed so taboo or inappropriate. After all, it’s a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Why shouldn’t an invitation for coitus be as acceptable and civilized as asking someone to go get ice cream? It’s even better than Baskin Robbins! Besides, sex is more fun and less fattening!

Yeah. Something about your mother giving you advice - even if it is sleazy, it sounds perfectly rational and dignified coming from her. Even if mom is a wacked-out hippie. Besides, mother knows best. Right?

Ordinarily, the “kind of girl mother warned you about” and the “kind of girl you take home to mom” are two very different types of women. In my case, I guess those ladies are one-in-the-same.

I laughed and said, “Well, I have to admit, it makes for a very unique pick-up line. I can walk up to girl and say, ‘Excuse me. Would you like to have cheap, meaningless sex?... My mother says it’s okay.’”

I Am Morrissey
2 October 2007

So I went to an art show last night in an adult video warehouse where pornstars were serving drinks.

I was bored.

BORED!

What is WRONG with me?!

I was so looking forward to it. Hanging out with hot porngirls! Woohoo! Flirting! Woohoo! Meeting cool artists! Woohoo! Did I mention the pornstars? Woohoo!

Dillan Lauren was one of the bartenders.

Dillan Lauren for goodness sake!

I’m in love with that woman. Or at least in lust. She is a tall, feisty, pale, brunette and every pore of her flesh screams, “I wanna give Eric a dozen babies!”

And I get there... Bored silly. A 7 hour-event and I stayed about 90 minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore. And I wasn’t being anti-social either. I met about half a dozen people - artists AND porno chicks - and had a decent conversation with them all.

Still bored.

What is UP with that?

That’s it. I’m Morrisey. Tape a band-aid over my nipple and stick a fork in my ass. I’m done.

Lame Surveys
3 April 2005

You know how people post those lame blogs and bulletins regarding what friends would do to them and whatnot?

Well, as my typical snide and sarcastic self, I posted a very witty series of answers to one such survey on another friends blog. But she never approved it to be posted. I guess she didn’t appreciate my piss and vinegar.

Maybe you will.

This is what I wrote:

What Would You Do If...

I cried: depends on why you’re crying

I said I liked you: assume you are lying

I kissed you: assume you thought I was someone else

I was hospitalized: pull the plug (evil chuckle)

I ran away from home: steal shit from your room (you ain’t comin’ back!)

I got in a fight and you were there: hand you a baseball bat

I got dumped: point out all the things you did to deserve it (another evil chuckle)

I pissed you off: dismiss your actions due to youth

What Do You Think Of My...

Personality: feminine

Eyes: they seem to function

Face: you definitely have one

Hair: looks curly

Clothes: you don’t wear many

Voice: you’ll have to talk to me sometime

Humor: funny you mention that...

Choice of music: ....eh

Mannerisms: ill-mannered

Family: they’re like friends

Friends: they’re like family

Decisions: i can’t decide

Would You...

Be my friend: for a small tax-deductible fee

Tell me the truth no matter what: 50% of the time

Lie to make me feel better: i’d even sit and stand too.

Spread rumors about me: no, but i heard you’re a man.

Keep a secret if I told you one: no, but don’t tell anyone.

Loan me some cash: golddigger

Hold my hand: not if it was detached from your body

Take a bullet for me: do I look like the Secret Service?

Keep in touch: rarely

Try and solve my problems: you have to solve your own - like everyone.

Love me: love?

Makeout with me: unlikely

Hold me in times of need: how needy are you?

Have sex with me: doubtful

Ditch me: only for someone more fun

Use me: depends - how much money you got?

Date me: you’re a bit too young for me

Take me out to dinner?: sure. if you drive, I’ll even let you pay for me.

Drive me somewhere: may i drive you crazy?

Take a shower with me?: not if you were wearing a strap-on

Listen to me if I called you crying even if you were out with all of your friends?: no because my cellphone is never on (smirk)

Buy me a drink?: now with roofies!

Take me home for the night?: isn’t that kidnapping?

Would you let me sleep in your bed?: my couch is plenty big enough for you

Sing car karaoke w/ me?: to Mozart!

Sit in the doctors office with me because I didn’t want to go alone?: wimp

Give me a piggyback ride?: $5 each ($10 if I’m naked)

Come pick me up at 3 am because my car ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere: no, because you obviously don’t know where you are. silly blondes.

The Blank Canvas
29 January 2006

I’ve decided to quit photography.

I just don’t enjoy photography anymore. I haven’t for a long time.

I’ve had so many interests in my life. I was a novelist and a filmmaker and editor and I’ve done graphic design and photography and all sorts of creative things. And I never get anywhere with them. So, I felt like if I focused on one thing, I could be successful with it. I picked photography. And I stopped all my other creative outlets and just focused on taking photos. I thought I’d succeed if I made it the only thing I devoted my energy to.

But instead of being successful with it, I just ended up feeling pressured to do well. It was no longer fun. And I was scared that if I didn’t get anywhere with it, I’d have nothing left.

Then suddenly, out-of-the-blue... having nothing went from being scary to being appealing.

See, I never wanted to do photography anyway. The only reason I got into it was because so many people complimented me on it, and said I was really good at it. So I started to think I could get somewhere with it. My enjoyment of it developed from the compliments of others, not from any satisfaction I got in myself.

I feel like this is what I was supposed to do 3 years ago when I moved to California. Move to Los Angeles and give up everything.

When I got here, I tried to have a “new start” by holding onto all my old interests. Filmmaking. Writing. Editing. Photography.

Slowly they all fell away.

Maybe this was the whole point from the beginning; arrive in Los Angeles not with ambitions, but with a blank canvas.

As soon as the notion hit me, I felt this sparkle of real “Zen serenity” crackling in the recesses of my psyche.

People have asked me, “What are you going to do now?”

And I joyfully answer, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to go to work at my dayjob, hang out with friends, ride my motorcycle... and just... Think. Reflect. I’m not going to do a damn thing.”

Maybe someday I’ll pick it up again. Maybe someday I’ll start writing or making movies again too. Who knows? All I know is that for now, I have no intention and no plans of pursuing photography. I am on indefinite hiatus.

For years, I shunned the void. I constantly had to throw paint at the blank canvas...

For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to suspect that the blank canvas may hold the key to more answers than the paint could ever express...

Missis Moon & The Drought Of Employment
4 April 2006

Once upon a time, I was dating a girl who could find a job easier than a pornstar-hooker in a prison. Seriously. I don’t know how the hell she did it. But that girl could literally mail out 4 resumes, land 3 interviews, and get 2 job offers. It was uncanny.

I seem to possess the karmic antithesis of that capability.

When she and I were dating, I once mailed out over 100 resumes and didn’t even get a callback. At first, my girlfriend was very supportive and understanding. But after awhile, she began to doubt me and think I was a slacker or lying or somehow doing something wrong. After all, if it was so easy for her, how could it possibly be such a challenge for me? Right?

Could I blame her? No. If our roles had been reversed, I would have likely treated her with the same skepticism and incredulity if she had spent 8 months searching while I scored new jobs in 8 days.

Ten years have passed since that relationship and I now live 2500 miles away in a completely new city.

Not much has changed.

My employment karma followed me across this great nation from Cleveland to Los Angeles and haunts me with apparent misfortune to this very day. (I say “apparent misfortune” because my ever-optimistic side wants to believe that my negative experiences are merely illusions on the path to greater opportunities.)

As an example of my apparent misfortune - I once accepted a job at Weider Publications, one of the largest publishing companies in the world. Great! Stable company. Fantastic salary. Short commute. Wonderful! I was thrilled!

Two weeks after starting, my boss announced he was quitting.

Ten weeks later, they decided to fire my whole department and move our jobs to the Florida offices.

Nice.

Well, that’s just one example. The tale I really wish to tell involves what has happened to me just this past week. Check this out. You’re going to love it.

First, let me backtrack to a little over a year ago when I was again jobhunting.

I interviewed at a computer gaming company in Venice called Zugara. The woman I interviewed with was a chick named Ingrid Moon. It was truly the most enjoyable job interviews I ever had. The company was hip and high-tech and cutting-edge and Ingrid was this super cool, really tall, science-fiction/gamer girl. We’re the same age. So, we talked for almost 2 hours and went off on tangents about Star Wars and fantasy novels and role-playing games because we grew up steeped in the same morass of geekdom/pop culture. Honestly, I’ve gone on first dates that were a lot less fun than that interview.

Unbeknownst to Ingrid, I totally had a crush on her by the time we walked out of that room. I mean, come on. She’s this 9-foot-tall computer-chick who plays hockey. She was like the geek-version of Xena! Unbeknownst to me, she was married. Darn!

As it turns out, I didn’t get the job.

But I lobbied so hard for it, Ingrid and I actually remained friends and we stayed in contact. Thanks to her husband, she now has a bouncing baby boy that she germinated inside of her like some science-fiction pod person. I really dig Ingrid. She’s a very cool girl and a good friend.

Now we jump ahead to last week.

I am again in the midst of jobhunting.

The good news is, I got signed with not one, not two, but three placement agencies! The third agency is not relevant to this story. So we’ll just call the others “Placement Agency One” and “Placement Agency Two” for this tale.

So here is what happened.

Last week, a representative named Ryan from Placement Agency One calls me about a freelance job in Van Nuys that would be a temporary contract position. Normally, I would never be interested. I want full-time and permanent work. But the cool thing is, I will be performing the job from home, doing web programming. I met with the client on 29 March 2006 and the client even said, “You can work on it at 2:00am if you want. I don’t care. Because you can just do it at home. You don’t need to come to the office.”

He would send me the first of the files on Monday 3 April 2006 so I could get started.

Awesome.

Last week, a representative named Caroline from Placement Agency Two calls me about a job in Beverly Hills that would be an “open-ended, temporary to permanent position” - in other words, it would be full-time and if they like me, it would become permanent. Great. The interview was set up for Tuesday 4 April 2006 at 11:00am.

Kick ass.

Two opportunities? This is great!

Next thing I know, a representative named Karin from Placement Agency One also called me about a job in Hollywood at an Internet video company. This job would also be an “open-ended temporary to permanent position” - wherein, it would be full-time and if they like me, it would become permanent. That interview was set up for Friday 31 March 2006 at 3:30pm.

This is fantastic! Looks like my bad karma of jobhunting is finally turning around, huh?

Well, it gets better! Check this out. We get back to Ingrid.

Ingrid knows I’m looking for work. She has a friend starting a new company in Century City. I meet with the company. Everything seems cool, except they want to start me out as part-time, for pay that is way lower than I am accustomed to getting.

But, there is a chance the Century City job could become full-time and I figured, “Eh, why not? I can work part-time, make some extra money, and have lots of freetime on the side. If a full-time opportunity comes along, I’ll take it. But this will tide me over in the meanwhile. Cool. I’ll do it.”

Besides, none of the other potential full-time gigs made an offer yet.

I agree to start working in Century City part-time for Ingrid’s friend and go into the office for the first time on Friday 31 March 2006. I enjoy the place. I like the people. Should work out great.

After my time in the office there, I go to the interview in Hollywood at the Internet video company.

The interview goes extremely well. I’m very excited.

When I get home, I have several messages from agents at Placement Agency One and need to get back to them. Karin speaks to me and asks how the Hollywood interview went. I tell her it was great and she tells me that the guy already called her and he really liked me and wanted me to start the following week.

Fantastic! Plus, the job is 10 minutes away and the pay is $15,000 more than I’ve ever made in my life!

So, I will do the Hollywood job during the day, and at night, I will work the Van Nuys temporary contract from home. I’ll be making truckloads full of money for a month, and El Caminos full of money after that. This rocks! I will need to call the Century City job with Ingrid’s friend and tell them that I have had another offer.

Ah. At last. My karma really is turning around! Fabulous! After all these years of struggling! All is right with the world!

Or so it seemed ...

In the next few moments, things began to fall apart ...

I have Karin transfer me to one of the other agents who called me. I tell the other agent that I am returning her call about the positions she had open.

The agent sounds annoyed. “Well, you can’t work any other jobs because you are only allowed to work 40 hours a week through our agency and you are already talking to other agents about work. You took that freelance job in Van Nuys, with Ryan, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“The clients don’t pay you directly. You get paid by us. So you can’t work over 40 hours a week or it’s overtime.”

“Oh... I see. I didn’t know that... Okay. Thanks.”

Lovely. Now what?

I now have the temporary Van Nuys job with Ryan that I agreed to do from home, and the full-time Hollywood job with Karin that I agreed to start next week! But I can’t do both? Shit!

I get transferred back to Karin and tell her the situation. By this time, it is late on Friday and Ryan has already gone home. So, basically I’m in limbo until Monday morning. Friday evening, I decide to keep my Beverly Hills appointment for Tuesday and my Century City part-time job for Monday, because I have no idea how things will pan-out come Monday morning.

Monday rolls around.

So let’s recap.

Two jobs from Placement Agency One. One temporary working from home. One permanent working in Hollywood. I want to do both.

Meanwhile, I have a part-time job in Century City that Ingrid found for me that I have worked for one day and I need to be there again that afternoon.

Plus, I have a job interview on Tuesday from Caroline through Placement Agency Two.

Whew! Got it? Okay. Let’s proceed.

Monday morning, I speak to Ryan and Karin and am told that I will need to just pick one of the jobs. I told them, “Well, I want to do both because I said that I would. But, if I have to pick just one, obviously I’d rather go with the one in Hollywood because it’s full-time, possibly permanent, and more pay.”

They understood.

Later that afternoon, I had it confirmed - yes, I am booked for the full-time job in Hollywood. I will be starting Wednesday.

Okay. I felt bad because I didn’t want to turn down the work-from-home job. But, hey, this was still fantastic! It was a short commute, to a very cool job, for way more money than I have ever made before in my life.

Kick ass!

Once it was all confirmed, I immediately contacted the Century City job and told them I wouldn’t be able to come in anymore because I had taken this full-time position. I copied Ingrid on the email too. I figured since she helped me get in there, it was the least I could do to be polite.

For some reason... I didn’t cancel my 11:00am job interview slated for the next morning.

Apparently it was a good thing I didn’t.

Tuesday morning rolls around.

I get a phonecall from Karin at 9:30am telling me that the Hollywood job decided to back out. They didn’t want to hire me. They reconsidered and really need someone who knows a completely different programming language.

No. Fucking. Way.

And of course, Ryan already found someone else to do the freelance Van Nuys job from home too.

A little imp laughed in the corner of my room, pointing and saying, “Sorry, Eric. You’re fucked all around. Schmuck! Ha, ha!”

I just turned down the part-time Century City job that Ingrid helped me get, and I look like an ass because I was so wishy-washy about the job to begin with, then I declined the offer one day, only to need it back the next.

I just turned down the freelance Van Nuys job that I could have done from home (I would have made about $4500 to $6500, just working in the evenings for a month or two).

And the job that I turned both of those positions down for decided to back out at the last minute and leave me hanging with nothing.

Nice.

It was now 10:00am. I had no job. No leads. But I still had an interview scheduled in Beverly Hills in an hour.

I don’t own a car. I only have a motorcycle.

Why is that relevant?

Because when it rains, it pours ... and rain was pouring from the sky in sheets.

Nevermind that the rainy-season is supposed to be finished in Los Angeles by April. We are supposed to be back to nothing but sunshine. But not this year. Nope. Today the street outside my apartment has enough water flowing down it to float a fucking ark. And the rain keeps on coming.

In a panic, I check bus routes. No way I can make it there in time. All the buses will take me at least 2 hours. Taxi? Way too expensive. It will cost me $40 to get there and back. I call a friend to see if she can drive me. She can’t.

Great.

So, I did what I had to do. I hopped on my motorcycle and rode 10 miles to Beverly Hills in torrential rain. I was literally drenched when I got to the interview. Completely saturated. I am not exaggerating when I say it was as if I had jumped into a swimming pool with all of my clothes on. I sat in their conference room, shivering, squishing, and dripping water all over their floor. When I put my elbow on the table, I left a wet-print and water trickled off my sleeve into a puddle.

Oh, yeah. Real professional.

I don’t think they’ll be making me any job offers in Beverly Hills, thank you.

On the way back home, my teeth were chattering. My jeans were sopping wet. Water was seeping in my jacket, all over my shirt, and trickling down the skin of my chest. At most intersections, I had to ride through puddles that were 20 feet wide and 6 inches deep. Rapids were flowing down Laurel Canyon Boulevard up near Mulholland. Seriously; The swaths of water flowed so deep they literally had little whitecaps on them; it was like riding my motorcycle through a creekbed. Ice-cold puddles were splashing around inside my boots.

The whole time, all I kept on thinking was, “If those jerks in Hollywood hadn’t backed out, I would be laying in a warm bed asleep right now, eagerly anticipating my big salary and my short commute.” Instead, I was getting hypothermia in the middle of Spring in Southern California.

Next time, I’m canceling the interview. No more motorcycling in the rain unless someone I love or myself is on fire. Ever.

When I got home, I took an incredibly long and hot shower. Must have stood under that nozzle for 30 minutes, just watching my hands change color from purple, back to something resembling human skin.

Getting out of the shower, I began to compose this little essay.

Right now, all I want to do is crawl under my covers and sleep for about 3 days.

As I finished writing this, I got a phonecall from another placement agent. She has set up an interview for me on Thursday morning at NBC/Universal Studios.

The rain is supposed to stop by then.

What was that line in the movie The Crow?... “It can’t rain all the time.”

Let’s hope.

Back To The Future
28 July 2006

Do you ever wonder the kind of perception people have about you?

It’s an interesting topic when you really contemplate it.

For example, I was out at a nightclub over a year ago, talking to a friend whom I do not know very well. Our conversation was rather surprising. She was a very grounded and intelligent and interesting young woman. She is also on MySpace. And because of the personality she projects in her MySpace profile, I have always thought of her as this wild, crazy, party-girl. But, she said that is not like her at all. She deliberately gives off that impression in her profile to identify and steer-clear of mindless frat-boy types who just admire her tits. (Which are wonderfully admirable, I must say.)

Indeed, after talking to her more extensively, I found her to be a very bright, reasonable, mature, and fun girl. Not a juvenile, party-bimbo at all.

This experience took me aback.

Because I thought, “Wow. She’s so right. Perceptions are everything. And she has done such a GREAT job of projecting this ‘party-girl’ image that I totally believed her to be like that... I wonder what image I project into the world?”

Now, of course, it is difficult to answer such a question. Because “perception” is a very relative thing and is obviously very distorted by the “forest through the trees” factor.

We know who we are. But do others?

Plus, perceptions change based upon available information. For example, my friend still has a “party-girl” profile on MySpace. But now I see it for what it is - a bit of a game. Not reality. Not who she is for real.

Her profile didn’t change. But my information did. Therefore, my perceptions about her changed, even though her profile is exactly the same as it was.

Another example of the unpredictability of perception? How about this?: I have a self-portrait that I really like, where I’m looking into the camera, smirking all hot and sexy. I do not think of myself as a hot and sexy guy. No. Quite the contrary. Therefore, I love the photo because it projects an image that I enjoy having, but I never actually perceive about myself. Lots of people agree and compliment me on the picture and say I look really great.

Other people have said I look like a male whore.

Hmmm.

Same photo. Different perceptions.

So, when you look at things that way, it causes a conundrum. From a single aspect of personality or image (which can potentially inspire diametrically opposed perceptions) how do you possibly predict what the perception of you will be?

You can’t. Not with 100% accuracy. Because, like beauty, perception is in the eye of the beholder.

I have always been of that mindset to “be yourself” and therefore I never give much thought to “how people might perceive” something about me. But, when we first meet a person and start to communicate, we can put forth ANY personality or perception we want. And people will believe that is truly who we are. Just like the “party-girl who is not a party-girl” that I know.

So, again, I started to wonder, what do I project? How do people see me?

One of my clients once saw footage of me as an extra in a post-apocalypse sci-fi film where I looked all rugged and badass. He said he didn’t recognize me because I’m always so happy and smiling and friendly.

During an online conversation, a friend once asked me, “Why are you so down about things and yourself? Everytime we chat I have noticed you dwell a lot. I want you to be a happier person.”

I’m the same person. But these two people have completely opposite perceptions of who I am and what I am like.

Strange.

We all have good times and bad.

What happens when we unintentionally end up associating with certain people ONLY during those times? Suddenly, that person can have a very skewed perception of who we are. If you’re giddy and chipper 6 days a week, but you’re always depressed on Fridays, and you have a friend you only talk to on Fridays - they’re gonna think you’re a miserable person. When the truth is, you aren’t at all; they just keep witnessing that facet of yourself and no other.

Last night, I went out dancing to 80’s music at Blue Mondays. I danced to songs like “Into The Groove” by Madonna and “Video Killed The Radio Star” by The Buggles and “True Faith” by New Order and “Don’t You Want Me” by Human League and “Blitzkrieg Bop” by The Ramones and “Suedehead” by Morrisey and “Space Age Lovesong” by Flock Of Seagulls and things like that.

I haven’t gone dancing in months.

Dear God, how I love to dance. I was blissfully floating in a heavenly paradise.

As happens so often, I found myself wishing I had some friends there with me. Just once. But almost no one ever comes. I dance alone all the time. People rarely want to tag along to the club with me. So I finally stopped asking everyone.

Why do I care? Why should it matter?

Last night, I was asking myself those questions.

“What difference does it make if I go alone or not?”

Then it hit me.

Perception.

As Madonna sang, I had an epiphany ...

“I hope this feelin’ never ends tonight. Only when I’m dancin’ can I feel this free... I’m tired of dancin’ here all by myself. Tonight, I wanna dance with someone else.”

Only when I’m dancing can I feel this free.

Yes. Indeed.

That. Is. It.

You see, there is something magical about music and dancing.

Down through the ages, ingrained in our collective psyche from our deepest ancestry, are the tribal rhythms of eons of dance. The very blood in our veins was conjured from the beat of drums.

When I am in a club and that music is playing, emotionally-speaking, I sincerely travel through time. I am 15 years old again. And all the worries and problems and heartaches of the last 20 years of my life just vanish. Lost jobs. Lost loves. Deaths of those dear to my heart. None of that exists. Because it is 1987 again; Back when my life was perfect and I knew nothing of true sorrow or loss or heartache.

Nostalgia incarnate.

I catch myself smiling, and dancing, and lip-synching to the music, and I don’t see a single person in the crowd. I only see shapes and forms and I am back at the highschool dance. But this time, I’m no longer shy. I’m no longer timid. I’m not the quiet and bashful kid I was back then.

Now, I’m dancing on the box. In the center of the club. Literally in the spotlight. For the whole of the crowd to see. And every beat of every drum is mine. The pulse. The heart. The rhythm. Owned.

I am home.

Tonight, for the first time, I realized WHY I want to share those moments with my friends. Because I want my friends to see that facet of me. I want them to have that perception of who I am. For in those moments, dancing to that kind of music, I feel every fiber of my being glowing with a joy and happiness and contentment that I never feel at any other time. It’s one of the most “alive” experiences that I ever have. I am truly “in the moment” like no other.

Dance.

This is truly one of the reasons that we are born upon this earth.

Well... “sex” and “cookies” might have something to do with our reasons for existence too... but I digress.

My point is that very few people ever have the chance to know who we truly are. Friends. Family. Lovers. All of these people only see bits and pieces of us.

One of my friends once told me that she thinks it’s dangerous for me to be motorcycling because I’m a very calculating and precise person. I’m very cautious and patient. She said that motorcycles were for people who are just these adventurous adrenaline-junkies who do crazy things and take risks and never get hurt and she doesn’t see me as being like that. I’m too mature and responsible.

When I told that story to an ex-girlfriend, she laughed her ass off and said, “Oh my God! She said that about YOU!?... She doesn’t know you very well, does she?”

Few people have ever known me better than that ex-girlfriend.

All women love the bad boy. Some women aren’t perceptive enough to realize that I am one. As an ex-mistress recently said, “Be good... You can’t. So have fun being bad.”

Truly, there are so many countless aspects to who we all are.

All that being said, one of the strangest things about perception is the capacity of others to have it.

Remember that scene in the movie “Ferris Beuller’s Day Off” when the principal says, “I wouldn’t trust Ferris Beuller any further than I could throw him.”

And his secretary replies, “Well, with your bad back, Ed, you shouldn’t throw anybody.”

Great joke. Gets a good laugh. And why is it so funny? Because the audience knows so succinctly that the dopey woman had a completely distorted perception of the world. And therein lies the biggest problem of all. We can make an effort to make a “good first impression” and say and do things in an attempt to influence the way others perceive us. Yet, in the end, they might still draw completely inaccurate conclusions about who we are.

I know who I am. I know what I am worth. I know what I deserve. And I often make the mistake of expecting others to figure that out, and appreciate my value by some sort of osmosis, instead of showing them by example.

The truth is, some people will never have the mental or emotional capacity to appreciate what we are worth. Moreover, others may have the capacity, but never the desire. Although, that dichotomy goes beyond mere “perception” and leads into the topic of human chemistry, which is an entirely different subject.

Perception is everything. And very few people ever truly get the chance to see what we are. Without going dancing with me (not to ANY music, but to music which is in my element) or skateboarding with me in a skatepark, or hang gliding far above the earth, or motorcycling in the mountains, or hiking in the woods, or reading my stories or essays, or watching my movies and videos, or seeing my photography exhibits and prints, a person will never know what kind of a person I really am. They will only know facets. Slivers. Fragments of the whole.

I think I’m going dancing again this week. To music I love.

All my friends are free to come along if they want to.

Perhaps the song says it better ...

“We can dance if we want to. We can leave your friends behind. ’Cause your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, well, they’re no friends of mine.”

- “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats

Learn To Ride A Skateboard
17 August 2007

Filmed entirely in California and independently produced by Eric Muss-Barnes, a longtime skateboarder and artist, Learn To Ride A Skateboard is a new skateboarding instructional DVD which showcases the teaching talents of professional skateboarder Holly Lyons - ranked the Top Female Bowl Skateboarder in the World according to her standings in the 2006 World Cup Skateboarding.

Although there have been entertainment-oriented videos featuring female skaters, explaining tricks in brief segments, with the Learn To Ride A Skateboard project, Lyons earns the historical distinction of being the first woman ever featured as a teacher in an instructional skateboarding video.

“The popularity of skateboarding is always in flux,” explains Muss-Barnes. “Although female skaters have been a minority for decades, I believe supporting and encouraging more girls to skate is a key element in helping skateboarding remain popular on a permanent basis.”

“However, I didn’t want the video to draw special attention to women skaters. I wanted this video to be ahead of it’s time. It portrays female skaters as equal to the males. It just mixes the boys and girls together, giving males and females equal screentime, and showing us all as skateboarders. Gender is irrelevant.”

Smirking, Muss-Barnes adds, “All that being said, I’m certainly not equal to Holly as a skater. This girl could be blind with one leg, and still skate better than me!”

Another first in instructional skateboarding videos is showing actual students learning tricks as the instructors teach them. The students in Learn To Ride A Skateboard ranging in age from 12 to 15, are Madylin, Sawyer and Sullivan Sweeten, the real-life siblings from the hit sitcom, Everybody Loves Raymond. Having no experience as skateboarders, we see the Sweeten kids being taught by Lyons and Muss-Barnes as they help the children develop their techniques.

Despite the name, the video goes beyond teaching how to ride a skateboard. It also covers buying a skateboard and explains every single component, down to the bearings. After that, there are thorough instructions on assembling a skateboard from scratch.

Once the assembly is complete, the video illustrates the geography of skateparks. Another first among skateboarding videos, explaining the layout of skateparks is ideal for parents having difficulty understanding the terminology their children use when describing the terrain. This section also comforts new skaters who may be intimidated by the challenging landscapes. Parallel with teaching the topology of skateparks are lessons on “unwritten rules of etiquette” and courteous behavior that is universally expected at skateparks, so beginners can avoid any social faux pas.

Unlike every other skateboarding instructional video ever produced, Learn To Ride A Skateboard is available absolutely free-of-charge and people are actually encouraged to copy the DVD and give it away. Created without any copy-prevention security, when you put the DVD in your computer, you find instructional files on the disc explaining how to duplicate it.

“I’m a decent artist, but a terrible businessman,” laughs Muss-Barnes. “Over the last decade, I published a novel, directed independent movies, and showcased my photography in art galleries, yet I never earned much of an income with any of it. This time, I decided instead of making money, I’d create something simply for the love of making it. I love skateboarding. I want to inspire people of all ages to skate, and I’m not interested in making a profit from that. I invested time and money into this project to share the fun of skateboarding with as many people as possible. My hope is that this DVD spawns the ultimate viral-marketing-campaign; where I only produce a few hundred copies, then, over time, thousands of people will copy it, and give it away, over and over again.”

Free copies of the Learn To Ride A Skateboard DVD are now available online (plus a minimal shipping fee):

www.LearnToRideASkateboard.com

The Dumbest Girl In The World
30 September 2007

Check out this email correspondence. It all begins with me writing to an old friend that I haven’t seen for awhile...

21 September 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: touching base

Dear Girl,

How have you been? Just thinking of you.

You in Los Angeles?

If you are, call me. Let’s get together.

Respectfully,

Eric

555-555-5432

§

22 September 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: touching base

Ive called you about 6 times , & even left you voice mails. Ive anted to talk to you. Ive been in LA about 2 wks and Vegas. I want to go back soon. I want to say Hi so call me today before 6 pm. I need to know how you are doing, & I want to go out of town, so get back to me...

§

22 September 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: touching base

I’m sorry, love. I haven’t gotten any of your messages. I don’t have your number, so I can’t call you back.

Cell: 555-555-5432 (bad number to call, my cell is never turned on)

Home: 555-555-5433 (much better number to use. i always check my answering machine.)

I do NOT HAVE caller ID so if you want me to call back you have to leave your number!

I hope to hear from you and see you soon.

§

24 September 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: touching base

I called yesterday too. How are you ?

§

24 September 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: touching base

Please give me your number. I do not have it.

My cellphone does not have caller ID so you must give me your number if you want me to call back.

You left me a message but didn’t give me your number. I need your number, please.

When you leave a message, please give me the number you are calling from so I can return your call.

§

24 September 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: need your number

You never leave your number.

If you want me to call you back, please give me your number. I do not have it anymore.

§

24 September 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: need your number

how are you ? I want to go to the beach today ...

§

30 September 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: need your number

I. DO. NOT. HAVE. YOUR. PHONE. NUMBER.

§

2 October 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: need your number

Ive left u my number in a voice mail. been swamped since I got back to LA. I left you many calls. How are you ? Have you done much published work lately ? Whats in it for me ??? Ha ahahaha !!! I want to shoot, but I want things to get printed. Tell me how you are these days ? benn to any shows ? Mail me....... p.s.- I never made it to the beach that day. I had to write alot...

§

16 October 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: need your number

I don’t have any voicemails from you. You should really just email me your number if you really want me to call you and hang out.

I’m doing good. I worked on a cool video project this summer. You can see it at:

www.LearnToRideASkateboard.com

I lived with a really wonderful, fun, cool girlfriend all summer. We broke up, but it was great while it lasted.

Finding new “social circles” to hang out in. That’s been a blast too.

Hope you are well.

Eric

Cell: 555-555-5432

Home: 555-555-5433

§

2 October 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: need your number

lets got to the beach this week ! I need to go---?

§

2 October 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: need your number

Okay. When? Call me at 555-555-5433. If I do not answer, leave your number and I’ll call back.

§

2 October 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: need your number

I dont have a phone now. My bill for the last 3 wks was $900. So I must punish myself. Tell me by mail when you have time...

§

2 October 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: need your number

I work during the week. So weekends are best for me. Want to come by on Sunday at 1:00pm?.

§

16 October 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: need your number

I had a BBQ. You should pick up the phone ...do you ever ?

§

16 October 2007

From: Eric

To: The Girl

Subject: RE: need your number

I rarely pick up my phone. You said you couldn’t call me anyway.

§

23 October 2007

From: The Girl

To: Eric

Subject: RE: need your number

Yeah, but I had some quaters so I was making calls. How are you ?

We had a BBQ over in Gledale. Dont you live close ?

I dont remember your address. Hows life ? Im happy to tell you alot.

§

Wow.

After all that, she still never gave me her number. A few weeks later, she finally called and I answered. When I had her on the phone and asked for her number, she said she didn’t know what her number was because she just got a new phone.

Huh?

Then after a 15 minute call she said, “Well, I was going to come over, but you don’t sound like you want to get together.”

“What?” I said. “You never asked to come over! Why would you think I don’t want to get together if you never even suggested it? Sure. You can stop over right now. That would be great.”

“Oh, but I was right by your house when I called, but now I’m not near there anymore.”

“So why didn’t you say that when you first called?”

“Well, maybe we can get together tomorrow,” she suggested.

It never happened. Gee, can you believe it?

I know you’re wondering why I bothered to keep talking to her. The only reason I have continued this correspondence is because it is making me laugh that anyone is this clueless. Oh. And she is really, really, really freakin’ hot.

When I was 15 years old, I would have been hurt, frustrated and disappointed by this. Now, I find it highly entertaining. Plus, it makes good blog material!

Is It A Celebrity Sighting
2 October 2007

Is it a celebrity sighting, if you don’t know the celebrity?

If a tree falls in a forest...

So, I’m at Borders tonight, looking for the issue of Thrasher Magazine that reviewed my skate video.

There’s some bearded dude across the aisle from me, looking at music magazines. Some black chick comes up to the guy and asks him if he’s in the band Linkin Park. Apparently he was. I dunno which member he was. I looked them up online and half the band are bearded dudes with dark hair. They all look the same to me. I think the black chick called him “Mike”, and was all excited, and said she’s a big fan, and has all their albums. He thanks her humbly and she walks away.

He looks around sheepishly. I chuckled when he made eye-contact with me. He seemed worried that other “fans” might begin to approach him. This was hilarious to me, so I shrugged, “I’m not a fan. I don’t know any of your music. I had no idea who you were. That’s pretty funny.”

He doesn’t say anything and just kind of slinks away, as if I had just crushed a puppy’s head in a vice. This amused me even more.

Laughing, I turned back to the sports magazines and never did manage to find a new copy of Thrasher.

To The Homeless Dude Shitting On Chandler Boulevard
12 March 2008

Dear Homeless Dude,

I realize you will never read this. Yet in some esoteric, new-age-hippie, transcendental kind of way, I felt I had to put this message out into the universe, and perhaps you might pick it up, when you hear the voices in your head.

You probably don’t remember me. I was the cleancut and dapper gentlemen, wearing a fedora and playing my 1940’s swing music on my bicycle, as I rode down the bikepath this past Sunday. It was a typical, sunny, pleasant afternoon in the City Of Angels, and I was throughly enjoying the day, happy as can be, in my own little world, singing along to Sammy Kaye.

Until that world was shattered by looking over at the cinderblock wall framing a parking lot, to see you with your ass propped against said wall and your pants around your ankles.

Now, thank goodness, I’ve never been homeless. However, Mr. Homeless Dude, I would hope that if I were, I might have the decency and self-respect to locate a public bathroom when nature calls. A library. A gas station perhaps. At least a hidden alleyway! However, this was a public street, 5 feet from the curb, during the middle of the day, in a decent residential neighborhood. Shitting beside the sidewalk just isn’t particularly endearing under these conditions. Or any other conditions, come to think of it. For God’s sake, man, where do you think you are? This isn’t Downtown. This is the Valley! You were Caucasian! Show a little respect! However, perhaps this was why you chose such a spot. Enraged by your harsh life? Envious of nice neighborhoods populated by decent folks with homes? Poop on their street! That’ll teach ’em! Okay. I can see that. Maybe this was an act of vengeful crapping. An emotional statement, if you will.

I do understand that “when you gotta go, you gotta go” and I have no problem with the fact that you have bowel movements. Hey, we’re all human. I just take issue with where you choose to have them.

I was grateful that you had picked a spot with a little grass and dirt. As a productive member of society, allow me to voice my appreciation that you didn’t just drop a steamy pile on the sidewalk where some little girl might slip on it with her tricycle. You showed a modicum of decency and for that I give you kudos.

In addition to your scraggly beard, filthy clothes, and disheveled frame, I couldn’t help but notice you were also holding a paper cup in one hand which you appeared to be jostling into position. What that position was, I can not say. Rather mortified by the sight, I looked away before I had the chance to glimpse your naughty bits or your intentions with the cup. After the fact however, I couldn’t help but wonder - what was the cup for? Was it to catch your droppings? Were you having a morning coffee at the same time? I dared not maintain my gaze to find out.

Perhaps next time, you might use a library bathroom. If you happen to do so, and read this note on the Internet using a free library computer, please get back to me and let me know what the cup was for. As a respectable person with a job and a home, kindly refrain from informing me about your use of the cup if it was really raunchy. I never saw (but have heard about) that revolting “Two Girls & A Cup” video and I want no knowledge of your actions if they were the homeless-man-equivalent.

In closing, kind sir, please refrain from taking a shit on the streets of my neighborhood in the future. I realize parts of the Valley are a bit ghetto, but seriously, there is no need to encourage or reinforce such detriments. For the love of all that is holy, thank you for covering your dick with your coat as you copped a squat against the wall. Had I gazed upon your family jewels, I fear I may have transformed into a pillar of salt. Bless you for sparing me the anguish.

Sincerely,

A Homeowner With A Working Toilet

How Much Did That Cost You
23 March 2008

Two social graces and manners that your parents should have taught you and people need to be reminded of:

1. Never ask a total stranger how much something cost them.

That is rude and inappropriate. Didn’t your parents ever teach you that? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been out with my bicycle and the FIRST question that I get from complete strangers - “Wow. That’s a cool bike. How much did that cost you?”

What difference does it make?! Who cares!?

I was saying, “I don’t know. It was a gift.” Which is a total lie. And it made me uncomfortable to lie. I think I may just start to say, “It was affordable.”

That’s the most polite way I think to answer these jerks.

The truth is, I honestly don’t know what any of my bicycles cost, because I never kept track of every single little item I bought. So, I guess I could say that too. “I honestly don’t know. I pieced it together over a long period of time.”

That may be an even better reply. Sounds less snarky and confrontational.

I very, very rarely ask my friends how much they payed for something. In fact, I don’t recall the last time I did that. And I know I have NEVER asked that of a total stranger. I was always taught you don’t do that. I know our society is falling apart and class and decorum are going out the window. But please, try to salvage a little grace and dignity now and then. Stop asking these questions.

2. Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you without asking for permission!

I’ve had people try to turn on lights on my bicycle and fondle the seat saying, “That’s really nice.”

Yes, it is. In fact, it was a lot nicer before your greasy hands were all over it, you dunderhead!

Since I am a person who is polite and has some manners, and these are public places, I don’t want to scream, “What are you doing!? Don’t touch it! Did I tell you that was okay!?” Because it’s not appropriate to react that way in public. Just because these fools lack manners doesn’t mean I should. Plus, I’m typically so stunned at their audacity that I don’t even have time to react.

Who the hell is raising these people!?

In one instance, the man was in his 30’s and in another the dude was in his 50’s. These aren’t young kids with no etiquette. These are grown adults! They should know better!

Don’t ask a stranger what their things cost!

Don’t go touching their possessions without permission!

Simple rules of life that I though all civilized people were conscious of following.

Then again, these faux paus typically happen on public transportation, which does tend to draw denizens from the dregs of humanity. But, again, these weren’t crazy hobos or something. They were men in suits and clean cut and one had just bought a $1200 camera he was showing off. No, I did NOT ask what it cost. I just know how much a Canon 40D is worth.

Okay, I gotta hop in the shower. I’m done ranting.

“Hey, how much that shampoo cost you?”

Why Motorcycles Are Pretty Badass
12 April 2008

In life, we all tend to take things for granted.

Take motorcycles for instance. We see them all the time. Millions of people ride them. They are everyday machines. Nothing special. However, as I was riding my motorcycle today, I thought about what insane contraptions they truly are.

For just a moment, try to imagine that motorcycles and bicycles don’t exist. They were never created. Never invented. Nobody has ever seen one.

Now imagine you are friends with some crazy mad scientist engineer (like Doc Brown in Back To The Future) and he has a new invention. This is how he describes it to you:

“I created a transportation machine with only 2 wheels. You have to balance on them while hurtling down the highway at 80MPH, with 4 gallons of gasoline mounted above a scalding internal-combustion-engine. You straddle the gasoline, and the engine, like a horse between your legs. I want you to take it for a test ride!”

Think you’d try that?

Helllllll, NO!

This is why motorcycles, no matter how commonplace, are actually pretty badass.

What’s With The Mickey Ears?
16 May 2008

“Why do you wear Mickey Mouse ears every Friday?”

I’ve had a number of people ask, “Did you lose a bet?”

Jokingly, my fast answer is, “Other companies have ‘Casual Fridays’, so I figured Disney should have ‘Mouse Ears Fridays’.”

That’s my quick and easy “water cooler conversation” response. Sometimes I will add, “I always promised myself when I became a full-time employee, I’d wear Mickey Ears every Friday. So I do.”

Although my answers are true, they are superficial. No one wants to have an engaging conversation about it - so in the interest of diplomacy and “social graces” I provide a “sound-bite reply” I can spout in 5 seconds. People seem satisfied.

However, none of those reasons delve into my ulterior motives. The truth is, corny as it may sound, wearing the Mouse ears has a far more meaningful purpose. One of the most important is to remind us where we are and why we are here; Especially since our building is not on the Studio Lot, it’s easy to lose perspective and forget - HEY WAIT! WE DON’T JUST WORK IN AN OFFICE BUILDING! WE WORK FOR WALT DISNEY! HOW COOL!

Another reason? You can never take yourself too seriously wearing Mickey ears. That’s an important thing. Everytime someone spots me wearing the ears and they smile or chuckle a little, I’m reminded I’m wearing them and next thing I know, Mickey is making us both grin.

Walt understood this. Our beloved founder called himself an “idea man” and he certainly was. Showmanship. Entertainment. Making people smile. Sharing the gift of laughter. Finding the “kid at heart” in everyone. That’s what our company is all about. Those are some of our fundamental aspirations.

Today, more than 80 years after Walt Disney Studios began, we all stand in the unique and enviable position of having grown up with Disney. Unlike fellow Cast Members of the 1920s and 1930s who only created Disney Magic as adults, we grew up experiencing Disney Magic as children. Now, as Cast Members ourselves, we carry on their creative distinction. However, unlike our forbearers, our creativity is augmented with memories of how great our own childhood experiences with Disney were.

I am convinced this is the driving reason behind our work at Disney easily maintaining high standards of quality and integrity; We simply remember how magical and wonderful and perfect everything Disney represented when we were kids, and we wish to responsibly uphold that legacy - and more importantly - that magic and awe. We have a sense of obligation to maintain that childlike exhilaration for all our Guests. Now that we are entrusted with keys to the Magic Kingodm, we can’t let them down - because during our own childhoods, the Disney Family never let us down! Now we are part of that Family. We are the chosen few. We are the torchbearers. We must raise that light proudly and high.

Many large corporations often attempt boosting the morale of employees by speaking of lofty ideals like honor and tradition. Typically, their pontificating sounds phony and forced and unemotional. After all, selling widgets is not exactly a thrilling “tradition” to maintain. Understandable that employees cynically scoff over such notions at those “other” companies. Not so with Disney. The Disney Family has tens of thousands of Cast Members who feel sincerely and genuinely blessed to inherit traditions going back almost 100 years. At Disney, “quality” and “integrity” are not empty words spouted at corporate meetings; They are indelible character traits which construct the foundation of a heartfelt work ethic. After all, Disney is not in a dry and unemotional business. We are in the business of fulfilling dreams - of inspiring wonderment and joy. That is our bottom line. We don’t sell widgets. We build imaginations.

However, even at Disney, our true purpose can be easily forgotten when faced with deadlines and financial plans and budgets and updates to computer code. Sitting around in meetings never feels like “building imaginations” at all - not even at Disney. We can get tunnel-vision and forget to see the big picture. We can forget how privileged we all are. We can forget life and our stresses really aren’t that bad. We can forget this is a beautiful time and we are incredibly lucky to be here. We can forget it’s all gonna work out and these truly are the “good old days” of our lives. We can forget these moments will be missed someday - and when we look back at it all, many decades from now, these will be fondly remembered as some of our proudest and most joyous years.

All of those things can be forgotten.

... Until you see someone walk past you in a pair of Mickey ears.

Then just for a moment, you can giggle, and remember, and regain some perspective, and say to yourself, “Oh, yeah... That’s what this is all about.”

Something Wonderful This Way Comes
7 June 2008

Quite the geek at heart, my love for all things science fiction and fantasy has existed for as long as I can remember. At the age of 14, my greatest ambition in life became the dream of being a novelist. Naturally, any good novelist reads even more than he writes, so I became an avid reader. Inspired by the mysterious warnings of Mr. Coreander inThe NeverEnding Story, I never wanted to read books that were “safe” stories. Not interested in any “classics”, I searched for the obscure tales. Constantly I found myself seeking out new fantasy novels that no one had ever heard of. I never read things that were popular; Only things that sounded truly magical. I had a subscription toAmazing Storiesand devoured every issue multiple times a month. My first foray into the world of comic books began as I ended up in the comic shop, constantly buying new comics and roleplaying gamebooks.

One of my favorite movies to come out of this exploration of storytelling was Disney’sSomething Wicked This Way Comes. I loved that film and was utterly captivated from the first time I saw it. I’ve never been a fan of horror movies at all. I don’t remotely enjoy gore or brutal evil and darkness. But shadows are a different story. Eerie tales; spooky yarns; things from The Twilight Zone; these have always held a delicious appeal. Ray Bradbury crafted one of the most wonderful of all shadowy and spooky stories when he createdSomething Wicked This Way Comes. Granted, Ray Bradbury is far from “obscure” and is instead one of the living masters of the genre. Although I may have enjoyed discovering the obscure authors, a talent like Ray Bradbury is far too magnificent to ignore.

For Halloween in 2007, the most miraculous and amazing opportunity presented itself for employees of The Walt Disney Company. They were featuring a free showing ofSomething Wicked This Way Comes at the theatre on the studio lot with the presentation hosted by Mr. Ray Bradbury himself. Yes. The godfather of fantasy; Arguably the most talented and respected and prolific living author of fantastic fiction in the world. I couldn’t believe it. This was not a “dream come true” moment. This was something that far exceeded any dream I ever had. To meet Ray Bradbury!?... To watchSomething Wicked This Way Comeswith him?!... On the lot of Walt Disney Studios!?... Unfathomable!

Once in the theatre, I was already thrilled just sitting there. This was my first time in the studio theatre. I felt completely elated, simply knowing I was in such a historic place. In my hands was a promotional playbill for the event, designed in the exact same style as the leaflets used for Mr. Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival in the movie! Wow. How cool is that?

Sitting in the first row, I was right in front of Mr. Bradbury when he arrived and gave his introductory speech. He talked about his friendship with Walt and discussed the many hurdles involved in getting the film made. He went on to tell a charming story about his youth and the events which lead him to becoming an author. He spoke about how he was inspired in his childhood by a circus performer named Mr. Electro who instructed Ray to “live forever” and later provided Ray’s inspiration for the character of Mr. Dark andSomething Wicked This Way Comes. Transfixed and awestruck I was completely enthralled by his story. I couldn’t believe it. This man was one of the greatest storytellers of our time. A magician of words and language. And there I was, no longer reading his stories or watching his movies, but being told a tale face-to-face by the man himself.

When the movie began, there was a roar of applause as “Ray Bradbury’sSomething Wicked This Way Comes” appeared in the opening credits. How many films have you ever seen which feature the name of the writer taking billing above the title? Never. Unless, of course, the author is Ray Bradbury. I found myself glancing over at Mr. Bradbury numerous times during the film - psychologically “pinching myself” that this was truly happening. I kept thinking of Mr. Electro and how astounding it was that Ray Bradbury was actually going to obey that command given to him as a child; he did it - indeed, Ray Bradbury is going to live forever.

Owning the DVD, I have seen the movie countless times. Of course, this time was better than ever. More unsettling than ever, I was paralyzed with delight to see my favorite scene - when Mr. Dark confronts Mr. Halloway in the library - with Ray Bradbury sitting just a few feet away. Awesome.

After the film, the audience was permitted an interlude where people could ask for autographs and speak with Mr. Bradbury for a moment or two. Being near the front of the theatre, I was lucky enough to be among the first half a dozen people to talk with him. I had nothing for him to sign. I didn’t desire an autograph or a lengthy conversation. I simply wanted to shake his hand and thank him for all the imagination he had shared and all the inspiration he had given to me over the years.

Everyone else was asking for autographs - including one gentleman who monopolized his time with a conversation lasting slightly longer than polite manners should have allowed. When it was my turn, I smiled and walked up to him and shook his hand. I simply said, “Hello, Mr. Bradbury. My name is Eric. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Ray Bradbury smiled back at me, yet seemed a little confused. “Oh. Well, hello. You’re - You’re welcome.”

“Take care.” I nodded affectionately and walked away.

As I turned to leave, everyone seemed to give me quite odd and perplexed looks. They appeared genuinely baffled by a person just walking up and saying, “Thank you.” But what else would be appropriate for the likes of Ray Bradbury? Gushing praise for him? Sign my program? Autograph a novel for me? Never. How rude! He doesn’t need my praise. The man is a living legend. I don’t need his autograph. Ray Bradbury has already given me far more than I could ever ask for. Requesting an autograph or wanting to have a conversation with him would have been downright impolite. He is not a man from whom I have the right to ask for anything. Instead, he deserves my thanks. He should be given my gratitude and then I should be on my way. There is nothing more to say. There is definitely nothing to request. I could never be so selfish to one who has provided me with so much. I just wanted to thank him for all he has done.

Walking out of the theatre to the parking lot, I found myself shedding a tear or two of joy. Corny but true. Looking up to the sky, “When You Wish Upon A Star” began to play in my head. In that moment, I felt the most glorious perspective wash over my life and became overwhelmed with a humbling appreciation for what a truly amazing journey I have been on. There I was. Young. Healthy. A published author.

When you wish upon a star

Makes no difference who you are

Anything your heart desires

Will come to you

And I was walking to my motorcycle. My motorcycle. I always wanted a motorcycle since I was a little kid. Now I had one. And it was parked at the lot of Walt Disney Studios in Los Angeles. My gosh. I live in Los Angeles, California! Just like I always wanted. And I made it here on my own terms with my own skills and abilities. No help from family or friends. I just picked up and moved and did it. Alone.

Once I got here, what job did I achieve? I work for Mr. Walt Disney! THE Walt Disney! And I just met his friend Ray Bradbury. I talked to him! I watchedSomething Wicked This Way Comeswith him. And now, under a warm and starry night, I’m headed to my lovely townhouse in the San Fernando Valley. This is all I ever dreamed and more. Truly it was one of those breathtaking instances in life that could barely be believed. As I passed the Mickey topiary, I laughed aloud, giddy with the joy of it all.

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme

When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do

Yet it wasn’t a dream. Everything the fairy tales said is absolutely real. All those childhood moments of seeing Tinkerbell fly over Cinderella’s Castle did not reflect vain wishes. These were not fantasies which were hopeless to attain. This was my honest-to-goodness life. This was the reality I have created and been blessed to live.

The message was right all along. The heavens did not let me down.

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

Wow. They really do.

Kindness Over Honesty
3 July 2008

There was a girl I work with leaving her job today. She was a nice chick. Exceptionally cute. We’d chat from time to time. Take lunches together on occasion. We really had nothing in common. No shared interests. Different taste in values and music and ambitions and social circles. Everything.

There were a lot of silences and pauses in those lunches.

I was thinking about the fact that she was leaving and how I’d never see her again. We’d never “keep in touch” or write to each other or build a friendship. There is no reason whatsoever to keep this girl in my life. I know without a doubt that she will be forgotten in no time. I might see her at the mall in 6 months and, in a moment of embarrassment, realize that her name has completely slipped my mind.

When the time came that I was saying my final goodbye in the office, she hugged me and said, “Well, we have each others contact information. I’ll be sure to keep in touch.”

I smiled at her for a moment, thinking about how untrue that was. No you won’t - I thought. We have nothing in common. We’ll never keep in touch. I won’t write you. You won’t write me. There will be no phonecalls. Our relationship ends right here in this instant.

Looking into her eyes, I smiled a bit more warmly and found myself replying, “Yeah... Definitely. We’ll do that.”

She looked really happy to hear me say it. For although I may be honest to a fault, I realized in that instant - sometimes kindness and telling people what they want to hear is far more decent and respectful to their heart than the truth.

Take care, kiddo. I wish you all the best. It was fun. And we ended on a beautiful lie.

Function Before Fashion
1 September 2008

This essay was originally commissioned for a gothic fashion magazine but was never published.

When I was a teenager, I once swiped an old pair of beige pleather gloves from my grandmother to use for skateboarding. I cut the fingers off and on the backhand of each glove, I wrote “FUNCTION BEFORE FASHION” with a black Sharpie. That was hardcore punkrock 80s skater style right there; Grandma’s gloves transformed into skate gear.

Fashion is an odd thing. Depending upon the situation, clothing can be a frivolous ornament (no one ever “needs” a boa or a tophat) or functional (grandmas old gloves saved my palms from lots of roadrash) or genuinely lifesaving (try doing a spacewalk without an astronaut suit).

Throughout the history of humanity, every civilization on Earth has used styles of clothing as a form of expression. From identifying enemies and allies on war-torn battlefields to looking dapper at the highschool prom, fashion is an integral part of all human cultures.

Don’t believe me?

Imagine a diehard biker at a motorcycle rally and a ballerina swapping clothes - they might each look a bit out-of-place on the theatre stage or cruising the biker bar, wouldn’t they? What if your corporate mom went to her office wearing your red fishnet shirt, black lipstick, a pair of Docs, and a latex skirt? Imagine if a highschool gothboy showed up in class wearing a varsity sweatshirt, shorts, a crewcut and a backwards baseball cap.

Obviously, time and place alter the acceptability of fashion also. Dress goth at a gothclub and you blend into the crowd. You are accepted. Dress goth at a countryclub and you will be the gossip of the week. Doubtful you’ll be made to feel very welcome.

We are all affected by the power of fashion, regardless of age, race, gender or social status. Our fashion sense reflects the social circles we associate with and we all use clothing to define who we are. From inner-city gang colors, to the robes of Buddhist monks, everyone tells the world where they stand by what they wear. Fashion can identify cultural heritage, economic status, religious beliefs, political views, musical tastes, and even sexual preferences. Fashion touches everyone, everyday.

I’m sure you are familiar with the rumor that Albert Einstein had a dozen sets of identical clothes, so he could wear clean threads daily, but never have to waste brainpower thinking about matching socks. Whether factual or exaggerated, recall most photos you’ve seen of him - ever notice he’s always wearing that same sweater? Just goes to show, even Albert Einstein was not immune to the influence of fashion and clothing. Society categorizes us by our fashions. Heck, you can’t even avoid it by going naked! If you do that, you’re just labeled a tree-huggin’ hippie.

When we place this immense influence of fashion into proper perspective, the entire topic raises some interesting philosophical and psychological questions. Why do we wear what we do? Based upon our clothing choices, what social groups are we attempting to identify with?

When first approached to write this article for a fashion magazine, it was suggested that fashion should be fun and you should wear what makes you feel good, with less concern for brands and/or trends. Perhaps that notion pinpoints the true appeal of fashion for the goth/punk/alternative scene in the first place. In our western civilization - regrettably so devoid of an appreciation for ingenuity, artistry and creativity - the most intelligent, innovative and insightful individuals often find themselves outcast and alienated from pop culture. As human beings, we have evolved over millennia to be social creatures. We all possess an innate desire to assimilate into social circles of like-minded people. But how can you become accepted in popular culture when the core of your being goes completely against the mentality of those lemmings? Why would you even want to be embraced by ignorant automatons of the popular crowd?

This is where goth fashion comes into play. As the Ministry song says, “I dress this way just to keep them at bay.”

For most progressive-minded people, dressing like “everyday is Halloween” allows us to feel at home and identify with other kindred who are imaginative and expressive; poets and painters and musicians and dancers and actors and authors and all manner of brilliant folks who don’t see the world the same as everyone else and don’t judge a book by it’s cover. Often, kids make the mistake of thinking that counterculture styles of dress make them unique individuals. It doesn’t. Wearing odd clothes does not bestow individuality; conversely, unorthodox individuals tend to wear odd clothes. The empowerment of steadfast individuality requires more than garments and hairstyles. Just ask Einstein (and remember, his hairdo was a lot wilder than Liberty spikes!) Getting tattoos and purple hair doesn’t make you an individual; after all, our friends all have tattoos and shaved heads too! We are still conformists.

Conformity tends to be a taboo concept in the goth/punk realm. Many alternative-types fear the notion of being “conformists” more deeply than Republicans fear green mohawks. But there is nothing wrong with conformity. As I mentioned earlier, the disposition to be sociable and feel unity with like-minded souls is an evolutionary requirement ingrained in all people. We can’t escape it. Conformity is a psychological, base, human need.

Just remember this subtle difference: There is no crime in conformity - the crime lies in whom and what you choose to conform WITH.

So conform with something worth conforming to.

Gothic fashion is intended to express individuality and stand out from the crowd of popular culture as a unique voice. It does that successfully. However, such individual expression and defiant non-conformity of mainstream pop culture inevitably evolves into conformity within a counterculture.

Therein lays the irony.

Such “conformity within a counterculture” running in parallel to “rebellion against pop culture” is an unavoidable progression of every counterculture movement. History proves it. Look back at every generation for the past 90 years and you will see it. Flappers. Swing Kids. Beatniks. Greasers. Hippies. Surfers. Punks. Skateboarders. Goths. Every decade. Every generation. All are counterculture movements that defied the mainstream, yet conformed to itself.

As you read over that list of swing kids to skateboarders, what did you see? In your mind, I bet you saw the fashions. The clothes. Right? One of the first associations we make when visualizing any social groups are the clothes they wear; Amazing when you start to recognize those correlations of human behavior and fashion. Once again, such perspective brings us back to the questions - why do you dress the way you do? What are you trying to express? Where are you attempting to fit in?

Fashion is one of the greatest opportunities we have as human beings to be creative and artistic. The clothing we wear can tell others who we are from a distance, and convey a message without us having to speak a word. We don’t even need to talk the same language. That opportunity for individual expression was what the punk movement was all about. When punkrock and goth began, you couldn’t go to a suburban shopping mall and buy Sex Pistols t-shirts or pink hair dye. You scoured the Salvation Army and thrift stores and created your own style. If you wanted combat boots, you went to the Army Surplus store, because there was no other place to buy them. If you wanted blue hair, it was time to break out a few packets of Berry Blue Kool-Aid, because there was no Manic Panic.

Remember that.

Don’t concern yourself with brands and labels. That isn’t what the scene is about. This is about creativity and style. That style is created at St. Vincent de Paul, not Yves Saint Laurent. Mainstream cliques may care if you are wearing designer labels, but true goths are going to have a lot more respect for a dress you made yourself from scraps of your grandmothers wedding gown, dyed with grapejuice. That’s cool. That’s unique. That’s who you are.

It doesn’t matter if you are drawn to the hardcore industrial/punker-goth look, or the dreamy/frilly romantic goth, or the doll-like kindergoth chic. Regardless of the subgenre, the goth aesthetic means being your unconventional self, and finally having a social niche that appreciates the avant-garde creativity you have to offer. Embrace that opportunity. Defy the mundane and the mainstream. Let your voice be heard.

Don’t conform. Confront.

Just A Gigolo ... No, Really ...
1 September 2008

This morning, I realized that I’m truly a gigolo. Which is really kinda cool in a way.

What instigated this revelation? Allow me to explain.

Last night, I had plans to go dancing at a club for 80’s night. A friend I had not seen in a long time was going with a group of people, and the day before, invited me to go with them. She promised to call the following day, and we’d hash out details.

I invited another girl I know (Yeah, another model. Don’t judge. I date models. I’m shallow. That’s my thing. Deal with it.) who is a new transplant to Los Angeles. She had not been feeling well, but also promised to call and let me know if she was feeling up to going out.

Both of them flaked. As usual.

I went by myself anyway. As usual.

’Cause I ain’t got nobody

nobody nobody cares for me

I’m so sad and lonely

sad and lonely sad and lonely

As usual, I took my place on the stage in the spotlight and danced for 2 hours straight. Never stopped. Didn’t get water. Didn’t sit down. Didn’t leave the stage for a second. Just danced. Just moved. All night.

Eventually, it happened.

This really hot little 21-24 year old Latino chick climbed up on the stage next to me. She gave me a glowing smile and tapped me on the shoulder and said hello and started dancing with me during “Sweet Dreams” by The Eurthymics. Sexy as hell, she was about 5’4” and 110lbs. with long curly brown hair, pulled back in a bun. The best part was the way she was dressed - a generous B cup chest covered in a tight red babydoll shirt and a firm ass in bluejeans - very sexy, yet not slutty.

Nice.

We danced for the rest of the song and I knew the drill. This happens to me nearly every week I go. She wasn’t hitting on me. She was making her asshole-boyfriend jealous.

Won’t some sweet mama

come and take a chance with me

cause I ain’t so bad

Without bragging too much, I have been clubbing a LONG time and at the most, there are never more than 2 other guys in a club who can dance better than me. Play crappy music and I’m not setting one foot on a dancefloor. Play what I love and I’m not setting foot off of it. I’m not the hottest fella in the world, but get my athletic-ass in vinyl pants under shadowy danceclub light and I can pass for pretty fuckin’ hot.

I didn’t see the jealous boyfriend, but I could see my dance partner looking over my shoulder and shooting him snarky “fuck you” glances and then looking back at my face with passionate “fuck me” eyes. So, I played along. As usual.

We never touched. We just came really close, stared in each others eyes, laughed and smiled a lot, and got as erotic as possible without contact. (Which can be really damn erotic for a boy and girl who know what they are doing... Let’s just say these girls always know exactly what they are doing.)

Eventually, it played out as it always does - the boyfriend taps her leg and motions for her to come down. As always, the girl complies without giving me a second-glance. Mission accomplished. She proved she can pick up the hot guy on stage and go home with him if the boyfriend doesn’t straighten the fuck out. Once she gets back on the dancefloor with her boyfriend-who-can’t-dance-for-shit she sneaks one appreciative smile back up to me when he’s not looking. I smile back. Our perfect-relationship meets it’s bittersweet end.

I’m just a gigolo everywhere I go

People know the part I’m playing

Pay for every dance

Selling each romance

Ooh, what are they sayin’

I can’t tell you how often that exact same scenario has played out for me in the club. Literally about half-a-dozen times if not more.

Honestly, it made my whole night. Kind of goes back to recent essays I’ve written about learning who I really am. In the past, I would have been so happy to meet a girl like that. I would have naively thought she actually liked me. I would have foolishly presumed she was making a pass at me. When she walked off with another guy, I’d end up feeling like an idiot and it would have ruined my whole night.

Worse - I probably would have thought I made a mistake of some sort. I would have spent the whole night laying in bed, thinking, “I’m such an idiot. What did I do wrong? She liked me. Otherwise, why was she flirting and dancing with me? Why did she ignore me and run off with that other guy?”

I wouldn’t have gotten it.

Now I know exactly where I stand. I’m just a gigolo.

And you know something?

That ain’t a bad way to spend an evening.

There would come a day

When youth will pass away

What will they say about me

When the end comes I know

They’ll say just the gigolos

Life goes on without me

Sexy, Mean & Stupid... But Doing It With Style
13 September 2008

According to the latest survey of America’s Favorite Cities from Travel & Leisure Magazine, out of 25 cities cross the country, Los Angeles ranks at the absolute bottom for “Safety” and “Traffic” and “Friendliness” and “Intelligence” among the population. We are the penultimate city for “Affordability” and “Cleanliness” too.

But we rank within the Top 3 to Top 6 for “Attractiveness” and “Boutiques” and “Style”.

Basically, the stereotypes all hold true: We live gridlocked in a dirty, expensive, dangerous city full of stupid and mean people... but, damn, we look fucking good doing it.

When You Come Close To Selling Out, Reconsider
30 October 2008

“I hope you still feel small

When you stand beside the ocean

Whenever one door closes

I hope one more opens

Promise me you’ll give faith a fighting chance”

- I Hope You Dance

Lee Ann Womack

Less than a year before I began working at Disney, I had a job offer as a programmer at one of the largest and most successful adult video companies in the world.

I wasn’t so sure I wanted to work for an adult video company. The one hesitation repeating through my head was, “I want the chance to work at a place like Disney someday. Do I really want to do this?”

There is an important little sidenote I should add here. Two tiny problems with my loyalty to aspirations of being a Disney Cast Member:

I was not doing well financially and was quite desperate to work as soon as possible. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know. Rent was due.

I had absolutely no connections, no applications, no “foot in the door” to a place like Disney, in any way whatsoever.

Yeah. In other words, I was “holding out” for a company where I had absolutely no hope of ever working in the first place!

I know what you’re thinking. “Well, why did you apply at an adult video company in the first place? Pervert!”

As I have explained, and to use the classic cliche, “I was young. I needed the money.” I was in dire straits. I’m talking - I would have literally spent my last dime and been homeless in about 30 days, with no money in the bank. Given that potential future, programming nudie websites didn’t seem all that immoral.

My decision to accept or reject the adult video position created a huge moral dilemma and conflict within me. Do I take the opportunity and have financial security? As the song says at the start of this essay - Do I sell out? Or do I reconsider? Time was ticking. I was getting down to the wire with finances. I may not have a choice.

Honestly, I had no desire to be part of the adult movie industry. I truly feared I’d be pigeonholing and blacklisting myself. Just like an adult film star can never break into mainstream movies, I feared becoming involved in the “behind the scenes” of their industry, I’d never be able to leave. It would likely be a blemish on my resume that traditional media companies would hold against me. I worked to build a career for years so I could one day be in places like Disney or Warner Brothers or Universal Studios. Not places like Vivid Entertainment or Digital Playground or Hustler Magazine. I had come too far to diverge onto that path.

While in the process of weighing my decision, I was given another job offer. This one from American Idol. It was the first time in my life I ever had two job offers at once.

Ironic.

The metaphorical angel and devil were now literally on my shoulders. Bad and dirty industry on one side. Wholesome iconic brand on the other side. They were almost the same distance in terms of a commute. Almost identical salaries. Both at the top of their industry.

Beggars can’t be choosers. But suddenly, I was no longer a beggar. I had a choice.

My decision may surprise you...

I picked the adult video company.

Hey, I figured they’d have better Christmas parties! Plus, maybe Brooke Banner would attend them!... And maybe she’d think I was cute! Woohoo!

I stayed at that job for about... oh... 30 minutes.

On my first day, I was at my desk, filling out the standard tax paperwork, listening to my obnoxious male coworkers making crude comments and being complete idiots regarding the latest bombshell starlet exposing her girly bits on one of the company sites. My boss was an amazingly attractive brunette in her early 30s, and she was just as crass as the guys! The office was dark and dreary and windowless. No overhead lights. Only desklamps. Felt like I was trapped in a freakin’ cave with a highschool football team and an unscrupulous ex-cheerleader.

No. Worse than that. These were computer geeks. It was more like being trapped with the ribald marching band.

The angel on my shoulder wouldn’t shut up:

“Seriously? What are you doing here? This is not where you belong, kiddo. What are you thinking? You’re not prude, but you have a little innocence and purity left. You want to stay in this kind of industry forever? To be surrounded by these people constantly? Is this the kind of environment you want to work in every day? You want these zeros as your peers? Seriously, Eric, is this really where you belong? Be honest - you love sweet and upstanding young ladies anyway - even if Brooke Banner met you and thought you were totally hot... would Brooke Banner really be your type?”

Wow.

No. I was not on the right path at all. Every instinct and intuition said - GET OUT! After a few more moments of inner-struggle and awkward discomfort, I turned in my blank paperwork and told my uber-gorgeous boss I couldn’t do this. Naturally, she was rather upset. “Why did you even come in if you weren’t going to take the job?!”

Whatever. Sorry. Thoughts of Miss Banner filled me with a moment of weakness! What can I say?

I hadn’t turned down American Idol yet. Maybe deep down, I already knew I would end up there. I went home, called American Idol, and told them I was accepting their offer. They never even knew of my temptation to be involved in naughty pixel pimping.

“When you come close to selling out

Reconsider

Give the heavens above

More than just a passing glance”

I had indeed come close to selling out. I reconsidered.

Trusting that faith was the best decision I could have made. In a few short months, I would be registered with Aquent placement agency and land an interview at The Walt Disney Company. I was hired that same afternoon.

The moral of our story, boys and girls, is the same one you’ve heard 1000 times in your life - mostly in Disney films - Always follow your heart. Trust your instincts. Stay true to the essence and the core of who you are. Hold steadfast to your dreams, even when it seems they can never come true.

Working at Disney was something I truly never expected. Yes, I dreamed about it. But it never seemed realistic. I was a kid from a working-class family in Cleveland. My entire neighborhood and all my friends lived in blue-collar upbringings. People like me only land jobs at Disney in - well, in Hollywood movies! - we don’t get to do that for real. In fact, I had a friend who kept on telling me to apply at Disney and I never did. I thought she was crazy for suggesting it. “No. They’re too advanced. Too far above me. I could never get in at a place like that. I’m not good enough.”

All my life, people have told me that I sell myself short and underestimate myself. I guess that proved true yet again.

Turns out that “expecting the unexpected” is yet another cliche to remember.

But, expecting the unexpected is another story, for another time...

Emo Gangstas?
10 November 2008

Saw the absolute oddest fashion on some teenage boys today.

I saw 3 white kids with emo haircuts and really tacky tattoo sleeves. They had their typical facial piercings like liprings and whatever. They were sporting hoodies with goofy tribal patterns and whatnot. (With the sleeves rolled up so you could see their horribly uncreative tattoos of course.) Nothing unusual there. They were total cookie-cutter stereotypes.

Okay. All standard-fair emo teen boy crap.

But then I was thrown for a loop - they were each wearing their pants down below their ass cheeks like gangsta hiphop kids.

What? What the hell is up with crossing emo with gangsta? I don’t get that one.

It was the dorkiest and tackiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m talking belt BELOW the asscheeks and you can totally see their underwear. They sat on a bench and they were sitting on their boxers - the pants weren’t even touching the bench!

Now, I know that every generation looks “weird” to the generations which came before. Nevertheless, looking back over the decades, I can think of NO generation of kids who EVER thought it would look cool to walk around in public, only halfway finished dressing.*

These boys just looked like the bastard lovechildren of Kurt Cobain, Robert Smith and Tupac. Like some horrible genetic engineering experiment gone wrong. I understand the emo thing. I understand the hiphop thing. I just don’t understand anyone doing both AT THE SAME TIME! That is what threw me for a loop.

Sheesh. Kids these days.

I was told that a post of this nature could put me on the “emo gangsta hitlist” but I’m pretty sure I can survive one of their girlfriends beating me with her Muppets backpack.

* Madonna, Apollonia, and Vanity are the only noted exceptions who looked good walking around in their underwear. Cher tried it last and looked ridiculous. This is NOT a fashion statement which is acceptable for just anybody.

Green Living is for Assclowns
8 January 2009

Which is more noble - the motive or the end result?

An interesting moral question.

This is something I started to ponder after reading the blog of an environmental advocate. I don’t much like those people. Folks who toss around words like “green” and “reducing the carbon footprint” and “sustainability” are really annoying little windbags. How about I reduce my footprint by jamming my boot up your behind, you stinky hippy?

The reason I am bothered by these environmental zealots is twofold.

First - Like all zealots who are convinced of their “truth”, they are fueled by the need to ram their beliefs down everyone’s throat and, worst of all, they consider themselves morally and intellectually superior to those who do not follow their dogma. Few things are more irritating than people who are convinced they are “better than you” simply because you don’t live their way.

Second - More importantly (the true motive for my little rant), I am more “environmentally conscious” than most of them, yet I never feel the need to talk about it, and therefore their preaching only annoys me all the more.

Okay, granted, I guess by making that second statement, I am already rendering it invalid, because I’m talking about it. Fair enough. But I have to talk about it! That’s the whole point of this essay! Sorry, kids. You came along for the ride, this is where I’m taking you. Play along.

So here is the deal...

I don’t own a car - only a motorcycle. It gets better gas mileage than a hybrid automobile - about 60MPG. But I didn’t get my motorcycle to “protect the environment” - I got a motorcycle because it is fun and I never get stuck in traffic.

I changed every single lightbulb in my apartment to energy-efficient CFL bulbs. It was fairly costly - they are a lot more expensive than tungsten lights. But I didn’t buy them for “energy savings” - I bought them because they are daylight-balanced and I find the light to be more pleasing and relaxing.

I rarely ride my motorcycle and do many of my errands by bicycle or skateboard. But I don’t do this to “reduce fossil fuel consumption” - I do it because it is fun and I love to skate and bike.

I mostly buy organic food and I never eat anything processed. But not because I care about the “environmental impact of pesticides” - because I think processed foods taste like babyshit. I recycle plastic water bottles because I find it convenient to do so. Again, I don’t care about “saving the environment” at all. That isn’t my motive. Every single one of my “environmentally conscious” actions is done out of pure fun, pleasure, comfort, health, or convenience - sometimes a combination of all of them! These are all selfish motives - not remotely influenced by “environmental concerns” at all.

Out of curiosity, I went online and took one of those “carbon footprint” tests. According to my test results, mine is about 2.38 metric tons per year. The average American is 20.40 metric tons. So, in other words, on average, without even trying to “make a difference” in the world, my choice of lifestyle produces about 90% less environmental harm than those around me. I also happen to fall into the percentage of what is deemed “desireable” and “acceptable” among the global community - I’m well within the range that the zealots are attempting to attain.

Yet none of this is because I care about minimizing my environmental impact.

This leads me back to my first sentence.

Which is more noble - the motive or the end result?

Does a person preaching about “green living”, who drives a hybrid car, and produces 10 metric tons of carbon waste each year (half the average person, but still 5 times more than me), have a foothold on “higher moral ground” than I do? Are they better than me, shopping at organic food stores and buying hemp clothing (which I don’t do), even though their overall environmental damage is greater than my own? I don’t care about “sustainability” or “green living” and I have no desire to force those trendy dogmas down other peoples throats. So who is the bigger “activist” in that scenario? A person like myself, who chooses his lifestyle for fun and enjoyment and has an exceptionally minimal environmental impact? Or a person who is motivated by their “ideals” yet bestows far greater abuse upon the natural world?

Which is more noble - the motive or the end result?

Personally, I don’t really give a damn which one is more noble. Again, I live the way I live out of fun and convenience, not to be noble, not to feel morally superior because I saved an extra tree from getting mowed down. Despite not caring about the answer, I do find the question to be interesting. The environmental activists seem to care a great deal about the nobility of their lifestyle and “fighting for the cause” (which amounts to nothing but stroking their own egos). Pretentious little snobs. If only they would choke on their patchouli and shut up.

These holier-than-thou neo-hippie twatwaffles wanna make a difference in the world? Here’s an age-old adage for them to take to heart: “Less talk. More action.”

2.38 metric tons per year, bitches. Put that in your bong and smoke it. Follow MY lead... And take a bath. Yes, use the bubblebath. I don’t give a crap that it will “pollute the watershed.” At least you won’t reek of your damn roachclip anymore.

Yes, in fact, I AM better than you because I don’t smell like a roachclip. If you don’t like the shoe on the other foot, my offer for the boot up the rectum is still open.

A Friend To All Is A Friend To None
20 July 2009

“A friend to all is a friend to none.”

- Aristotle

Another interpersonal revelation popped into my beady little noggin just recently.

Friendships have always been exceptionally important in my life. Perhaps moreso than average, because my family is very small and I never experienced a close bond to anyone within that circle of people. Therefore, perhaps to a slightly larger degree than most, friendships always served to fill my psychological need for human connection.

Through a strange serendipity, I have reconnected with a good 3 or 4 old friends within under a week. Some of these friends I haven’t spoken to in months or years or even decades. The experience started me thinking about friendships during various period of my life and how I’ve been lacking true “friendship” for a long time.

“I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?”

- Stand By Me

The lack of friendships in my life is purely my own fault, but I never recognized the error of my ways until now. Like all lessons in life, now that I recognize it, the problem is glaringly evident and I wonder why it took me so long to see something so obvious. Forest through the trees and all that - took me years to figure it out.

“If a man does not make new acquaintance as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A man, Sir, should keep his friendship in constant repair.”

- Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784) British Lexiographer

Being reacquainted with old friends caused me to look back on different periods of my life. Reflecting upon times when I had some fantastic friendships, two things became clear:

First - I was very attentive to my gradeschool-through-college friendships. I’d call my friends all the time. They would call me. We’d make time for each other. We’d do things together. We would actually nurture and strengthen our friendship through hanging out.

Second - Although I had a decent amount of friends, I barely had any acquaintances at all.

These days, that has become reversed.

Today I have countless acquaintances and barely any real friends.

Why? What changed?

Part of it was my novel. When I began writing it, I became so focused on it and so attentive to it, that many friendships were neglected. That was the beginning.

But there had to be more to it.

Writing the novel was finished ages ago. What else was different in life now? What hinders friendships today?

Aye, there is the crux. How did things get reversed in my life? What spawned this transformation? Have I become so different? Was I a decent fellow who became a huge jerk? Was I picking cruddy people to attempt forging friendships with? Surely someone in this equation had to be a scumbag? Was it me? Was it them? Who is at fault?

I realized it is neither.

As the song says, “No one ever is to blame.” This isn’t a question of “faults” or assigning blame. This is an issue of misguided decisions.

The recent turn of events made it all clear. When I moved to Los Angeles, I viewed it as a “new start” in my life. I literally knew only 2 or 3 people in town. So, I spent vast amounts of time with them and we had close friendships. Naturally, being new to the city, I wanted to meet a lot more people. So, I did just that. I met tons of folks and I tried to develop a lot of new friendships.

That has been my problem all along.

My time was constantly spent trying to “make new friends” instead of “nurturing existing friendships” with people. The difference is subtle yet vital. Instead of maintaining a small handful of 3 or 4 great people and really focusing on cultivating quality friendships with them, I had two dozen people I revolved trying to hang out with. When you try to establish so many friendships, you can’t possibly give any of them the attention they deserve. With so many “friends” in your phonebook, you end up calling people once a month to touch base. Then they are busy and can’t talk or hang out. So you don’t talk for another month, because you have all these other people to contact. Next thing you know, half a year has gone by, and you’ve never seen them at all. They remain “acquaintances” and true “friendships” never blossom.

You need to be a sniper to make friends - you can’t be using a shotgun.

... Okay, maybe killing people with guns is a really bad analogy to use for establishing friendships. But you get the idea. I’m saying friendships are made by being focused and precise and attentive to an individual - not by taking a random spread over a huge crowd of people. True friendship is a simple case of “quality, not quantity.” I was taking the opposite approach and treating it like a numbers game - throw a tons of acquaintances on the wall and see who sticks.

Bad approach.

Our personalities are not ours alone - but a dynamic created by the company we keep. I need friends who can help bring out the best in me, and allow me to do the same for them. Goodness knows, I don’t always make that right decision. Since I don’t give my acquaintances the attention they deserve to become true friends, why should I expect them to treat me any different?

As I said, these things are obvious.

What was not obvious to me was the fact that I was making these mistakes.

Friendship is a living, breathing lifeforce. Like all living things, friendships need loving attention - not for a brief time, but for the duration of their life. You have to water them, and feed them, and give them some sunlight, and give them time to sleep.

Naturally, there are other factors in the equation as well. To a certain degree, I am basing my conclusions on an over-simplification. Things like marriage and career and children play an enormous role in the alteration of friendships too. I have numerous friends whom I was very close to, only a short time ago, but newborn babies and romance and career changes have shifted those relationships into people who are more like acquaintances today.

There is nothing wrong with that. As I said, friendships are a living thing; Like a mighty oak with branches that grow and die and are reborn and start anew. There is nothing wrong with friendships strengthening and weakening and strengthening again over time. This is how our interpersonal relationships are supposed to work. That’s a healthy thing.

Although...

There is also an extraordinarily high possibility that all I have written is completely wrong, and making an effort to focus on nurturing a small handful of very specific friendships, will totally backfire. Instead of being perceived as “friendly” and “attentive” to folks, I will simply come across as “pushy” and “needy” and end up alienating people from me even more instead of endearing them to me.

“Always, Sir, set a high value on spontaneous kindness. He whose inclination prompts him to cultivate your friendship of his own accord, will love you more than one whom you have been at pains to attach to you.”

- Samuel Johnston (1709 - 1784) British Lexiographer

Either way, my instincts tell me this is the path I should follow right now.

Right or wrong, we shall see where this road leads in the adventure of life...

Once you get to know me, I frankly consider myself one of the most unusual, fun, and interesting people that anyone could ever hope to meet. Pretentious as it may sound, my self-worth is lofty enough that I have a difficult time fathoming the notion that anyone wouldn’t want to be great friends with me. As a result of this conceit (I like to call it “confidence”), I’m never very good at getting the “LEAVE ME ALONE” hints. I simply presume that anyone would feel elated, nay, even honored, to become the focus of my attention in friendship. Alas, in practice, this is not always the case.

That may sound very conceited, to regard the value of oneself so highly, but I think more folks should have that level of faith in themselves.

Seriously? What is WRONG with you people?
24 August 2009

On a forum I visit from time to time, someone posted a thread asking if you’d rather spend life in prison or be executed.

Seriously!?

What the FUCK is wrong with people?

This is a topic of conversation?

Cripe.

Of course, people began to give their stupid replies and contemplate the options and give it some thought.

Good Lord.

My reply?

“I’d rather win a $500 million lottery and wake up every morning on my yacht in the Caribbean with 3 or 4 Victoria’s Secret models. I mean, if I’m gonna fantasize about possible futures in life, I’m gonna make it a much happier fantasy.”

Christ. This kind of crap reminds me why I’m a hermit.

Welcome to InkShard
26 January 2013

Greetings and salutations, dear readers. This is Eric Muss-Barnes and I want to welcome you to the inaugural article of my first official blog, an endeavor I have entitled “InkShard”. The purpose of InkShard is mainly for me to talk about my writing. Books. Upcoming books. Motives behind things I’ve written. Book shows. Book signings. Giveaways. That kind of thing. InkShard exists as a venue/forum/platform, for writing about writing.

While the purpose of InkShard may be to write about writing, the purpose of this post is to let folks know, this is where the blog begins. Too often, people start blogs and just jump into writing without an introduction. That seems rather rude. Consequently, the reader is left wondering, “Where is their first article? Is it this one? What is the oldest date? But what if their archives are incorrect? Are there anymore before this?”

I would rather save you the trouble of such confusion. So, I will do you the courtesy of letting you know - this article is the first.

Truthfully, I’ve been needing to create this blog for a long time.

I first dreamed of being a novelist in the summer of 1984, and I’ve been writing ever since. That’s right, kids; I’ve been at this for nearly 30 years. So, although you have never heard of me, and InkShard is just beginning, it’s not like this type of endeavor is new. More than a decade ago, I was constantly posting blogs on MySpace as well. People often seemed to enjoy what I wrote, and I appreciated that. But for me, the more people enjoyed my blogs, the more it reminded me, that was not the type of writing I wanted to be doing. Yes, it was gratifying to know people related to it, but such blogs weren’t the sort of thing I truly yearned to compose. Novels - that is where I belong.

Allow me to rephrase: Novels - that is where I wanted to be. Perhaps I don’t “belong” there at all. Fate, destiny, and time will tell.

Having successfully penned and published my first duology, I now feel worthy of the “novelist” label. As a novelist, I find writing a blog an odd exercise. We are all conditioned within our culture to be writers in many different forms. Everyone writes papers for school. Some of us may keep a journal or a diary. Those who are lucky in love, get to write loveletters.

The mentality behind all those types of writing is obviously very different. The tone and attitude with which we approach such authoring varies greatly. For some of us, we go a bit further, and compose books of fiction and non-fiction. Perhaps we become journalists and write for magazines or newspapers. These styles of writing also require a unique mentality. A different outlook. Alternate rules apply. For example, you make up everything in a fictional science fiction novel, but you’re not allowed to make anything up when you’re a journalist. Both novelists and journalists are “writers”, but they have different precepts.

But what of blogging? What kind of writing is that? What style does a blog demand? Less personal than diaries and loveletters, but more personal than books or journalism? I’m not sure what constitutes the proper tone of blogging.

My point is, although I have a great deal of experience with blogging, I want to do it differently this time. This shant be a free-for-all to share my every thought. I have a clearer vision in InkShard.

As to the name? Simple. I thought it sounded cool. Was considering “Inkshard” as the name of a fiction anthology I wanted to publish. Dreamily contemplated that project for about 15 minutes one morning, laying in bed, before I realized I’d likely never release such a book. I’m not interested in wading through submissions and editing the work of others. Nevertheless, I still loved the sound of “Inkshard” and the image evoked by the name. Kind of conjures visions of a quill made of obsidian. Once I looked up “Inkshard” on the Internet, and found no one else was using it anywhere, for anything, I decided it was a great name! Evocative. Memorable. Simplistic. Although, the logo was originally supposed to be “INKSHARD” but, I frightfully realized people might read it as “Inks Hard” so, I changed the lettering and increased the size of the “I” and the “S” in order to make “Ink Shard” more obvious. Thus, Inkshard became InkShard.

There you have it. Now you know the motive of this weblog and to what ends I aspire to use it. Thank you for reading my very first article, on my first official blog. I’ve been telling my story for a long time now, and I humbly hope you find this new format entertaining.

Thus begins a new chapter. Welcome to InkShard...

TRON Fights for The Users!
26 February 2013

Becoming a novelist is what turned me into a web developer.

Keeping that in mind, it seems ironic I took so long to create my first weblog... yet, somehow inevitable it came to exist.

The story goes like this...

Back in 1997, I published my very first novel, The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries and during that time, this whole “Internet thing” was starting to really go places. I had been using the Internet for about a year by that time, and I vividly recall laying in bed one morning, and on a whim, thinking, “Hey, maybe I should learn how to program websites. I bet making a website to help promote my novel would be a really good idea!”

As I laid there, I started to visualize the layout of pages, seeing some ideas of how I might construct it. Keeping in mind, at this point, I still had no idea how to make any of it happen, but the thoughts began to whirl.

I had already been doing my very first programming on computers in gradeschool, making text adventures and silly little Pig Latin conversion programs. Programming wasn’t new to me. I had some limited knowledge already. Plus, I was already using the Internet to promote my novel. Mainly, I was perusing newsgroups, and logging into goth-themed webrings, and sending emails to people. So, I wasn’t totally clueless. I was 90% clueless, but I did have a slight inkling of what was going on within the world of the wide web.

So, I woke up and went to my America Online account and discovered they gave you 2MB of free server space to make a website! They even had a free WYSIWYG application called AOL Press which you could download and use to build a website. The process was very difficult. If I recall correctly, it took me about a week to get my first site up and running. Needless to say, documentation on website construction was pretty sparse back in the summer of 1997. Took a lot of trial-and-error to figure things out. But, eventually, it was up and running!

In retrospect, the design of that first website was hideous. Very clunky and awkward. But, it was something. It was a start.

Over the course of the next 16 years, I became a damn good designer and programmer. So good, in fact, I was making my living designing websites, a mere 2 years later. Ten years after that, I would be writing code for websites at Walt Disney Studios. Being entirely self-taught and going from a sleepy early-morning-whim in my bedroom to being an elite member of the largest entertainment company in the world is quite an accomplishment, if I do say so myself. My work had truly come to speak for itself. I know a heck of a lot about design and programming these days. I have spent many years programming sites from scratch and making some very sophisticated backend and frontend sites replete with complex databases, and eCommerce sites, and more.

Which leads me to the building of this blog and why I “turned to the Dark Side” and made it with WordPress.

Why on earth would I use something like WordPress?

Let me be clear right off the bat, I hate templatized websites. Anything built upon WordPress or Drupal or Blogger, or any of those other trendy prepackaged systems, drives me batty. Hate with a passion. For those of you non-computer-geeks, allow me to briefly explain what WordPress is all about.

As a professional, world-class Internet developer (that may sound like I’m bragging, but, face it, after you work for someplace as prestigious as Walt Disney, you’re allowed to wear such a mantle and boast a little) I write all of my website code by hand. Meaning, I sit at a keyboard and I type the code. Naturally, this takes a lot of time, but when you are knowledgeable and experienced, it also allows you to write very clean and efficient code. Why is that important? Because cluttered code bogs down websites and makes them load slowly or break entirely, or do all sorts of unpleasant things which ends up annoying the people who are attempting to visit the page. Have you ever visited a website which loads incredibly fast and then visited one which looks similar, but it takes forever to load? Well, some of that may simply be due to Internet traffic, but it often has to do with the difference between clean and efficient code versus sloppy and cluttered code. To the non-technically savvy, I often equate website architecture with physical building architecture. You can construct a well-designed building, or you can fabricate something that looks like it’s falling out of a Tim Burton movie. Clean code versus sloppy code.

Naturally, my style of web development is sophisticated, time consuming and highly specialized. The average person couldn’t sit down and build a website the way I do. Like I said, it took ages to build my first website, and that was when I was creating things far more rudimentary than I construct today. What I do now is a very elite skill.

Over the years, some developers decided, they’d try to make it easier for non-technical folks to build websites. So, they started marketing “templatized” websites. As the name implies, templates are predesigned websites which users can simply plug their content into. So, if Grandma Josephine wants to share her cookie recipes with the world, she no longer needs to hire someone to program a website or figure it out herself. Now, she can buy a premade site with a template, and just type her recipes in, and they show up nice and fancy on her very own GrandmaJosephineCookies.com.

WordPress is exactly that - a templatized blog. So, instead of building a blog from scratch, you download WordPress and install it, and it does everything for you. Builds the database. Lays out the pages. Presets the links. All you need to do is start blogging.

In addition to templates, other developers realized they didn’t want to rewrite sophisticated code. So, what did they do? They began building things called “libraries” which are basically giant bundles of code which have all kinds of functionality built into them, but you only use a little bit of it for any given website. The analogy is that you’re carrying 15 schoolbooks around in your bookbag instead of just carrying the one you need for your next class. You’re literally carrying around a library. Computer code is the same. Libraries add a foolish amount of unnecessary overhead and weight to a website.

Templates and libraries both sound fine and good in theory - making things easier to do. In practice, they’re awful.

Why?

Because they do three very bad things:

1. They put skilled programmers and developers out of jobs. (Yes, the idiots who create these things are just programming themselves out of work.)

2. They make websites take longer to load and use excessive bandwidth, thereby making poor experiences for the visitors.

3. They severely limit the creativity and originality of web development, thereby stagnating what should be a dynamic and constantly evolving technology.

The original intent of templatized sites was to help individuals among the technologically illiterate to build sites. Great. Wonderful. I’m happy for Grandma Josephine and her macaroons. Her technological barrier-to-entry has been lifted and she’s empowered to participate in a heretofore inaccessible facet of 21st century culture. Fabulous. Unfortunately, the popularity of templates has grown to the point that major corporations are building their websites on them. Huge companies no longer build anything original. They use foundations of Drupal or WordPress or Tumblr. Consequently, everything is starting to look the same. Similar technology. Similar templates. Everything is becoming uniform. Bland. Stagnant. Nothing is special anymore. Nothing stands out. Nothing is innovative. Creativity is lost. I don’t care how many Fortune 100 companies build their sites with WordPress, it’s still insipid and lame to have a blank canvas of limitless creativity at your fingertips... and you choose a paint-by-numbers kit instead.

I’ve been building content-management-system websites from scratch since 1998. Login. Usernames. Passwords. Updating data. Cross-referencing data. Outputting data. The whole nine-yards. There is nothing remotely new or innovative or cutting-edge about ANY site built on Drupal or WordPress; and they don’t possess isn’t a single piece of functionality that I haven’t already made, or knew how to make, more than a decade ago. I’ve known how to do this crap for 15 years! The difference is, today, the mindless drones are finally starting to understand what the hell people like me have been talking about for nearly 2 decades.

“Wow! Look what this can do!”

Yeah, so shit, Sherlock. So what? I fucking told you I could build that same thing back in 2001. You just had no fucking clue what I was talking about. Idiot.

Frankly, I’m offended when anyone expects me to know WordPress, as if such knowledge were a good thing. No, it’s not. No serious developer should ever be using WordPress. Serious developers should be creating their own systems, not using premade templates. Real architects do not restrict themselves to making prefabricated homes, they design houses from scratch. Websites are the same way. Being expected to have knowledge of templates is the equivalent of me learning to paint magnificent frescoes freehand, and now some ignorant bugfuck* comes along with a paint-by-numbers kit, and tries to tell me it’s better. No, it’s not better! It’s far worse! I detest the idea of people running around with cookie-cutter “templates” and building websites thinking they are creating something special, just because they altered a fucking hexidecimal color. It’s like I’m a highly trained French chef and you’re telling me how great your microwaved HotPockets are. Don’t you dare compare yourself to what I do, you insolent little catamite. Those revolting HotPockets you’re eating are not remotely the same as what I create.

The most frustrating aspect of these trends is when I speak to potential clients who expect their programmers to be “fluent” in WordPress and I say, “Well, I don’t really use it at all, but I know my way around PHP pretty well, so I can do anything in WordPress just fine.” None of these idiots ever believe me! Just because they can’t make a HotPocket from scratch, they can’t imagine anyone else could do it - not even a French chef. Not only are they trying to tell me paint-by-numbers is better, but they think I can’t do paint-by-numbers, because I lack experience in it! You honestly think a Renaissance master painter can’t do a paint-by-numbers kit?! Are you fucking retarded?!

Another reason I hate WordPress? Well, because it’s an extraordinarily popular platform (used by 22% of all new websites), WordPress sites are exceptionally vulnerable to security attacks, because every computer nerd knows how to bombard them with script kiddie crap. In fact, as I built the first version of InkShard, my hosting company had been the victim of some WordPress attacks for over a week. Obviously, not an encouraging way to finally “jump on the bandwagon” a decade after WordPress was created.

After all my ranting about how crappy WordPress happens to be, why did I use it? Out of spite. Plain and simple.

Knowing I didn’t need to have any experience with WordPress to be adept at working with it, I decided to prove it. Next time some fuckwit moron doubts my WordPress literacy - even though I have been using PHP for years and PHP is the language WordPress is built upon - I could point them to InkShard. Therefore, after all these years of resisting, I finally decided to download WordPress, install it, start with their most basic default theme, and customize the hell out of it. I built it myself. All the CSS and PHP tweaks. All the graphic design. Everything. No themes downloaded. All my own work, built from the default codebase.

This is what a world-class developer can do in 2 days, when they’ve never seen a single line of WordPress code before. Suck it.

Not only did I install and customize this entire site from scratch in a mere 2 days, I also added a lot of under-the-hood functionality which most WordPress blogs lack - such as dynamic metadata which pulls from random PHP strings, and CSS3 @font-face text (which, incidentally, often breaks in Chrome, but the way I implemented the code, it works across ALL modern browsers, including Chrome/Chromium, without resorting to a hack), and of course I maintained the responsive design facet of image resizing on the fly. All of this was programmed and modified using nothing more than a plain text editor and FTP - no fucking “frameworks” shit - and, of course, I now have a 100% personalized and original-looking blog which is clean, streamlined and sexier than 90% of the blogs being made by “expert developers” in WordPress.

How those HotPockets taste now, bitches?

As to the design I created, the whole point behind the layout of InkShard was to make it as simplistic as possible, while still remaining aesthetically pleasing. Too often, “simple” translates into “boring” and “fun-to-look-at” translates into “way-too-damn-complicated”. With InkShard, I wanted to make a website that was functional to readers/guests/users, yet still looks good doing it. I wanted to create the most minimalist design anyone has fabricated in a blog. Here is my article. Bam. Period. Done. If you want to read past archives, here’s a righthand navigation to reach them. Easy. My goal was simplicity. One reason I have detested blogs since they first appeared on the Internet was because of their complexity and clutter. The average blog is terrifying in terms of “sensory overload”. People put up a million links, and banners, and advertisements, and tag clouds, and reblog/repost/retweet icons, and category markers, and on and on and on. Next thing you know, there are 500 little buttons and logos and links spilled across the page, all serving to do nothing but distract the reader from the actual writing of the blog itself! Enough! I was determined to make a blog which has none of that crap. This is about the writing. Nothing else.

My emphasis on simplicity is for you - my readers. The users. You are the most important piece of the puzzle.

See, users don’t care if websites are built on PHP or HTML or WordPress or Drupal or Blogger. Frameworks and libraries don’t mean shit to users. Users only want a site that is easy to use. The technology behind the site should be ubiquitous.

Too often, web designers are selfish, and so are the companies who hire them.

All anyone in computer technology jobs ever think about is what they can do for themselves.

Every CEO of every company: “We want to have this on our website because we think it’s important.”

Every web developer of every company: “Look at this cool thing I can do with jQuery!”

None of these fools ever talk about the most important element of all, the only element which matters: You. The users. The guests. The visitors. Web design should never be about what cool stuff developers can do, or what the egotistical CEO wants his website to be about. Good design is about taking the needs of the user into account. Nothing more. Users matter most. No one likes pages cluttered with ten zillion bits of crap. I made my site simple, because I knew fans of my writing would appreciate the purity. I made the font nice and big and easy to read, because I knew people were tired of squinting at microscopic blocks of text. I used responsive design approaches, so users would have an easy time navigating my site on any device, from desktops to laptops to tablets to smartphones. I made the InkShard logo distinctive, so visitors would be immediately aware of what they were looking at. Every element of the design is about what readers will benefit from. Not about me. All about you.

For all those recruiters and potential employers who doubted my ability to be savvy at WordPress, even though I never used it before, all I can do is quote the immortal words of River Phoenix in the film Stand By Me when he said, “Why don’t you go home and fuck your mother some more?”

... You suppose that may hurt my chances for a callback?

*(thanks to Harlan Ellison for that word)

On The Stupidity of Book Genres
15 March 2013

When asked what kind of music he enjoyed listening to, Louis Armstrong once famously said, “There’s only two ways to sum up music: either it’s good or it’s bad. If it’s good, you don’t mess about it; you just enjoy it.”

Not only does that philosophy apply to music, the same holds true for all mediums of art. Music. Books. Dance. Painting. Films. For all artforms, if it’s good, you just enjoy it. Don’t mess about it.

Once upon a time, books were either fiction or non-fiction. Pretty simple. You knew the book was either about installing plumbing, or it was a makebelieve story. Those were the only two categories of books. (Depending upon which shelf you categorized Messianic religious texts, determined a lot about your personality.)

These days, the categories have gotten so granular, it’s ridiculous. We don’t just have “fiction” anymore. Now we have Children’s, Fantasy, Horror, Mystery, Romance, Science Fiction, Short Fiction, Thriller, Westerns, Young Adult and it seems there are new genres and subgenres being promoted and marketed all the time.

Have people truly become so lazy?

That is what I attribute this trend to - laziness. People don’t want to explore anything new in their reading habits, so they lazily rely upon granular genres and subgenres to tell them what a story is about before they even pick it up. Sure, it’s science fiction, but is it cyberpunk or slipstream or space opera or dystopian or retro futurism or biopunk or time travel or pulp or blah, blah, blah? Who the fuck cares!? It’s a fucking book! Read it! You might like it!

For years now, society has lamented the fact that “people don’t read anymore” and, of course, this is far from the truth. Authors like J.K. Rowling couldn’t have become a billionaire if people weren’t reading books anymore. Plenty of people love to read. The problem is, folks have become so inundated with books, and so overwhelmed by the opportunities and potential of what to read, they are resorting to checking the genres first and the stories second. Shouldn’t the storytelling be the most important part?

I have seen even voracious readers being guilty of this discrimination and pickiness. “Can you recommend any good paranormal romance books with shapeshifting wizards in a forbidden love triangle?”

I’m not joking, man. People literally ask that kind of shit. Look around on some Internet forums, and you’ll find these bozos out there.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Do you truly want to be a reader, or an author, who only reads or writes certain genres of books? I mean, certainly, as an author, one can’t be expected to explore every single possible genre. Everyone will tend to gravitate toward certain thematic elements in their stories and those themes then translate into genres. Yes, fine. Fine. I certainly understand that. But, surely, any author worth his ink wants to write more than one type of book during his career. Right? Am I alone in this way of thinking? Stephen King writes more than horror. Ray Bradbury wrote more than science fiction. J.K. Rowling writes more than young adult books. Every author must branch out and try some new things. Doesn’t it get horribly boring to write the same style of work all the time? Shouldn’t all writers aspire to play in more than a single sandbox? Get out of your backyard a little bit? Go to the playground down the street?

Honestly, that is part of why I enjoy the idea of blogging. While I may have jumped on the blogging bandwagon far later than most, I derive pleasure from blogging because it’s a different style of writing. It’s different than my novels. It’s not like a journal. It’s a way to exercise the mind and the proverbial “writing muscles” in a new way.

After all, I see myself as a writer. Period. Not an author of fantasy or science fiction or horror or paranormal romance or literature or poetry and not even of fiction and non-fiction. I’m a writer. I write. That is the only label I’m willing to put upon what I create. I enjoy creative endeavors involving written language, so that is what makes me a writer. I don’t care to limit myself to a genre or a style or a type of writing. What kind of crap is that?

Wait. I take it back. I prefer “storyteller” far more than “writer”. The word “storyteller” conjures visions of wandering minstrels and mythic tales told by campfire light. The bardic imagery of “storyteller” is far more romantic than something so mundane as “writer”. I’m a “storyteller”, but I will never be “a storyteller of historical fantasy literature with cyberpunk underpinnings and sexy werewolves”. No thanks.

In all honesty, I do understand the need for genres in a marketing sense. I get it. I just don’t like it.

Maybe this is just one of many reasons I’ve never become an established author. Maybe I’m too stubborn and I just feel self-destructively compelled to rebel against every standard and caveat of the publishing industry. Maybe I’m too much of an asinine, idealistic, artistic bastard and not enough of a savvy businessman. “Uncompromising” applies to my demeanor far more than “diplomatic”.

All I’m saying is, enough with the microscopic categorizing into subgenres of subgenres of subgenres. Simply aspire to great writing. Then it won’t matter what genre the story happens to be in. Make it wonderful. Give it substance. Give it life. That’s all you need concern yourself with. Do that, and as good old Louis Armstrong would say, you don’t mess about it; you just enjoy it.

The Love of Language Goes Beyond Definition
28 April 2013

Many authors talk about their love of language, but for me, it goes far beyond the meaning of words. See, most writers get a kick out of double entendre and the clever turning of a phrase. Poets adore images invoked by using precisely the ideal word, or the ambiguity of a sharply placed homograph. Let’s not forget the linguistics of Billy “The Bard” Shakespeare and the haughty analysis of his work which continues to this day, finding, by the hour, nuance and subtlety and deeper meaning to his craft. As one of my favorite Mark Twain quotes says, “The difference between the right-word and the almost-right-word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

However much I share those sentiments, as I said, my love for language is more than witty phrases and sharply punctuated adjectives. What I love of language goes right down to the ink on the page (or the pixels on the screen, as the case may be). I am entranced not only by the phonation of a paragraph, but even by the shape and form of the letters. I love the look and flow of certain characters on the page, right down to the grammatical structure itself. I’m intrigued by great authors who break all conventions taught in school for “good writing” and toy with one word sentences, run-on sentences, repeated repeated repeated words, dissonant dialog, heck, even...

One.

Word.

Paragraphs!

I love phrases that are duplicated for emphasis and how the sound of impeccably resonant words can remain ringing within your ears for hours, even when they were read in utter silence.

To be clear, I’m not speaking about mere typography either. Typography is concerned with readability and legibility. Typography studies the quality of the engine. The passion of which I speak is a concern for palpable thrill of flowing with the motorcycle upon the road.

Feeling that love for the first time was the moment I realized, my affinity for writing was different from that of other authors. My awareness happened when I became conscious of my esteem for the aesthetic contour of words. I have spent many decades reading about writers. Interviews. Articles. Autobiographies. Whatever. And in all those countless words of advice, among all those endless pontifications of what writing means to them, of all the writers I idolize and admire for their dizzying talent, never once have I seen a single author mention their infatuation with the glorious form of text on paper. Now, I’m not going to claim I’m the only author to ever possess such a passion. There may very well be hundreds of others who feel the same. Be that as it may, I’ve never heard a single one of them proclaim it. Only me. So, while my delight for the beauty of lettering itself may be commonplace, I’m blissfully ignorant of such a commonality, if it does indeed exist. Anyone can commend the craftsmanship of calligraphy. None speak of love for serifs, sensually bespeckled across leaves of a mass market paperback.

My fondness for such visual presentations even causes me to break some conventions of “proper” grammar. For example, the end punctuation of a sentence is always supposed to be placed within quotes:

Sally thought he was kind of “cool.”

Bobby said, “She’s really awesome.”

Grammatically, both of those examples are correct. I have no problem with the second sentence, where the period ends inside of a direct quote. However, aesthetically, I simply don’t like the first sentence. I contend, if it’s not a direct quotation, the punctuation should fall outside of the quotation marks. For example:

Sally thought he was kind of “cool”.

To me, that looks more pleasing to the eye. Therefore, that is the way I choose to punctuate my writing, even knowing it fails to follow “correct” conventions of grammatical structure.

Trivial to some. Vital to me. Mr. Twain was correct, but it’s even more than lightning and the lightning bug - it’s the way your heart feels when you see the flash.

I also tend to spell “high school” as “highschool” and “grade school” as “gradeschool” but I keep “elementary school” as two separate words. Why? Because “highschool” and “gradeschool” simply look better to me. That’s why.

Most people judge books within the first few pages, based upon the tone of a story and the ease with which they can read it. I do that as well. Nonetheless, I also judge by aesthetics. Formatting. Margins. Tabs. Spacing. Is there dialog on the very first page? There better be. I want to know the voice of the characters. Are the paragraphs short and poignant? Do they snap and sparkle off the paper? Or does the author open with two massive blocks of text which are nothing but descriptions and 30-word sentences? I’m instantly turned off by that too. You wrote a damn novel! You have 300 pages to construct your world. Don’t try to build it all up in the first 2 paragraphs. This is foreplay. We’re just getting to know each other. Take your time. Explore. Don’t bludgeon.

I loathe to be dropped into a mire of text. Books shouldn’t start with a dense and muddy swamp of phonetics. They should be brisk. Open. Inviting. Even if the story itself literally begins in a dire setting of dank and foul marshes, reading it should feel as easy and blithe as a summerday in a comforting hammock. Give the words room to breathe.

Consider the power and beauty in single words.

Snow.

Hear how “snow” sounds. Light. Feathery. Just like the physical object it describes. Look at the form of the “s” and how it gently slithers down the page like a falling snowflake. It drifts. Blissful and naive.

Sunlight. Sunshine.

Hear how much more poetic “sunshine” rings?

Propinquity.

One of my favorite words ever. I don’t think I’ve ever used “propinquity” in a single book I’ve written. It sounds like the peal of silverbells or windchimes. Such a lovely word. Looks so sophisticated upon the page. So proper. The letters “i” in repetition and the descender of the “p” and “q” and “y” nearly symmetrically spaced. Beautifully balanced, that word. Dignified.

Consider the name InkShard for this blog. I’ve always been a fan of imaginative compound words. Compound words start to conjure even more meaning than a singular counterpart. InkShard summons a vision of ebony crystal, melting like mercury and flowing across vellum in magic puddle waves. Forming words in a wishingwell daydream. “Shard” sparks crisp off the tongue, as the sword it remains mightier than.

Vials. Parchments. Blades. Quills. Crystals. Shale and stone. Indeed, there be countless images to equate with InkShard.

Of course, examples of individual words pale in comparison to how paragraph structures decorate a page. Therein lay true beauty. Like dollops of paint upon a canvas, they are nothing more than haphazard vandalism, until you start to see them blend together and form coherent dreams. Once that happens, they exist twofold - once as story and once as artistry of physical form.

Ask any author if they love the form of ink on paper and they will most likely tell you they do. Not because they are being sincere, but because the question will never have occurred to them before, and once they are poised a query which sounds eccentric and cool, they’ll feel obligated to conform with it. Read their books though. It’s obvious most of them have no appreciation for the aesthetic beauty of words.

Break. Up. A. Sentence. On. Occasion.

Lots of them, professional and amateur alike, have no idea how to do that. Description. Dialog. Description. Description. Dialog. Description. That’s all they know how to do. Glance at the page - don’t read a thing, just glance at it - and the form doesn’t look pretty at all. It should. The words should flow and undulate, like so much moss in a stream.

Writing isn’t what teachers tell you.

Writing isn’t what editors proclaim.

Writing has nothing to do with the wisdom of publishers and their experiences.

These people know only of what sells writing. They have no idea what makes writing. They are the ringleaders of the circus, there to show the magician to the crowds, with no understanding whatsoever from whence the wizard conjures the magic. Writing isn’t merely about the love of a story or the foundations of a sentence. Writing isn’t merely about caring for the characters. Writing isn’t merely about liking the smell of old books or appreciating literature. For the words of great storytellers are not merely the tools to conjure wonderment - the words alone are wonderment too. Writing must dance upon the page as minnows flutter. The very letters themselves, frozen as photographs, just waiting to be imbued with life, and scurry to dance before your awestruck eyes. When the scent of parchment intoxicates you as the sweetginger breath of a lover who is too young for you; When you see beyond the things you were told makes for good writing; When you know more about ink upon the page than anyone you’ve ever met, because it ripples rivulets into your bones like acid, carving stories in scrimshaw from the inside of your skeleton out, seeping through your very marrow, then, then, you start to know what it means to write. Then...

Then you start to focus the prism of your vision, into the blinding Light of Creation.

Let there be lightning!

(And lightning bugs.)

What’s in a Name?
9 April 2013

Names of characters are extraordinarily important to any author of fiction. You don’t just pick arbitrary names for people in your stories. Names must mean something. They have to reflect the persona of a character. Perhaps foreshadow a facet of their personality. Major characters always have to follow two naming convention caveats when it comes to my novels:

1. It must be a name I’ve never known anyone to actually have in my personal life.

2. It must sound like a legitimate name, even if it’s entirely makebelieve.

Therefore, I have characters like “Helle Tompkins” and “Shamus Devonson” in my books. I’ve never known a Shamus. I’ve never known a Helle.

Well, after I wrote the book, I met a Helle and married her at an Elvis Chapel in Vegas... But that’s a different story.

I never knew a Helle when I first wrote the book. I’ve never known anyone named “Allyson” either; so, Allyson is a major character in my first novel. You’ll never see a “Mike” or a “John” or a “Steve” in any of my tales. Minor characters, sure. But not a major one. Those names are too common and they evoke images of people I know. Characters should be unique. They deserve their own voice. As a result, their names must be special.

Most important of all, you’ll definitely never see a character named “Munluqptin Horsewrath VII” in my stories either. What is it with the tendency of science fiction and fantasy authors to give their characters stupid and outlandish names no one can possibly pronounce? Why is it always Druzovianta D’et from the planet Mtzjala Ghd on the Counsel Of The Twelve Hklurov? Can’t it just be... Mike from Jupiter?

“Yo, Frankie! Look! It’s Mike from Jupiter! How you fuckin’ doin’ Mike? Long time, no see.”

See? Mike from Jupiter is a standup guy! Mike from Jupiter, you can trust. He’ll take care of our hero or heroine. He’ll let the hero date his sister. Mike from Jupiter is a good guy.

Understand that names are vital, because the whole point of storytelling is to have the audience connect with, and care about, the characters. You don’t care about Druzovianta D’et, because his name instantly tells you, he’s an asshole! Kind of like when someone is named Tristan or Clayton, you already know he’s an asshole. No one named “Clayton” was ever a respectable human being. He’s a Brooks Brothers bastard in a BMW. And don’t get me started on that Tristan fucknut. Everyone named Tristan is a blond-haired, blue-eyed prick from Orange County who cheats on his girlfriend. Tristan is a cocksmokin’ douchenozzle, just like Druzovianta D’et.

Mike from Jupiter? He’s a good guy. He’ll let you borrow his spaceship to take your pet pefelfogwok to the veterinarian.

Personally, convoluted names will literally make me stop reading a story. As soon as Cumucho’Fzikj shows up on page two, I’m done. Fuck that author. Any author unable to discern a proper name for the people she is writing about is surely incapable of telling the story correctly. How can you feel a kinship with the characters when you can’t even say their names?

That’s not to say invented names are illegitimate. As I said at the start, makebelieve names are fine, so long as they sound like real names. For example, the main vampire queen in my duology, The Vampire Noctuaries, is named Camillia. Camillia is an entirely fabricated name. The name Camilla is used in the real world. Camillia is not. Yes, the name Camillia is a homage to the vampiress “Carmilla” from the eponymous 1872 novella by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. Although her name is made up, Camillia at least reads like a legitimate name. You can sound it out. You can spell it. The name isn’t some crazy jumble of unpronounceable letters.

Names are so very important.

The Neverending Story was the book which inspired me to become a novelist, and in that story, giving the Childlike Empress a new name, Moon Child, was the whole method of saving her life!

The befitting name is essential. As with Moon Child, the proper name is the life or death of a character. As an author, all you have to do is listen, and the characters will tell you their names. Just write them down.

However, trust me when I say, even on the most outlandish of science fiction planets and fantasy worlds, no one is actually called Munluqptin Horsewrath VII. That’s just an author being a dickhead.

Next time you read a story with Refultxmog’Dnil from the Kingdom of Tzohg, check the author’s biography. I’ll bet you anything, the writer’s middle name is Clayton.

Too Stupid for Their Own Good
6 May 2013

There is a famous old saying, “Stupid people will never understand what you mean, when you point out they are dumb.”

I know you’ve never heard it before. I made it up myself. Trust me, though. It’s a famous saying. I’m just ahead of my time.

As an author, you will always have some idiot reading your work and attempting to make a commentary upon it. Only after reading said commentary do we come to realize - what they think they read, and what we were truly conveying, are two completely different things. Like not remotely close.

You remember that scene in Ferris Beuller’s Day Off when principal Rooney says, “I don’t trust this kid any further than I can throw him!”

And his secretary replies, “Well, with your bad knee, Ed, you shouldn’t throw anybody.”

The poor woman honestly thinks she understands the conversation. Naturally, he just glares at her for being a blithering idiot. She has no clue.

That’s how many people in this world behave - they are utter imbeciles with zero reading comprehension skills, but they honestly think they are bright and insightful.

Nothing is more exasperating than attempting an intellectual debate with boneheaded morons who honestly perceive themselves to be keen and intelligent.

I just read an essay about Severus Snape, the character from the Harry Potter series of books, where some insipid girl calls Snape “creepy”, because he never got over Lily Potter. The essay goes on and on for 1400 words and all I could think was, “You don’t get it.”

For one thing, I loathe the word “creepy” because it’s become an unimaginative feminist-Nazi cop-out insult. Back in the 1950’s, everyone you didn’t approve of was a “square”, the 1980’s people were “dweebs”, and today they are “creepy”.

A guy you don’t like, gives you flowers? Creepy.

A guy you don’t like, tries to walk you home from school? Creepy.

A guy you don’t like, calls you on the phone? Creepy.

A guy you don’t like, asks you to lunch? Creepy.

“Creepy” should be defined by ones actions, not by how good-looking a person happens to be. And we all know damn well, the only reason those guys are deemed “creepy” is because of how they look. Their actions aren’t “weird”. Their actions aren’t offensive. Their looks are offensive. After all, if a hot guy does the exact same actions, it’s not “creepy” at all. Right? When a hot guy gives you flowers, walks you home from school, calls you on the phone, or asks you to lunch, that shit isn’t creepy. When you like the guy, he is called “sweet” and “thoughtful” and even “romantic” for doing those things. And when you don’t like the guy, he’s “creepy” and “weird” for doing that same stuff.

Right?

“Creepy” is a basement full of baby embryos in formaldehyde jars. Okay? Doesn’t matter if the guy is a Greek Adonis or Marty Feldman, that shit is creepy. Asking a girl out to lunch, or a guy pining away for an unrequited love, is not creepy. Not remotely. Not even a little bit.

Stupid girl has no clue what the story of Harry Potter is about and has no understanding of the character of Snape.

“Well, with your bad knee, Ed, you shouldn’t throw anybody.”

Ah, yes. But one could never articulate her ignorance back to her in a way she could comprehend. Her brain didn’t process the same story that everyone else did.

The worst part is the fact that among 60 comments, most people agree with the author and say that Snape was an awful person and he bullied everyone. “Bullied” - there’s another overused word (along with “creepy”) which feels like someone glued sand to my toiletpaper everytime I hear it.

Snape was never a bully. Naturally, anyone familiar with the story goes back to the singular scene between him and Dumbledore when Snape says, “No one can know.”

To me, that single sentence made it blindingly obvious that everything Snape did was all an act! He was meant to play the part of the “bad cop” at Hogwarts, so people wouldn’t trust him. So people wouldn’t like him. All of his mean-spirited actions were a ruse to help ensure his false-loyalty to Voldemort would be more believable. I know I’m correct, because Dumbledore replies with, “That I shall never reveal the best of you, Severus?” In other words, all the good of Snape is to be deliberately kept hidden. Harry goes on to call Snape “the bravest man I’ve ever known”. How the hell did all these idiots who whine about Snape being a “bully” miss those incredibly obvious plot points? It’s spelled out right in front of them! And here’s 60 idiots on the Internet who don’t get it at all. They saw a very different story from the rest of us.

Spend more than 5 minutes on the Internet. Read comments from people in forums, or on news articles, and you will quickly see most people are mentally retarded and severely lacking in basic reading comprehension skills. As I said earlier, what an article actually says, and the message people read, are often very different things. You’ll often end up scratching your head thinking, “What!? Do these people even understand what this article was about!?”

The same thing has happened in my own writing. While my novel The Gothic Rainbow is praised and beloved by many people, I have also gotten negative criticism for meaningless dialog and trivial conversations. However, these readers were apparently too ignorant to understand, that was deliberate! One of the many sayings you hear with writing is, “Show, don’t tell.”

In other words, don’t just describe things, but illustrate them. If you have shallow and vapid characters in a story, show them behaving in a way which is shallow and vapid. Don’t simply describe them as being worthless and insipid, because where’s the fun in that? Being told, “This character is an idiot” is not as fun as reading about that character doing something idiotic.

So, yes, I have shallow dialog in order to show how shallow some characters are.

But, some people seemed to miss that.

There was a popular video on YouTube recently about a mother who saw The Matrix for the first time and she admitted to closing her eyes throughout multiple scenes, so she missed pivotal moments in the film. She kept on calling Morpheus by the name of “Moshimo” for some reason... Moshimo!? How the fu - ? Anyway, my point is, stupid people are very eager and willing to comment on things without fully understanding what the hell they are talking about. I know, I know. You’re saying, “But, Eric. That video was just good clean fun. Some innocent old lady was all baffled by The Matrix? That sounds entertaining. Where is the harm? You’re making too big of an issue of out something trivial.”

No. Willful ignorance is never fun, or entertaining, or trivial. It’s a loathsome perversion to revel in and celebrate stupidity. I’m not saying everyone must be an expert in every field of knowledge on earth. But I am saying, why bother to watch the movie if you’re going to keep your eyes closed most of the time?

As my oft quoted and idolized favorite writer (well, he’s one of them, not my only favorite), Harlan Ellison said, “We are not entitled to our opinions; we are entitled to our informed opinions.”

And he was right. No one is entitled to be a fool.

Thankfully, I’m not alone. Others see it happening too. The dumbing-down of culture is rampant. You need no more proof than the television and the Internet to see it happening. Point out atrocious grammar in Internet posts and no one apologizes for it; people are proud of it.

Like I said, what is written and what is read are often very different things. The mental processes firing off in those 5 cells of brain matter couldn’t recharge a watch battery.

The point of this rant is simply this - as a writer, don’t take it personally when you are misquoted or misunderstood by the brainless denizens of humanity. Their ignorance is endless and encountering such mindlessness is an exponential inevitability of gaining notoriety. As farmers say, “The further you spread out into the field, the more cow dung you’re going to step in.”

Sorry. I lied. Honestly, I made up that phrase too. Farmers never say that. I didn’t grow up on a farm or anything either, but the metaphor sure feels right.

Some people obviously won’t understand the metaphor, but unfortunately I can’t really explain it anymore clearly.

After all, stupid people will never understand what you mean, when you point out they are dumb.

Who Wants to Live Forever?
20 May 2013

Writing is an immortal profession. Think about it - being an author is one of the few careers wherein age discrimination doesn’t exist. In fact, older writers are often more well-respected for their craft than younger ones, by even the youngest of readers. In our society, where disrespect for the elderly is both acceptable and encouraged, writing is one of the rare fields where age is not an automatic dismissal of your value to the world. You never heard an avid reader say, “Oh, I can’t read that author. She’s too old.”

Never happens. All that matters is the quality of the writing; The stories themselves. No one gives a crap about the age of the writer. 19 or 90 makes no difference.

What inspired this realization; that being a writer means being immortal?

During the spring of 2013, I finally read Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury; The first book he ever published. Immediately afterward, I started reading the sequel, Farewell Summer; one of the last books Ray Bradbury published before his untimely death at the far-too-young age of 91.

Now, here’s the part that got me thinking about immortality and time travel. I know, I didn’t mention time travel yet, but I am now: Writing is also a profession of time travel.

Dandelion Wine takes place in 1923. The book was published in 1957 and Farewell Summer was published 50 years later. This is fascinating to me, because by my own personal perception, these books are brand new. Within my own imagination, these stories have never existed before. In my sphere of knowledge, Farewell Summer and Dandelion Wine exist simultaneously.

However...

Any 10 year old boy who read Dandelion Wine in 1957 had to wait until he was 60 years old to read the sequel. He waited a lifetime! But the characters hadn’t aged a day! They remained the same people they always were.

Then you have me - someone who read Dandelion Wine, then got to instantly skip over the next 50 years, and keep right on going with Farewell Summer. The full impact of that hit me as I picked up the second book - I just jumped 50 years ahead through a time portal! This wasn’t a metaphorical experience - within seconds, I literally skipped ahead 50 years in Ray Bradbury’s life.

Strange, isn’t it? Writing is quite literally a profession of immortality and time travel. No exaggeration. We can live forever and fly past decades in a heartbeat.

Ray Bradbury famously and frequently repeated the same story about being a young boy and meeting a sideshow performer named Mr. Electrico, who touched an electrified sword to Ray’s nose, and demanded that Ray, “Live forever!”

Indeed we can say Mr. Bradbury has obeyed that lifelong command. So too, do all writers. No matter if you only write one book in your lifetime or you write everyday for more than 70 years, as Ray Bradbury did, you are still among the immortals. You have created something to give to the world. You have made a gift to share. What will your gifts be? Spooky? Hateful? Loving? Compassionate? Inspirational? Educational? Perhaps just plain fluff and fun?

Whatever path you decide to take, keep your eternal life in perspective. By “eternal life” I’m not talking about religion or an afterlife - I’m talking about the immortality you are given as a writer. Keep that eternity in perspective - for what you write at the age of 19 will become your legacy at the age of 97. All of it remains connected to the pallet which paints the portrait of who you are, and what you gave to mankind. Make sure the things you leave to this world will make your fellow man grateful you were here at all. Make sure when you depart this earth, people will lament you didn’t have enough time to write just one more book, share one more idea, express one more thought - because they so loved all the books, ideas and thoughts you shared earlier, and they now cherish even more deeply, all that which came before.

You too, are going to do as Mr. Electrico commanded.

You are going to live forever.

The Dreamery Company
8 June 2013

People who are not remotely creative or artistic often ask where creative folks “get their ideas” for what they create. Where do writers get ideas for stories? Where to illustrators get ideas for paintings? Where do musicians get ideas for songs?

As I said, the only people who ever ask this same old question are people who are not remotely creative. To them, the notion of conjuring novels and paintings and music out of thin air is unimaginable. Surely, some great mythic forces must be at work here! WHERE DO YOU GET THESE CRAZY IDEAS!? WE MUST KNOW!

What they don’t know is, “ideas” are the easiest part of all.

For people who are born with an innate creative streak - well, let me rephrase that - everyone is born with it. For people who maintain the innate creative streak they had since childhood, the “idea” is not the hard part. When a person has an active imagination, coming up with ideas is easy. Ideas are simple. Ideas are a constant flow. They never cease. They never dwindle. They never subside. Ideas are haunting you morning, noon and night, day in and day out, waking you from slumber to sketch it down on a notepad, interrupting you while you are stuck in traffic, making you space-out during conversations on dinner dates. Ideas are neverending. Getting the ideas isn’t hard at all.

The hard part is making sense of them. The hard part is constructing a useful bit of art around that idea.

For example, back when I began to write my Vampire Noctuaries books in 1993, I hit upon the idea of mixing Celtic faerie myths with vampires. That type of story is commonplace in 2013. Back 20 years ago, in 1993, it was unheard of. No one was doing anything like it. It was a great idea. It was a cool idea. It was an evocative idea. But that’s all it was - an idea. In and of itself, it’s not a story. Simply getting the idea “Hey, what if someone wrote a vampire story where the vampires are dark faeries?” doesn’t give you anything. You still have no plot. No characters. No nothing. You just have a concept, maybe an emotion, and a few neat images might pop in your head.

Ideas? Ideas are the easy part.

Where do you get your ideas?

Who cares?

The ideas are the most minuscule part of the creative process. The real muscle of the artwork stems from those with the craft and skill to develop those ideas, connect them to other ideas, and construct something tangible from the ether. Ideas are like the cement and the lumber and the steel to build a home. Yes, they are vital and essential. You can’t build the home without those raw materials. But simply acquiring raw materials isn’t the impressive feat. The impressive part is having the craftsmanship to assemble those materials into something livable; when you know how to put the parts together and actually engineer them into a physical construct. Otherwise, you’re just left with a pile of grandiose building materials.

Ideas are the same thing as raw building materials.

Those who understand and appreciate the architectural construction process would never ask, “How do you get those raw materials?”

Those who understand are more apt to say, “How do you draw up your blueprints?”

Every creative person approaches the blueprints differently. The blueprints are the trick. They are the key. It’s not the ideas. It’s not the raw materials. It’s the creativity behind how to put those materials together.

Where do you get your ideas?

It doesn’t matter.

How did you put these ideas together? The answer to that question is what truly provides insight into creativity.

Harlequin, The Ticktockman, And The Master Timekeeper
7 July 2013

InkShard exists thanks to the inspiration of Harlan Ellison and the night of 11 April 2013 when I saw a video of him ranting about writers being paid for their work.

I used to have a lot of pissy blogs and comments on the Internet before 2006. Then, I started working for Walt Disney Studios and I began to rethink my attitude. I thought, “For the purposes of remaining employed, perhaps I should tone down my angst a bit.” Yes, I know, legally, you can’t be fired from a job for posting a pissy blog, but why take such a risk?

Consequently, I spent many years being far less verbal, especially online, regarding my opinions.

Then I saw that video of Harlan and something snapped inside me. I suddenly remembered that the world is full of fucking assholes and it’s wrong to let them get away with being assholes. You have to call people out on their bullshit. Even if that might mean you’re screwing yourself over by rocking the boat. The greatest evil in the world, other than selfishness, is complacency.

Let me repeat that, because 100 years from now, when I’m finally a famous author, you’re gonna wanna quote that one - the greatest evil in the world, other than selfishness, is complacency.

You have to call people on their bullshit.

Now, I’ve been a fan of Harlan Ellison for many years. I count he and Ray Bradbury among my favorite authors of all time. Mr. Ellison and I are both from Cleveland, Ohio and today, he lives only a few miles away from me in Studio City. I’ve not yet had the honor of meeting the man, but I had the great honor of meeting Mr. Bradbury once in 2007, at Walt Disney Studios. That, however, is a story to be told at another time. This story is about Harlan.

As I began to explain, I’ve been a fan of Harlan Ellison for many years. Not only do I admire his fiction, but I also admire the chutzpah of his rants. (I never use words like chutzpah, I’m just tipping my hat to his heritage.) I view Harlan Ellison as Eric Muss-Barnes 2.0. He’s the improved version of me. He’s from Cleveland. I’m from Cleveland. He lives in Los Angeles. I live in Los Angeles. He worked at Walt Disney Studios for a day and got fired. I worked at Walt Disney Studios for nearly 7 years and got laid off. I’ve lead an interesting life. He’s lead a more interesting life. I’ve had a fair share of girlfriends. He’s had a fair share of wives. I’m a good writer who doesn’t write enough. He’s a great writer who is prolific as hell. He is full of a lot of piss and vinegar. I’m full of, well, that’s one area where we may be equal - I probably have just as much spite and cockiness as him. However, he’s much more articulate in unleashing it than I. But the thing that always stuck me the hardest about Harlan, the facet of his personality which always gut-punches me when I see him in interviews, is that I’m a wicked smart guy and he makes me feel like a mental midget. His intelligence is intimidating to me and when you’re as egotistical a prick as I am, well, let’s just say, I’m not intimidated by anyone. Ever. But I am by him. The man wields words like an Olympic fencer wields a rapier. I’m more like Conan the Barbarian. I can still kick your ass, but I do it with brute force, while Harlan does it with ninja-like grace. He’s magnificent in his ability to be scathing. We may share an equal quantity of piss and vinegar, but he’s so much more eloquent as he urinates on you. I just throw clumps of shit at your face like a monkey.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Harlan give speeches where he starts making references to things I have never heard of and have no clue about. Everytime it happens, I find myself thinking the same thing, “Thank God he’s not talking to me face-to-face because I know he’d see the confusion registering in my eyes and he’d probably punch me in the mouth.” He’s an older gentleman these days. I could probably take him. But if I were you, put your money on Harlan.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not gay for Harlan. The man clearly isn’t perfect. Yes, he’s even written a few stories I didn’t like very much. But, that’s to be expected - when you’ve published 1200 stories, even your biggest fans won’t enjoy all of them. As much as he blows me away with his intelligence 90% of the time, there is also the 10% of the time when I say, “Oh, he’s so full of shit right now!” You don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You don’t play the player. He’s not God-like. He’s not infallible. But he is undeniably brilliant.

My point is, he’s not only a gifted writer of influential fiction, but he’s also an intriguing person who always speaks his mind. I admire him for that, because I’m a big fucking sissy who doesn’t always have the balls to tell people what I think of them.

I’ve taken a long time to reach that point, but that is my point. Harlan speaks his mind. That simple fact is what inspired me to start this blog.

The notion of “freedom of speech” is a part of the Constitution of the United States of America, but I have to admit, I always hesitated to speak my mind about a lot of things for 3 reasons:

1. Employers

You don’t want to lose potential future jobs because something you post somewhere online offends some future employer (or potential employer). Plus, if your boss is a politically-correct, sissy niggerfaggot, you better not have the words “faggot” or “nigger” in your blog.

2. A Future Dystopian Society

Don’t want to get freight-trained off to The Camps because of a blog you wrote 5 years earlier. What happens when humanity produces the next wave of genocidal sociopaths and they decide to murder everyone who has ever posted a video on YouTube? Okay, maybe I’m over reacting on that one, but still. You know mere census data was the main resource for Nazis to start The Final Solution?

3. Homicidal Psychopaths

Similar to the second, what happens when a homicidal maniac decides to kill folks just because a collective “you” in a rant was psychotically interpreted as a singular “you”? Would you want Hannibal Lecter knocking on your door because you said you don’t like fava beans? I don’t know about you, but I’m not that important! Go skin someone I’ve never heard of!

4. The “What The Fuck?” Factor

In 2012 there was a case where Justin Carter, an 18 year old boy in Austin, Texas, posted a comment on Facebook wherein he was arguing with someone about the League of Legends videogame. When told he was “insane” and Justin made a sarcastic reply about killing kids at a school - he also included “LOL” and “j/k” in the post - a woman from Canada reported him to the authorities. One month later, Justin was arrested, ended up in jail for months on a $500,000 bond, and was facing 8 years in prison for making “terrorist” threats. Plus, how did being reported by some stupid foreign bitch in another country get a boy in Austin, Texas arrested? Rather horrifying to think a tasteless joke can land you incarcerated. Think about how many jokes you’ve made in your life that were violent or offensive in nature. Have you posted anything online in the last month that might land you in jail? If you think that sounds crazy, in May of 2013, Sherwin Smith, deputy director of the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation, warned a group of Maury County residents that unfounded complaints about water quality could be considered an “act of terrorism”. Complaints were an act of terrorism!? Thankfully, Sherwin Smith was demoted for making such an ignorant remark, but it’s scary to think anyone in a directorial position would have his mentality in the first place.

Maybe those are silly reasons to not speak your mind, but they are my reasons. Shitty employers. Dystopian tyranny. Crazy bitches. And WTF?

They are also awful reasons.

After all, I would never want to work with anyone so puritanical and closed-minded that my abrasive blogs could dissuade them from working with me.

That future dystopian society may just decide to round up all the blondes and redheads, so my blog won’t reflect poorly on my brunette ass at all. Personally, I welcome our new Darkhaired Overlords. Long live the King!

As for loonies, one probably encounters more homicidal nutjobs in the supermarket than being stalked by gaggles of them online.

Finally, well, that last one really is horrifying. In a culture where tasteless jokes posted on a website land you in jail, we’re all screwed. Granted, I never make jokes about physical violence against kids, but for all my pissing and moaning, I sure complain about a lot of shit, and were Sherwin Smith in charge, I’d be on a boxcar in no time. Fucker.

Thus, the inspiration of Harlan, coupled with the cognizance of my own irrationality, are the two factors which contributed to this blog being created.

Meeting the venerable Ray Bradbury was truly one of the greatest honors of my life. Even though I only shared about 15 seconds of his 2,896,560,000 seconds upon this earth, it was a privileged 15 seconds indeed. I may never have the honor of meeting Harlan, but it’s a strange comfort to know that he lives close enough to me that I could ride my bicycle over his house in about 10 minutes. Until one achieves greatness, there’s small comfort in knowing you’re at least in the proximity of someone elses.

If you are not familiar with Mr. Ellison, I suggest you read his book published in 2005 by Morpheus International, The Essential Ellison: A 50 Year Retrospective ISBN: 9781883398606. The book is rather difficult to find, but it serves as a great introduction to his prolific body of work.

Please feel free to share comments on this essay, but be forewarned, if you complain about it, I’m reporting you to the authorities. You fucking terrorist.

The Bad Reputation of Self-Publishing
3 July 2013

Joan Jett may not give a damn about her bad reputation, but it’s frustrating when you want to be taken seriously by a culture at large and most of your peers are a gaggle of schmucks.

As a self-published author, I hate my fellow self-published authors. Those “other” jerks give us all a bad name. I know. I know. I’m not supposed to say that. I’m supposed to be supportive of my colleagues. Show some solidarity. Well, fuck that!

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

And fuck you too.

Those assholes are screwing everything up and they all need to have their keyboards taken away permanently. I’ve seen some of the shit those twatwaffles publish. Do they even know what the word “proofread” means? Do they ever go back and read a single fucking sentence? There is no excuse to put out such crap. Leaving out punctuation marks!? Using “your” instead of “you’re” and “there” instead of “their”!? Inexplicable line breaks in the middle of paragraphs!? Who formatted your shit!? Stevie Wonder & Ray Charles Publishing!? These “authors” are either lazy or stupid (or both) and I don’t have any respect for either of those traits. Go fuck yourselves, you stupid lazy assholes.

Look, I’m not saying professionally published books are flawless. Of course they’re not. Even famous authors have typos in their books from time to time. But, they don’t have typos on every other goddamn page. Just the other day, I read a website for a New York Times bestselling author with a typo in her biography. I rolled my eyes, irritated by such unprofessionalism. And people think being self-published is “unprofessional”? I’ve got news for you - even traditional publishing houses have typographical and grammatical errors in their books. This is why I’m scornful of editors. The “professional” publishing industry constantly touts the fact that self-published authors are somehow inferior due to things like a lack of editors and proofreaders. Oh, really? I call bullshit. Because so-called “professional” authors who get snatched up by big publishing houses, and get their books on the New York Times bestseller list, still have typos in their fucking biographies! And sure, maybe the professional authors never put words like “fucking” in their blogs, but at least I can fucking punctuate a sentence and spell the word “fucking” properly.

She’s also my age and was first published 7 years after me. Once again, I am constantly reminded how much I’ve been slacking.

As usual, I’m getting off track. I’m not writing this to whine about the ineptitude of professional publishers. I’m writing this to whine about the ineptitude of self-publishers (because theirs is far worse).

All I’m saying is, if you want to do this yourself, care a little. I don’t expect a 180,000 word book to be flawless. My own books have infinitesimal, minor flaws. A typo here. A missed word there. You will make mistakes. We all do. But can you please stop releasing books with mistakes on 60% of the pages? Can’t you at least get your book 98% flawless? Can you check your work? Put forth more effort? It’s not just about the writing. It’s about the full package. The book cover. The spelling. The formatting. The font choices. The print quality. Everything. Don’t you owe it to yourself to get it right? We are all so privileged, as writers, to live during this era of humanity. Advances in publishing technology are truly astounding these past 5 to 10 years. For the first time in any generation of the world, all it takes is a computer and a trivial monetary investment to publish a real book! A book you can purchase from anywhere on earth and have delivered to your doorstep! The opportunity is unprecedented in the entirety of human history! It’s truly a miraculous fortuity for all people and a magical period for all authors to be alive.

However...

Technology to permit self-publishing is like the genetic cloning used in Jurassic Park - “Yeah, yeah, but your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn’t stop to think if they should.”

Most of you should not. Most of you need to go back to third-grade phonics classes instead. Someone needs to teach you how to use a dictionary and thesaurus. A fucking spell-checker would be a treat too - do you even question what those red squiggly lines are there for!? These unprofessional pieces of trash you write should never see the light of day and you should be embarrassed to proclaim knowing anything about the English language.

Unless...

Unless you’re one of those really hot 19 to 22 year old chicks writing trashy, steamy, romance novellas. Then all is forgiven.

You like bad boys, huh? And older guys too?

Nice.

Ever ridden along the beach on a motorcycle?

Call me.

Authorphobia
5 July 2013

Hanging out with writers to discuss writing is something I never do, never have done, and if I have my way, never will do. This sequestered mentality seems perfectly normal to me, but it goes against the thinking of most creative individuals. Musicians often hang out with fellow musicians. Actors with actors. Dancers with dancers. Why then, would I avoid fellow writers?

From the proliferation of writing groups, and book clubs, and Internet forums and whatnot, many scribes obviously like to commiserate with other wordsmiths.

I don’t.

My reasoning is simple. Why waste my time sitting around with writers, talking about writing, when I could be... writing?

Right? Writing is like sex. Like most things in life that are wonderful to experience; Doing it is far better than talking about doing it.

See, while other artistic endeavors often require collaboration, as a writer, you don’t need other writers. Actors tend to act in an ensemble. Musicians tend to play in bands or orchestras. For those people, interaction with their peers is an unavoidable and integral part of the creative process. They must hang out with their colleagues. They have no choice in the matter. For an author, not so much. We don’t need other authors. Yes, I understand we may enjoy each others company. I didn’t say there was no reason for writers to want to build a camaraderie with their equals. I said writers don’t need fellow writers in order to create. We don’t need to communicate. We don’t need to “bounce ideas” off each other. Writers create in solitude. We have the luxury of being in a vacuum and never requiring the validation or corroboration of our comrades.

My greatest inspiration for writing is reading. If I want to be inspired, or find some encouragement, I would prefer reading a great passage in a book, as opposed to discussing writing in a verbal conversation. If I’m going to get advice, I’ll watch interviews with Ray Bradbury or Harlan Ellison. Those guys know more about the craft of writing than some fellow struggling author who has written a novella and half a screenplay.

Well, if I’m completely honest and forthcoming, there is another reason too. Avoiding the company of writers isn’t something I do simply because I’d rather read than discuss writing. The other reason is, when I read the work of other authors, I end up thinking one of two things.

For 95% of them, I think, “Damn, your work is total shit.”

For 5% of them, I think, “Damn, you’re so much better than me. Why do I bother?”

This would clearly make me not-very-fun at parties. I’m going to treat everyone with condescending scorn or awestruck reverence, and who the fuck wants to be around that guy?

The downside of this self-imposed avoidance, of course, is the fact I remain completely oblivious to the trends of the writing industry. That’s kind of a bad thing (and worse still, because I’m perpetuating it). I don’t like to think of myself as self-destructive. No one wants to see themselves that way. But, the more I think about it, if I know for a fact that being an isolated hermit who never associates with fellow writers could be potentially detrimental to my success, isn’t that the very definition of self-destructive behavior? Deliberately choosing a course, despite knowing it might not be best for me?

Sadly, I’m not a realistic author at all. I’m a daydreamer. There is “what-it’s-like-to-be-an-author” in my head and then there’s “what-it’s-like-to-be-an-author” in reality. The two rarely mesh. (That sentence originally read, “The two never mesh.” But, I’m trying to be optimistic here.)

In my head, I do my own thing, and people eventually notice, and I become successful.

In reality, I should be treating publishing as a business like any other, and I need to “learn the ropes” of that business.

I’ll give you a prime example of how being clueless can work against you - this blog itself. I have never read blogs by other authors. I’m not interested. I don’t care. My favorite authors don’t even have blogs.

Who does? A bunch of chicks writing “young adult” novels about teenage girls with superpowers or falling in love with vampires? Like I give a shit about their tripe? I’m not interested in the crap they write, even when they are out there getting their 6-figure book deals for their new trilogy. (Told you I’d be quickly banned from parties.)

However, despite my utter unfamiliarity with author-centric blogs, apparently, there are many blogs by authors who write about writing. I wouldn’t know this, because I don’t give a fuck to read them. But, after I created this blog, and finally did a tad of research and checked the competition, the bothersome part became the simple fact that once I concocted the idea of writing this blog, it seems as if what I believed to be an original concept is quite the cliche.

I sincerely thought I was being rather unique and savvy by starting a blog about the love of the written word. Now, I’ve slowly come to realize, nope, blogs on writing are just a big masturbatory hunk of dung that all these aspiring young authors are doing. Established authors never do it. I was correct about that. But struggling authors? Oh, yeah. All of them. We all write these damn things.

Well, shit.

I guess maybe I should hang out with my peers a bit more.

While on the topic of writing faux pas, permit me to apologize for a bit of poor writing in this article too. I am lazily and arbitrarily swapping the terms “writing” and “publishing” and I shouldn’t be doing that. They are clearly two very different things. Writing is the act of creating the story. Publishing is unveiling said story to the world. Hence, there is no such thing as a “writing industry” at all. No one has ever made a single dime from writing and stuffing the manuscript in a drawer. Writing never earned anyone a living. People make money from publishing. Big difference.

The distinction is important to the spirit of this article, because I still maintain that I have no desire to commiserate with fellow authors on writing. I don’t care what they are creating. I just want to focus on what I’m creating. Were I to ever have a discussion on character development or plot points, I fear I’d puke within a few seconds. Nauseating just imagining it.

Publishing? That’s a different matter. Publishing, and the marketing which it entails, are the places where I really need an education. Fellow writers are undeniably the best resource to learn such things.

I’m doing this all wrong. You only get to become “the reclusive author” after you’ve become famous and horded a huge bank account from your countless book sales. I can’t start out as the reclusive author - I gotta earn that.

“I don’t know anyone named Obi-Wan, but old Muss-Barnes lives out beyond the Dune Sea. He’s kind of a strange old hermit.”

Damnit. Gotta become a Jedi first.

If I really want to do this on my own, I need to educate myself and the most effective way to educate oneself isn’t simply by reading and doing research - it’s by augmenting that reading and research by living and interacting with fellow human beings who have already achieved what you are attempting to attain.

Drat. As the Emperor told Luke, “It is unavoidable.”

Fine. I’ll socialize with more writers. But don’t ever remind me that I’d rather be back at home, alone, writing; If anyone asks me about story motifs or what my next novel is about, I swear I’ll projectile vomit on their fucking shoes.

Party invitations, anyone?

Do You Struggle And Lack Focus?
20 July 2013

Preserving the awe of living is the biggest inspiration I ever had to be a writer.

Such a life-affirming idea may seem strange when pimping, er, “discussing” a dark and dreary vampire series like The Vampire Noctuaries, but it’s the truth.

There was one thing I noticed about careers, early on in life, and that was this - Everyone who excels in life has no other interests.

Think about it.

Wolfgang Mozart wrote music. Was he famous for anything else?

William Shakespeare wrote plays. Did he do anything more?

Donald Trump became a real estate tycoon. Did he work as a biochemist on the side?

Steve Jobs created a computer company. What else did he do?

The Beatles were rockstars. And did they accomplish something other than being rockstars?

Muhammad Ali was a famous boxer. Was he also a brain surgeon or an astrophysicist?

This realization scared me to death when I was a kid. I wanted to excel in life, yet I was also so in love, with so many things. Here I discovered, I could never attain greatness in anything, unless I focused on one path.

No one ever attains greatness without focus. This was proven time and time again by everyone who is a household name. In the entire history of humanity, there’s never been such a thing as a world.class actor - astronaut - musician - athlete - quantum physicist except Buckaoo Banzai, of course.

Even a guy like Arnold Schwarzenegger - world - champion bodybuilder - movie star - politician. He’s one exception who excelled at many careers, but even he didn’t do them simultaneously! He focused. One at a time.

Hence, I was faced with an awful truth. What do I pick? What can I choose? Of all the wondrous things to live, and see, and explore in life, what do I truly want? Much to my chagrin, I couldn’t possibly become a karate champion, an astronaut, a fighter pilot, a secret agent, and an action movie star, all at the same time.

I had to pick one, and stick with it.

There was one profession in the world though, one option, that encapsulated them all. I may not become any of those people, but, for a little while, I could step into the shoes of all of them... as a writer!

That was my answer!

Writers need to research and live and experience things, in order to write about them. Suddenly, I realized that writing was the one profession I could imagine that would allow me the chance to experience all the other things life has to offer. Or, at least, writing would provide a valid excuse to do so.

Therefore, when I first began conceptualizing The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries in 1991, I started going clubbing. A lot. I knew I wanted the novel to take place in the counterculture of the gothic - industrial underground club scene. I had already been “converted” to listening to that kind of music, and I’d been to a Skinny Puppy show and The Cure’s Disintegration tour, but I’d never gone to any nightclubs for those bands. Once I started going, I was hooked. What started as “book research” became a sincere interest in my life. I became a hardcore clubkid, sometimes going out 3 or 4 nights a week. Considering I wasn’t going to mainstream jock - fluffchick clubs and only attending punkrock - alternative - goth clubs, that meant I was going to every single club in the scene.

Set back in my birthplace of sinister Ohio woodlands and grey Lake Erie skies, I couldn’t resist inserting some Los Angeles into Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries once I had moved to California in real life. The characters only visit California for a brief time, but I wanted to articulate the silence of the Los Angeles basin in a way I had rarely seen expressed. Anyone who grew up in the woods of Ohio then walks in the mountains of Los Angeles will understand exactly what I mean. There is a constant sense of being watched upon the shores of the Great Lakes. The waters themselves know you’re there. Gazing at the Pacific, you can feel it - the sea has not spoken the name of man in centuries.

Ultimately, the duology of The Vampire Noctuaries is a series about redemption and salvation, not through a religious or spiritual means, but through the love characters find in each other. Wait! Don’t stop reading there. There are no “teenage love triangle” cliches or anything so trite as that. If you happen to be enraged in your own loneliness, don’t worry. You’ll like this story. It’s not puppydogs and sunshine after all. It’s vampires. Thus, it may be a dark and dreary story of cruel and malevolent beings, but it’s really about two people rescuing each other from the shadows. This isn’t a tale about people escaping the dark forest and returning to the light. This is about building a cabin among those dread trees and calling the warmth of the hearth your home.

In that way, darkness becomes light. Death reminds us to savor the wonderment of living. Shadows call us home to the sun.

That is how I was not only inspired to be a writer, but to write The Vampire Noctuaries.

The oldest adage about writing is “write what you know” and everyone has heard that advice a million times. I would contend that a less succinct, but more accurate adage is, “live an enriching life of which to write”. For the greatest joy of writing is in the thrill of using language to meaningfully convey the subtle wonders of your limited time upon this glorious earth.

Art of The Vampire Noctuaries
28 July 2013

One of the aspects of my duology The Vampire Noctuaries I have always been most proud of is the artwork.

Back when I wrote the first book in the series, The Gothic Rainbow, I knew I wanted to create some cool fliers and images to go along with it. Although the sequel, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries was published in 2013, keep in mind, The Gothic Rainbow came out in 1997 and the Internet was just getting started. There was no such thing as social media yet. No job boards. No dating sites. Certainly no video streaming when everyone still had 56K modems. There was nothing. Therefore, if you wanted to market and promote something creative, you were still just going to coffeeshops on college campuses and posting fliers.

My three main resources for promoting my novel would be goth clubs, independent record stores, and punkrock clothing boutiques. Since my book was a dark and eerie vampire novel, set in the counterculture of the gothic/industrial nightclub scene, those locations contained my audience. Even in terms of printed promotions and reviews, I focused on things like underground and alternative music magazines, not literary ones.

All along, I knew this would mean I’d need really cool fliers.

The purpose behind the imagery wouldn’t be to depict actual scenes in my novel, rather they would be created to elicit an emotional response - to give the same feel as the book; To put people in the correct mindset of the dreamy and surreal nightmare which are The Vampire Noctuaries.

Months before my novel was released, I started calling all my gorgeous punkrock and gothic friends from our club scene and began asking them to model for my Gothic Rainbow fliers. We were all just a bunch of kids, ranging from about 18 years old to 22 years old. We shot pictures in spooky cemeteries, and in makeshift livingrooms, and basements, and wherever else we could. All captured on film, of course. No digital cameras yet either. Then, I’d scan the 4x6 prints with a flatbed scanner and start playing around with them in Photoshop. All the digital manipulation was painstaking work, as computers were so wimpy back then, and a 20MB file could bring a system to its knees. Sadly, as a result, I don’t have layered versions of any original fliers because I simply didn’t have enough memory or storage space to save them. I’d have to work on an image in a few layers, flatten it, work on it more, flatten it again. That was the only way I could get anything done without the whole system crashing on me.

Not only did I composite these cool gothic images to use on fliers and postcards, but I also made some fliers that were pure text. White fonts on a black background. They were all written in second-person and had very poetic and dismal descriptions of why you need to read The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries and why it appeals directly to the kind of person you are.

All of this worked better than I could have imagined.

Word got around town about these fliers and this book. When I started doing my initial promotions, before the book was released, I had a booth set up at a goth music festival and kids were coming up to me, asking me for extra copies of the fliers to autograph them. Several teenagers told me they had them hung up in their bedrooms as posters. I was stunned. At first, I figured they were pulling my chain. I thought they were ridiculing me. Slowly, I began to realize, they were completely serious. You want my autograph, on a flier, for a book that hasn’t even been released yet? Really?

One kid even said he wanted to get a tattoo of the logo from the front cover of The Gothic Rainbow. Don’t know if he ever did that, but the fact he even thought about it was mindblowing to me.

A local fantasy artist whom I really respect, Joe Vargo, complimented me on my “artwork”, telling me how talented I was. In fact, when Joe first met me, he didn’t even know I was a novelist. He assumed the fliers and the images were the art I was promoting! He didn’t realize they were nothing but advertisements for a book.

To everyone else, these weren’t just ads. This was art.

What? Artwork? These are nothing but fliers! That’s how I saw them. This wasn’t “art”... was it?

That was the first time I began to take the artwork a lot more seriously. Maybe I had something here. Maybe the creation of these images was more than just promotions for my book. The fliers-deemed-artwork had taken on a life of their own and were resonating with people in a way I never expected.

Therefore, I made a last-minute decision, before The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries went to press, I’d put copies of all the images in the back of the book and allow people to buy them as posters, if they were so inclined.

As it turned out, some of that artwork resulted in a bigger financial success than the book itself.

Back in 2002, a very large national company stole some of my Gothic Rainbow artwork and started printing it in a “vampire journal” and were selling it in retail stores all across the county. We settled out of court and the funds from their copyright infringement allowed me the financial freedom to pick up and move to California in 2003.

When the time came to release the sequel, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries, obviously, I needed to create a new set of images, to match the flavor of the first book. Although I shot a large amount of new portraits, I also went back and occasionally picked up a number of old photographs which had remained unused from The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries publication.

Today, you can still download copies of the original text fliers for free or purchase copies of all the posters and fliers in full-color in almost any size you can imagine, from little postcards up to giant movie posters.

Not only did the images gain a great acceptance and a fanbase independent of the novel, but when artist Joe Vargo opened his own art gallery, he requested my images from The Gothic Rainbow be part of the grand opening show.

The artwork of The Vampire Noctuaries changed my life and raised the bar of everything I thought my novels could become. Being featured in art galleries wasn’t a thought that ever crossed my mind when I began shooting those images. Just goes to show, when you put in the work and effort to make your dreams a reality, you never know what other unexpected and fun opportunities will end up coming your way.

Only Walt Disney Believed in Me
1 August 2013

Since birth, I’ve had double-jointed thumbs, allowing me to wriggle them around in this freakish way.

As a kid, I presumed everyone could do that. When I was about 10 years old, I was having one of those conversations all children have; you know the kind - friends comparing weird tricks you can do - like curling your tongue or flipping your eyelids inside out. You know? That conversation. During said talk, I discovered double-jointed thumbs weren’t so normal after all. Turns out, they were kind of a weird trick.

Once I grew older, I realized the conviction to turn your dreams into reality is also a weird trick a lot of people can’t do. Like a double-jointed thumb, for some of us, it just comes naturally and we never question it. For other people, they look at you and say, “How the heck are you doing that!?”

Like many children, working for Walt Disney was a dream I had when I was a child, but I didn’t hold onto that dream for very long. I grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. Every home for miles was nothing but blue-collar families. Few households had any college graduates. Anyone who did go to college just ended up managing autoworkers instead of being an autoworker. Absolutely no one from my neighborhood (with the exception of Drew Carey) ever did anything like move to Hollywood and work in movies. No way.

When I finally “made it” and started working for Disney, all I could think about was how I felt growing up - always believing in myself, while everyone else doubted me.

The reason I always had faith in myself? Because of all those books and movies and television shows telling children, “Hey! Follow your heart! Don’t give up on your dreams! Work to make it happen!” I trusted them. I listened. I never questioned it. Knowing those messages were meant for me, just came naturally. Once I had Disney come knocking on my door, I finally saw the truth of it - those writers and directors and actors make those stories because they wanted to encourage kids like me! They wanted to reach out to the children who had no support from their family or friends. They knew no one was encouraging me, so it became their job to inspire me.

That is why I wrote How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree. Now it was my turn to repay the favor. I owed that book to the kids who were like me. Every dreamer living in a place where hopes wither on the vine - they are the souls for whom my book was written. All those filmmakers and authors from my childhood, who told all those stories which kindled my ambitions, I had become one of them. I had become obligated to tell a story which shall pass that inspiration along, just as it was imparted to me.

When I tell people How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree is far more than a book about Disney, that is what I mean. Getting into Disney was never the ambition. Getting into Disney was a side-effect. The ambition is to do what you dream. When you spend your lifetime doing that, places like Disney open up to you. Walk the path of your dreams and the doors of the Magic Kingdom let you in.

I always knew that would be true.

Even when I was surrounded by those who had no faith in my convictions, I always held steadfast.

That’s not to say it was all bad. A friend once introduced me as “the most talented friend I know” and that really meant a lot to me. Another once said, “No one thinks the way you do, Eric.” I’ve had friends tell me that I “never fail at anything” and others have said I am “an angel incarnate”. Looking back, sometimes I suspect more people had faith in me than I imagined, they just rarely voiced it. And perhaps, to my discredit, I sometimes failed to notice.

Do you have someone in your life you believe in, but you rarely tell them? Tell them now. Right now. Stop reading this and email them. Call them. Go hang out with them and let them know. They’ll never forget it.

Do you have a dream everyone doubts? Go read How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree and remember, once you achieve your dream, once you make it come true, encourage other people to always have faith in themselves, even when no one else does.

As that gift of encouragement was bequeathed to me, I owe it back to you.

As your dreams will be granted to you, your time shall come for inspiring others to achieve the same.

Knowing you will accomplish great things isn’t a lie. You’re not fooling yourself. Just like having double-jointed thumbs, believing in yourself is simply a weird ability few people possess. When you’re surrounded by people who don’t believe in themselves, you can’t let them convince you to do the same. Keep your faith. Keep your tenacity.

The people who doubt you are wrong.

You’re right.

You will make it.

Play by the Rules
2 August 2013

When releasing my book How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree, I definitely didn’t follow the “standards” of publishing.

When you think about it, the fascinating thing about self-publishing is how the practice is developing “standards” at all!

Allow me to explain.

Every fledgling industry, from filmmaking, to automobile manufacturing, to website development, were all in “the wild, wild west” when they began. Everything was a free-for-all. No standards. No commonality of practices. Everyone simply shot out and did their own things. But, slowly, over the course of time, people learned what worked and what didn’t work. People began to see what methodologies were successful and what methodologies were failures. The successes were imitated and replicated. The failures were cast aside. Until, finally, they each became genuine “industries”, with ways of doing things, and expected behavior, and standards of practices.

Thanks to the Internet, self-publishing is evolving into this mode of thinking too. I’ll give you two prime examples - series and beta readers.

In the days of traditional publishing, obviously book series did exist. Duologies. Trilogies. Tetraologies. You name it, they were all out there. However, in the world of self-publishing, the “series” has become ubiquitous. Almost every single self-published author (of fiction) is working on a series of books. Personally, I think the idea of a series is lame. Don’t get me wrong, some series are quite legitimate, such as Harry Potter. That is truly a long story with tons of flavor and character and nuance and nothing feels like “fluff” or “filler” just to make the story a little longer.

However...

Any series that is obviously “padded” with extraneous stuff just to make a full book is awful. Instead of writing 3 books of 200 pages each, I think a 600 page book is far more honorable and noble. Although, I do concede, from a monetary perspective, a series is rational. The reasoning behind this is obvious - it’s all about marketing. You are establishing a brand. You are pumping out material that people will recognize. You are also ensuring an incentive to buy your next book, and the one after that. From both a marketing and a money making perspective, a series is understandable.

But it does get a bit tedious when everyone is writing a series of three, four, five books or more. Kind of makes you miss the days when the series was not the selling point, but a beloved author himself was “the brand”; When the name of the writer sold every book, not the name of the series; When the quality of what is written under an author’s name was what people looked for and couldn’t get enough of.

Then you have “beta readers” the phenomenon. This is a new practice that never existed in traditional publishing. Since self-published authors typically have no editors, they develop groups of “beta readers” to read the book as it’s in development - to help polish it - the literary equivalent of a “test audience” in the film industry. You query a small group of people and you allow them to make observations that cause you to change your vision and alter the story that was in your heart.

Oh. I’m sorry. I mean, they help you “improve” your book.

If I sound snide and deriding of beta readers, it’s because I am. Great filmmakers don’t use test audiences. Great authors never had beta readers. Professor Tolkien didn’t use “beta readers”, or even an editor for that matter. Did Shakespeare have “beta readers” go over Hamlet? Did DaVinci or Michaelangelo have “beta viewers” for the Mona Lisa or The Sistine Chapel? Did Mozart have “beta listeners” for his operas?

Nevertheless, “series” and “beta readers” work.

That’s what bothers me most of all. Although I may be snide and deriding, I must concede, these practices are becoming standards because they actually work. They produce results. They sell books.

I know what you’re thinking, “But, Eric, surely you don’t expect aspiring authors to see themselves as the next Mozart. Are you telling people to have an ego so great they can eschew these practices and still find success?”

Darn right I am. You better think that highly of yourself. Otherwise, why are you wasting your time? Are you aspiring to greatness or mediocrity?

No, you shouldn’t see your work as being classic when you’re 15 years old. No. You are permitted a few years, perhaps even decades, of artistic self-doubt. But by the time you’re writing the final couple books of your life, you better think you’re absolutely amazing.

Ultimately, it really all comes down to following your gut.

If you think a proven idea will fail, don’t have any regrets about dismissing it.

If you think a crazy idea will work, have the courage to give it a shot.

Feel free to play by the rules if you want to, but remember, the rules are never there to help you succeed. The rules are there to befuddle the competition and the greatest success stories always come from the people who break them.

Sorry for Sequel Writing
3 August 2013

Let’s go! People always say that my series’s long.

Sorry for sequel writing!

Readers complain saying turn it down.

Sorry for sequel writing!

Haters don’t like, got one more to write.

Sorry for sequel writing!

Authors are going to hate me for saying this, and readers are going to love me.

Ready? Here goes...

Most book series are nothing more than a crappy ploy to milk as much money out of fans as possible.

Right?

Who are we kidding, folks? We all know the score. How many authors break that 100,000 word novel down into 3 novellas, give it humongous margins and a massive font to boost the page count, and sell it as a trilogy?

I first became aware of this practice when I read a forgotten fantasy tetralogy, when I was about 15 years old. I may not recall the name of the series or anything at all about the storylines and characters, but I do recall the third book as being nothing but filler. The third book was a complete tangent, a sidetrack where characters had to find a magical herb in an alternate world to save a dying princess who was poisoned the main storyline. She gets saved, of course, then the series picks right back up in book four, with everything being back to the way things were at the end of book two. In other words, the third book served no purpose other than to create an entirely new plot for the course of a single story, then reconnect with the original tale afterwards.

Lame.

I wasn’t stupid. Even at the age of 15, this was an easy scam to recognize, and I was livid. How dare an author and publisher do that? Just arbitrarily add some extraneous fluff?

So lame. I vowed then and there, I would never be such an author. I’d never change an entire plotline, just to puff up my series with an extra book.

Then my first novel, The Gothic Rainbow, became a series.

Oops.

How did that happen!?

The story goes like this - I outlined the entire story of The Gothic Rainbow and started writing it. The novel took a total of 3 years to finish. When I had hit a good 300 pages or so, and had been writing it for over a year, I was mortified to see I still had a heck of a lot more work to do. This was already taking me far too long! I didn’t want my first novel to take 5 years to write and become a 900 page epic! So, I decided to break it up into two books. I picked a point somewhere around two-thirds of the way into the tale, where it could feel like a good “stopping point”, and I just ended the story, knowing full-well I’d have another 300 pages to write eventually.

That is how The Gothic Rainbow became The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries and it explains why Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries was born.

In this case, I wasn’t doing it to make more money. The story was genuinely too freakin’ long and I simply didn’t know that when I started writing it. Since it was my first novel, I wasn’t aware of how huge it was going to become. I had no prior experience by which to look at my outline and accurately gauge what writing it would entail. It’s like you’ve never built a house, so you look at the blueprints and say, “Well, I think I can do this is a year.” Then a year later, all you’ve done is dig a basement and you have to rescind your prediction, “Okay. This might take longer than I thought.”

So, yes, I have written a series. Accidentally.

But, I still think most series are evil and written purely for greed.

Heck, even Tolkien wanted The Lord Of The Rings to be a single book. His publisher insisted it be a trilogy. Of course, times were different then. Today, with ebooks and on-demand printing, a longer single volume is not as cost prohibitive as it was in the 1950’s, when everything could only be done in massive print runs.

J.K. Rowling, on the other hand, did a wonderful job with Harry Potter. That is a legitimate series. The characters develop. The plot thickens. The story evolves. Nothing is thrown in just to make the story last a bit longer. And, truth be told, if Miss Rowling did pad the Harry Potter story, she did it so artfully and craftily that I can’t tell where she worked her magic. Every part of that story feels necessary.

Look at Star Wars too. Not a series of books, but still a valid trilogy of stories. All three of those movies (yes, I maintain as of 2013 that the only valid Star Wars films came out between 1977 and 1983) are self-contained, yet contribute to an encompassing arc of the tale. Wonderful.

Series aren’t always bad.

They’re just usually bad.

This isn’t to say I’d never write a series or a trilogy. Sure, I might. However, if I ever decide to do so, it will be because the story contains an arc and a flow that merits individual books. I couldn’t bring myself to take a book that is clearly a standalone novel and arbitrarily divide it into multiple parts with some filler and padding added to it.

Authors of those type of books (you know who you are) may hate me for calling them out on being greedy inconsiderate scumbags, but readers will appreciate the fact that there is still a writer out here who won’t try to swindle you in such a way.

When Should You Judge Books By The Cover?
5 August 2013

We’re always told we shouldn’t judge a book by the cover, but, let’s face it, if we didn’t make judgments and assumptions and find appeal in the covers, why have artwork on them in the first place? Would the lovely blokes of Spinal Tap have been upset about their Smell the Glove album cover if they were allowed to keep it sex(ist)y instead of solid black? No. Cover art is important.

We all judge books by the cover. We shouldn’t. But we do.

Because of this undeniable fact, I knew I was taking a big risk with the two books in my Vampire Noctuaries duology, The Gothic Rainbow and Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival.

As you well know, hardcover books in ages past didn’t have fancy pictures on their covers. Typically, most books were leatherbound or clothbound and merely had a title on the spine of the tome. Nothing more.

The word “noctuary” is rather antiquated. In fact, most dictionaries don’t even have it anymore. So, forgive me if I’m telling you something you already know, but, allow me to indulge the folks who might not know what the word means; A “noctuary” is a diary or a journal that is only kept in the evenings. Since the book is literally supposed to be a journal kept by the main character, I wanted the cover to be reflective of that. I didn’t want the cover of The Gothic Rainbow to look like a novel, I wanted it to look like a leatherbound diary.

Back when I first released The Gothic Rainbow in 1997, there was no such thing as on-demand printing. I had to purchase 1000 copies of the book and stuff them in my grandparents basement. At $5 per copy, printing a full-cover cover would had added about $2 to the cost of each book. At my wages, it was a struggle to be $6000 in debt, I simply couldn’t afford to be $7000 in debt. Thus, the original printing of The Gothic Rainbow was not in color and instead has a solid black-and-white cover. That was all I could afford. But, that was never my vision. That was never the cover I had in my head.

When it came time to release Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival, the long-awaited sequel to The Gothic Rainbow, I was finally able to create the cover for both books, the way they were meant to be.

Designing the leatherbound look was a mix of my photography and Photoshop work. I went to a used bookstore in Los Angeles, in search of any old book with a brown leather cover. Unfortunately, this proved to be much more difficult than I imagined it would be. I tended to find one extreme or the other - beautifully flawless leather books in every color but brown, or books that were utterly destroyed and missing covers, but I could tell from the coloring of the spine, it would have been awesome.

Crap.

Why was this so difficult? I couldn’t find a cool old book in an old used bookstore? Auuuugh!

Eventually, I settled for a 1820’s paperbound book, that looked very much like leather. It had a wonderful tarnish and erosion and gold leaf splattered around the edges. When I got the book home, I set it up against some black posterboard and photographed a number of closeups with my Canon SLR digital camera. Then, I found some weathered leather images online and augmented my photographs with the leather texture, blending the two and thereby compositing an original piece of art for the cover, that was not a stock photo image, and couldn’t be recreated by any ol’ schmuck fumbling around an image database. I’m excited to think that both covers of The Vampire Noctuaries are truly based upon a real book that is nearly 200 years old. Makes the aura of the books feel that much more authentic; Like something you really did pick up and dust off from the catacombs of an ancient vampire mansion.

Even the title font is original - created by hand, by me, using Fontographer, back in 1996. I’ve never uploaded it online or made it available on any font sharing sites or anything. That way, it has always been unique to The Vampire Noctuaries and has never appeared anywhere else.

The logo on the front of The Gothic Rainbow is actually a tribute to Skinny Puppy. Not many people notice that. However, if you look at the stylized ankh and the curves, you see it’s actually the initials “G.R.” which are a homage to the S.P. initials used on Skinny Puppy albums, as Skinny Puppy is also the first band to make an appearance in the musical references of the story.

As I said before, I knew this was a risk. There’s no text on the back cover of The Gothic Rainbow. No summary to entice the potential readers. Just the symbol of an ankh, stamped as gold leaf into antique leather. Even the back of Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival contains an emotional bit of poetry, not a book description. Would I be intrigued to read such books myself? Honestly? Yes. I’d at least flip it open to the beginning. Anyone with the audacity to print a modern day book with an 1800’s style cover would be worth 30 seconds of my attention. I don’t know if others would agree with me or not, but I think it works.

Risky, but worth it.

Despite a lack of a story summary, I think the simple and stark cover gives a good impression of the kind of characters and tale to expect.

The main narrator of The Gothic Rainbow is a young male vampire who is the cliche of cocky, smug and powerful jerks. However, we learn of his mortal life through flashbacks and slowly come to realize, he has turned cruel and arrogant as a way to cope with his loss of humanity. Once upon a time, he was a genuinely good kid. Deep inside, he has a decent heart, he was just thrown onto the wrong path by a horrible twist of fate and circumstance. I like to think that shows in the book cover - a sense of nobility in decay.

The second book, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival, is told from the point of view from an even younger female vampire, who becomes lovers with the vampire boy from the first book. She too is a broken soul, but in a much different way. Instead of living a happy life that was taken away from her by being made a vampire, she had an awful family life and becoming a vampire was her salvation from an abusive home. The front cover of the second book is identical to the back cover of the first book, symbolizing the connection and the full-circle of the redemption both characters find in each other.

These are facts no one would know when they see the book covers for the first time, but after you read them, an astute observer could find those connections.

The purpose of this article isn’t to give advice on designing a book cover. After all, I’m not so sure what I did is effective. But, I hope this article does show the kind of thought and work and effort that can go into even the most simplistic of covers.

Judge a book by the cover. Go right ahead.

Just remember, a lot more may go into creating a cover than you ever realized.

The Suaveratu History of Vampires
7 August 2013

Vampires are disgusting.

For younger readers who don’t know, there was a movie released in 1922 called Nosferatu and the vampire in that film was a spooky, gaunt, rat - like creature. He was not the adorable, prettyboy vampire that your teenage sister wishes would bite her under the school bleachers. No, ma’am. Nosferatu was way creepy and gross. Traditional folklore vampires always were. You don’t want your dead Uncle Eugene crawling out of the grave and drinking your blood.

Then, in 1931, Bela Lugosi played the lead role the eponymous Dracula movie. Here was a gentleman who was smooth and handsome and charming and romantic. He was the sort of vampire ladies began swooning over.

What changed?

How did vampires go from Nosferatu to suave?

In writing Dracula, Bram Stoker is credited with altering hundreds of years of “eerie folklore nosferatu” into the “suave aristocratic studpuppy” and changing the whole image of vampirism.

Why are vampires so popular? Why did they evolve from spooky undead into romanticized antiheroes?

Well, before I answer that question, let me say this - I have no idea... but I sure can fake it. One thing I loathe about people who fancy themselves intellectuals is their uncanny conceit in pontificating on topics as though their assessments are uncontested oracles of truth. No, they’re not. We can come up with convincing theories and well-constructed hypothesis, we may even be able to trick people into thinking we’ve given a concrete answer, but the truth is, the human spirit is a fickle thing and none can say for certain why sociological trends proliferate at certain times more than others.

Having prefixed my opinions with said caveat, permit me to get terribly pompous and pretend to know the answer. Shall I? Here goes...

Mortality scares the hell out of every living soul. From the most wealthy billionaire to the poorest pauper, we all know we will die, we never know when, and (religious convictions aside) we have no idea what will happen to us when we do. Vampires are appealing, in the simplest terms, because of their promise to avoid that fate, in a sea of time, with eternal youth. No death. No aging. No slow decrepit deterioration of body and mind. Frozen hours. Hey! Awesome! Who wouldn’t want that? Sounds fantastic!

Ah, ha! But there’s a catch! (Isn’t there always?)

No sunlight. Forever. Eternal darkness. Your very existence must remain secret, for fear of mortal retribution. And you must drink the blood of living human beings.

Suddenly, the sweet deal isn’t so sweet anymore. Now it becomes morally questionable. Is it worth the price? Can we do that? What kind of person could do that?

That mixture of a wonderful blessing and a horrible curse is what makes vampires so intriguing. Their dichotomy. Their conflict. Their internal struggle of light and darkness.

Of course, what is the metaphor there?

Life itself. Right? The transition from teens to young adulthood. The transition from college to the working world. The regrets in our lives. The mistakes we make. The people we hurt. The wrong things we do. You know what you’ve done. You know how terrible you’ve been. Those things only a couple of people in the world know about.

As we move from childhood into adulthood, we all become vampires. We start doing things we might have been ashamed of as kids. Our souls get a little tarnished (some more than others, of course). We feel the trepidations of marching time. Just look at senior graduation from highschool. In terms of our perceptions of time, that’s one of the most horrifying moments in our lives. We remember first day of Freshman year like it was last week... and now those 4 years have just vanished. Suddenly, for the first time ever, we understand what our parents tried to tell us about time - “Wow. College is going to move just that fast too! Then... the real world!” And we are never ready for that.

Ah, but to have the power and strength and immortality of a vampire! To never worry about the passage of time. To live free and eternally.

Wouldn’t that be great?

That is why people love vampires. That is why they are especially popular among teens and young adults. Vampires are the wish fulfillment of all teenage fears. No aging. Immense power. You never have to grow up. And nobody can ever mess with you. Who wouldn’t yearn for such an existence, especially when living the vulnerable years of high school and college?

Or...

As I said at the beginning, I could be totally wrong too. Maybe lots of people just really dig capes. Man, I don’t know. I’m just making this stuff up!

What’s your theory?

One thing I do know, when I started writing my vampire duology, The Vampire Noctuaries, back in 1993, vampires were not as trendy as they became 20 years later. I’ve always been proud of the fact that The Vampire Noctuaries are two books exploring a vampire world that hasn’t been done a thousand times before. The world is a faeriepunk aesthetic of leather jackets and Doc Martens more than capes. The Gothic Rainbow was released in 1997 and Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival came out in 2013, and no one else has written a vampire tale like it. There are no vampire clans, or vampire hunters, or werewolves. No one is a “chosen one”, who “discovers how important they are”, from a mysterious stranger. No one is a daywalker. No one is attempting to “reverse the effects” of vampirism. No one is on a quest to find the oldest vampires. There are no love triangles between frail teens and powerful immortals, and there are certainly no vampires enrolled in college courses or getting pregnant. Instead, the story explores the lives of two young people who are lost and broken and find redemption in the dark shadows of gothic nightclubs and Combichrist concerts.

Truth be told, I have no idea why most people like vampire stories.

Fans of The Vampire Noctuaries are not most people. The Vampire Noctuaries fans appreciate the story because it speaks to them; the weirdos, the freaks, the outcasts, the loners. They are the readers with whom it resonates the most. The heart and soul of The Vampire Noctuaries is a story about the kind of pain you felt the night of your first heartbreak. This isn’t for the kids who get bullied, it’s for the ones who are invisible. This isn’t for the kids who cut themselves, it’s for the ones who know what the barrel tastes like. This isn’t for the kids who want someone to talk to, it’s for the ones who have never spoken of what happened that night. This is for the kids who punch holes in the wall while Ministry is blaring “Stigmata” at a volume that risks shattering the fishtank. Teen angst is for sissies. This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it poisons your very marrow to sewage; with a firestorm of rage so deafening, it scorches your very flesh to cinders.

When the world burns down, fans of my vampires will be clutching The Gothic Rainbow in one hand and roasting marshmallows with the other. You will be suave. You will be dashing. You will be handsome ladies and swooning gentlemen.

You will be the latest trend.

Whether clad in capes and lace or leather and Doc Martens, you will be elegant.

Oh, no! Not Another Vampire Story!
12 August 2013

Imagine this...

Imagine it’s 2013 and you started writing a vampire novel 20 years ago, back before vampires were glittering across movie screens and writing diaries all over television. Back then, the only vampire writers were Bram Stoker, Anne Rice and Poppy Z. Brite. (And, you know, Poppy was very new on the scene, only fellow punkers and goth kids knew who she was). You were excited about this, because a vampire story was a very untapped genre. Not much competition. Not much over-saturation in the fickle eyes of the public. Plus, even though there were few stories out there, you wouldn’t follow any conventions of existing vampire movies and novels. No werewolves. No vampire hunters. No warring vampire clans. No love triangles. No “quest for the eldest vampire” and no forlorn sissy vampires, acting all Robert Smith about their “cursed” afterlife. No, no. These would be strong, powerful, violent, angry, sensual vampires who savored the thrill of their power. This would be something different. Something unlike anything anyone else had ever done, taking the genre in a whole new direction. In fact, you’d even add in some old Celtic dark faerie spices for flavor. No one had ever done that before!

So, you start writing your epic vampire book, not realizing it’s a 900-page epic, until you reach page 300 or so.

Uh, oh.

What to do?

You decide to change the epic 900 page standalone novel into a duology. One 600 page book and one 300 page book. No problem. Everything’s cool. You release the first book, The Gothic Rainbow, and everyone loves it. The book is lauded as awesome and it’s very well-received. Fantastic!

However...

You kinda sorta accidentally get sidetracked for 16 years, before you finish the second book. Heck, that’s same amount of time we waited for The Phantom Menace after Return of the Jedi!

Yeah.

That’s what happened with my series, The Vampire Noctuaries, a duology beginning with The Gothic Rainbow in 1997 and concluding with Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival in 2013. (Don’t worry, Jar Jar Binks doesn’t make an appearance.)

Like a Barnabas Collins, buried too long and perplexed by a changed world, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival has been unleashed into a universe fraught with a bazillion vampires. Vampire novels. Vampire movies. Vampire television shows. Vampire video games. Vampire hair care products... (okay, I’m lying about that last one... or am I?).

Some authors are even adding my dark faeries into their vampire stories! Darnit! That was my idea!

The point is, it’s a strange time to spin an “olde” vampire yarn. When The Gothic Rainbow was released, my biggest fans were all teenagers 15, 16, 17 years old. Now those same fans are all over 30. Long time to wait for the next installment. I feel like Peter Pan, returning to take Wendy back to Neverland, only to discover I’d been gone too long and she’d grown up.

This isn’t as self-deprecating as it may sound. Like many of you, I have a knack for ranting and bemoaning misfortunes, so, sometimes I do it just for the sole satisfaction of hearing myself blather, not because I’m convinced of my malaise. The truth of the matter is, I’m very happy about this whole thing. Life truly is what you make of it and attitude is everything. Having a long-established vampire series with a massive gap in publishing is more a blessing than a sorrow. Vampire tales are now more readily accepted and here I am, sitting on a story that, in certain circles, many people have heard about, but never knew where to find it.

The Vampire Noctuaries are now easily accessible in paperback, hardcover and ebook from every major seller you can imagine. If you’d like to procure a copy, may I suggest www.CreateSpace.com or www.Lulu.com? As a customer, it costs you the same amount, but as an author, I make a few pennies more from those fine ladies and gentlemen.

The Gothic Rainbow originally began in the 1980’s, as the title of a high fantasy story I started writing as a teenager. Had nothing whatsoever to do with vampires. The image of a “gothic rainbow” always stuck with me though and when I began on my vampire tale, I realized the flying buttresses of an ornate cathedral look like... gothic rainbows arching across the sky. Thus, the title was born by resurrecting an old one (“old one” meaning “former title” not “servant of Cthulhu”).

When I was in highschool, I had begun, but never finished, about 3 novels. One of my writing idols is Ray Bradbury and when I discovered he would just sit down and pound out 400 page books with no outline, I wanted to emulate him and do the same.

I’d get stuck at about page 150 or so, and have no clue what to do next. Needless to say, doing that 3 times in a row was not encouraging to my novelist ambitions.

Finally, I decided, “Maybe I should concede to outline first.”

Around that time, I also happened to get invited to take an Honors English course at my local community college. The professor let us design our own curriculum.

Perfect! “I’m going to write a novel!”

My professor had a PhD in English and he had never written a book. Needless to say, although he approved me to go ahead and attempt a novel as my project, he was a bit skeptical and tried to warn me it wouldn’t be easy to write a whole novel over the summer. However, my rationale was, “Hey, if I have an outline plus a deadline, I’m sure to finish it!”

He was right. I was wrong.

I’m embarrassed to say, I only finished 11 pages. However, he did give me an “A” on those pages and encouraged me to keep going! That was cool.

I sent him a few letters (email was still 3 or 4 years away) asking that we get together and discuss it. I was very curious to hear what he thought. I was kind of hurt and disappointed that he totally blew me off and ignored me. He never responded, even after I wrote to him twice!

Then the school secretary found my letter and called to inform me he was dead.

Oh.

Certainly a valid excuse!

I’m not using my professor’s death to market a book and tell people that the first person to read my spooky vampire novel keeled over dead, but... the first person to read my spooky vampire novel keeled over dead. I figure that’s gotta be worth some eerie street cred. Sure, the guy had heart problems and his kicking the bucket has nothing to do with reading 11 pages of my book, but why ruin the potential for a nice urban myth? Although... “my book kills English professors?” My critics could use that one against me. “The book is so bad, it killed the first PhD who read it!”

Anyhow...

A few months after that, I dedicated myself full-time to finishing the book and in January of 1996, the entirety of The Gothic Rainbow was complete. One year after that, it was published and available for all the world to see. In 2013, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival was released, completing the series.

The spirit and the vibe of the story is based upon all my years of clubbing at underground gothic/industrial clubs and hanging out in that scene of beautiful girls in black lipstick and a sea of Siouxsie friendships and Front 242 dancing and Cocteau Twins romances. I’ve always known that world wouldn’t appeal to a huge array of readers, because as all the fellow Skinny Puppy fans can tell you, only 1 in 600 people who read this will have ever heard of Skinny Puppy. But for those who know and love that world, these books will feel like home.

Now that the sequel is out, fans can finally experience the depth of The Vampire Noctuaries as I had always intended.

It’s not just another vampire story.

It’s for those who have lived in shadow.

It’s for those who have barely made it out alive.

It’s for the darkhearted and the whisperers to nightmares.

You know who you are.

An Author Picture is Worth 1000 Words
20 August 2013

Have you ever questioned how much care goes into an author photo? Have you ever been skeptical of a book when the author photo is second-rate?

When my first book, The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries, was published, I knew I wanted a unique author photo. I couldn’t bear that same old cliche of “author standing in front of a bookshelf” used by most authors. What is up with that? Actors headshots aren’t in front of shelves of DVD box sets. Band photos aren’t taken in front of stacks of records. Why the heck are authors always in front of bookshelves? You’re a writer. You like books. Yeah, we get it.

I wanted something far more creative.

However, since The Gothic Rainbow is a vampire book, my author photo had to reflect the atmosphere of the novel. I couldn’t be smiling, wearing a cowboy hat, on a sunny day, at a waterpark. That would kind of kill the mood of “brooding vampire dude”. No smiling. No waterparks. At the same time, you don’t want to come off looking angry or sullen. So, you walk that fine line of trying to look dark and mysterious, without looking like a corny mockery of yourself.

On the other end of the spectrum, I also wrote a non-fiction book entitled How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree. Certainly don’t want to reuse the author photo from a vampire book to promote that one!

For my book Schooling Your Boss to not Suck, again, I went with a new photograph, attempting to reflect a friendly and down-to-earth image that would again fit with the vibe of the text.

Even my book Forever Loving You has a romance-novel-parody, tongue-in-cheek author photo, to match the rather silly love poems on the pages.

The “image” of my author photos express my own personality, but as filtered through the tone of the book.

Too often, authors overlook their photos. Slap it together at the last minute. Not a big deal. Whip out the camera and give it to your spouse like you’re grabbing a snapshot in front of the World’s Biggest Buffalo Turd. “Oh, I want my writing to speak for itself. I don’t need a photo. This isn’t a fashion show! I don’t care about my photograph!”

Well, you should care. And cut out the false integrity. Avoiding a photo has nothing to do with thinking your writing is awesome. The truth is, you’re just insecure about your appearance. Stop it. You look fine. Get the photo. Reading is an intimate way to get to know people and your readers like being able to visualize the person telling the story. Show your readers that courtesy. Let them see you.

Most of all, take the time to do it right! Don’t slough it off and decide to just take some lame snapshot in your kitchen with a smartphone.

Okay? Stop that. Seriously, cut it out.

Your book is a full package. Cover art. Author photo. Formatting. Font choices. All of these elements contribute to the whole. You’re not just selling words on paper. You’re not creating something that’s “just about the story”. That’s a load of pompous dung. You’re selling yourself. If you show people a lazy, careless portrait, it’s not unreasonable to presume you’re a lazy, careless writer too. Cruddy author photographs prove, you don’t give 100% to everything you do. Why should anyone assume you gave 100% to your writing? Maybe you slack off on your writing, just like you did on your picture. Package deal, folks. Everything must be the best you can make it; from the font choices, right on down the line. Would you build a fancy, gorgeous, custom home and eschew a bathroom for an outhouse in the backyard? “Oh, we didn’t want to build a bathroom, so we just threw up any old thing. Whatever. It still works.”

No one would ever do that! That would be crazy. You make the whole house great, not just parts of it.

That’s exactly what authors do when they use crappy images of themselves in their books. “Well, 90% of the house is beautiful. That’s good enough.”

No. It’s not “good enough”! It’s lazy. It’s pathetic.

Don’t stink up the book you worked so hard to create, by using the outhouse-equivalent of an author photo. Invest in the fancy bathroom.

Maybe you know nothing about photography and you have no photographer friends. That’s no excuse. Go on the Internet and learn some basics of photography. Give yourself 30 minutes to check out some basic lighting educational videos and you’ll improve your images twofold.

They always say, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

You wouldn’t put a thousand words of nonsense in your novel. Don’t put a nonsense photograph in there either.

What are your favorite author photos that really make you feel this author looks like the type of personality who could write this story? Have you ever seen a photo that doesn’t fit the book at all?

10 Ways Publishing Has Changed Since My ’97 Debut
26 August 2013

Did you ever study debate in school? Debate classes are great, because they teach folks to argue both sides of controversial issues. Thanks to the Internet, debate classes should be mandatory. Too many people in this world only argue their own viewpoints and have no clue how to see the other side of things.

I open this article with that thought because our artful host, Carrie Butler, requested I give 5 positive and 5 negative comparisons, regarding changes I’ve seen in publishing since releasing my first novel, The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries, in 1997. However, as anyone skilled in debate can tell you, that’s not so easy. The unbiased soul can argue both sides of most opinions. Hence, this article will be written with a tongue firmly rooted in cheek, very cognizant of knowing any vehement stance I present could easily be contradicted.

With said disclaimer out of the way, let’s begin...

The Negatives of Publishing in 2013 Versus 1997:

1. Less Bookstores

Forgive me an uncreative and obvious opening, but the demise of so many bookstores deserves a reverent moment of silence. Yes, it’s great to order books online and have them arrive in a day or two. Yes, instantly downloading eBooks is fantastic. But walking into libraries and bookstores means being surrounded by the essence of humanity. Stories. Tales. Myths. Knowledge. These are the fabric of our lives. The written word is the record of our memories and thereby the ghosts of our antiquity. Books represent the core of what it means to be human and alive upon this Earth during our brief window of time. Bookstores are cathedrals, worshipping the sanctity of our yesteryears. We shouldn’t be allowing them to disappear faster than virginity on prom night.

2. Less Magazines

Back in 1997, The Novel & Short Story Writers Market was the biblical-sized, de facto reference book, featuring submission guidelines for the world’s breadth of magazine and publishers. Even bigtime professional writers used it. Updated yearly, we used it to find agents, publishers, contests and magazines seeking short stories or review copies of our books. That was how authors found out everything before the Internet. Today, the annual, venerable book still exists, but comparatively speaking, The Novel & Short Story Writers Market has devolved into little more than a leaflet. The quantity of vanished magazines is rather astonishing. Thankfully, there are still a lot of publishers and agents out there, but you simply can’t get published or reviewed in as many magazines anymore, because their numbers have shrunk faster than testicles in icewater.

3. All The Damn Vampires...

Bonus points if you got the movie reference. When I created the characters of The Vampire Noctuaries duology in 1991, there was no Buffy the Vampire Slayer, no Twilight, no Vampire Diaries, no True Blood, and people thought Barnabas Collins was Joan’s sister. The only vampire novelists anyone heard of were Bram Stoker and Anne Rice. Although there are too many damn vampires now, I’m proud a story I began 20 years ago has none of today’s vampire cliches. No vampire huntsman. No love triangles. No werewolves. No “chosen ones”. No daywalkers. No seeking “cures” for vampirism. No vampires attending school. No vampires having babies. Where do “writers” get these ideas? Mine are good old fashioned dark creatures of the night, going to Siouxsie & The Banshees concerts and being all mites o’ sinister. The Vampire Noctuaries are just a bleak story of anguish and betrayal and heartache where lost souls find redemption in the shadows of each other. A story you can relate to, because you’ve been through that stuff yourself.

4. Crappy Self-Published Books

The ease with which anyone can publish books today, especially eBooks that can be totally free to create, has festered a mire of uneducated dillweeds cranking out an endless barrage of snail vomit disguised as “books”. You know who you are! The ones with typos on every other page and all the narrative style of a 4th grader? Yeah, I’m talking to you. Where do you nimrods come from? You people are the literary equivalents of tone-deaf musicians. You sound awful, but you just don’t know it. You think just anyone can write? Just because I can ride a horse doesn’t make me a Kentucky Derby contender. Just because I can use a blender doesn’t make me a French chef. Just because I’ve been in a fistfight doesn’t mean I can beat Bruce Lee. Just because you know how to spell your name doesn’t make you an author. Please... stop. Focus on attaining the true pinnacle of your job skills and repeat after me - “Would you like fries with that?”

5. Granular Categories/Genres

At the risk of stepping on the “new adult” toes of my gracious host (a danger easily avoided if I charmingly sweep you off your feet, Miss Butler), I’m really bothered by the granular categorizing of books these days. In my mind, The Vampire Noctuaries have always been fantasy novels. The first printing of The Gothic Rainbow was somewhat facetiously called “Literature/Dark Fantasy” on the back cover. These days, people would call it “New Adult” or “Horror” or “Paranormal Romance” or “Oh Crap Another Kinky Vampire Novel”. Personally, I still just consider it a fantasy book. As my idol Ray Bradbury once explained, “Fantasies are things that can’t happen, and science fiction is about things that can happen.” That’s granular enough for me.

The Positives of Publishing in 2013 Versus 1997:

1. On-Demand Printing!

This one gets a well-deserved exclamation point, because it’s so awesome. Without a doubt, this is the greatest blessing of all. Do you ever stop to bask in the euphoria of how thrilling it is to be a writer today? How lucky we are! I’m not exaggerating when I say, this is truly the greatest time in the history of humanity to be an author. Think about it. On-demand publishing has changed the course of our evolution and has only been around for, what, 5 to 10 years? In the words of Captain Tightpants, “This is us. On the raggedy edge!” We’re the youthful pioneers of a revolutionary shift in culture. For the first time in the history of the world, anyone with access to a computer can write a book, have it printed for a reasonable fee, then shipped to almost any corner of the Earth. This has never been possible before in all of recorded time! As an author, you can now reach the biggest audience the planet has ever known. If that doesn’t excite you, quit writing and go mop floors for a living.

2. eBooks

The Gothic Rainbow was not available as an eBook until February of 2013. I was a Luddite hold-out, renouncing eBooks even longer than J.K. Rowling. This may sound oddly archaic for one who has spent more than half-a-decade earning a living doing computer programming for Walt Disney Studios, but I just loved the feel of a paperback. Conceding I was walking away from the chance to reach more readers, I finally relented. Some people fear eBooks substituting traditional books, but I’ve never had such a worry. Audiobooks didn’t replace print and I simply regard eBooks as the same concept. eBooks represent an additional format, not a replacement one. All my books are now available as hardcovers, paperbacks and eBooks. As a highly experienced programmer, I’m proud to say all my eBooks are constructed by me, by hand, and they actually work without getting all wonky in your eReader, unlike the eBooks of some authors (see #4 above).

3. Amazon.com

When my book was first published, Amazon would put any book with an ISBN in their database. Shortly thereafter, they adopted a policy wherein you had to pay them to appear on their site. The fee was negligible - only $20 a year or something, if I recall correctly. Despite the low cost, there was no way I would pay that, just on principal alone! They would take a percentage of my book sales and they’d charge me just to make it available for sale!? How was that fair, to charge me twice? Needless to say, this policy wasn’t around for very long, but it was around long enough for me to lose all interest in using Amazon for a long time. Thankfully, Amazon turned this lame policy around and is now one of the greatest supporters of small publishers and self-publishing. Today, it’s exceptionally easy to have your books selling on their website for free. So, historically speaking, Amazon was cool... then they sucked... now they’re cool again.

4. Social Media

Websites comprising the foundation of social media have become so ubiquitous, you don’t even need to mention them by name anymore. The vernacular of “profiles” and “avatars” and “content” and “posting” has become so commonplace in our culture, we don’t need to define it or explain it. When journalists in old media outlets no longer prefix a news item by explaining what “chatting” means, you know our society has come far in accepting the proliferation of communicating on the Internet. Yes, the Internet existed in 1997 and I was actually very active in promoting The Gothic Rainbow online back then. But, the quantity of resources was drastically limited. The word “blog” didn’t even exist until 1999 and the original social networking site, Friendster, didn’t exist until 2002. How would you promote a book via the Internet without blogs, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube, Goodreads, LibraryThing, or Google? None of those sites existed in 1997. We didn’t even have cat memes! In 1997, the Internet was nothing but cobwebs, tumbleweeds and 5 dirty pictures... of your mom. She was hot back then.

5. You

Most reading this won’t bother to purchase my novels, but a couple of you will. You’ll actually read my books and become a fan of my work. “Thanking the fans” is such a cliche, but folks like you are the people who allow folks like me to flourish and keep paying the rent. As I don’t fancy the notion of becoming an emaciated homeless writer living under a bridge in a cardboard box, I truly appreciate you and every single person who becomes a fan and purchases what I write. Believe me, thanking you is not a corny cliche. I am truly grateful for the existence of my readers.

6. Bonus Answer: Carrie Butler

Miss Butler wasn’t part of my publishing endeavors in 1997 either. Thankfully, in 2013, the talented Miss Butler exists and has given me the opportunity to talk about my books and writing experiences. For that, she has my heartfelt appreciation. Carrie, if you ever make it out to Los Angeles, I should warn you - beware of scruffy novelist bad boys with tight abs and motorcycles. They are total jerks. Don’t trust them. Sure, beautiful ladies like yourself always get the motorcycle rides for free... but touching the abs will cost you a dollar! Each time! Can you believe it? That’s how they get you! Lousy swindlers! I don’t know any such dashing gentlemen personally, but I’ll steer you clear of those villains if I spot any. Just my friendly travel tip to a fellow Ohioan.

The Only Thing we Have to Fear
2 September 2013

“My philosophy of life is that the meek shall inherit nothing but debasement, frustration and ignoble deaths; that there is security in personal strength; that you can fight City Hall and win; that any action is better than no action, even if it’s the wrong action; that you never reach glory or self-fulfillment unless you’re willing to risk everything, dare anything, put yourself dead on the line every time; and that once one becomes strong or rich or potent or powerful it is the responsibility of the strong to help the weak become strong.”

- Harlan Ellison

Recently, I came across the profile of an aspiring writer who made mention she “never had the courage to put her words on paper” before publishing her little eBook. I know I’m supposed to be supportive and encouraging to fellow authors for attaining their dreams, but I can’t help but use a condescending adjective like “little” when someone pens a 63 page eBook and thereafter fancy themselves an “author”. Please. 63 pages? That’s a goddamn pamphlet. Are you really interested in being a writer or do you just fancy the label?

Forgive me, I digress already.

Anyway, what I wanted to call attention to, the word that stood out to me, was “courage”. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, it really hit me - Wow! Are there writers who are worried about being “liked”? The thought that anyone would need “courage” to write was unfathomable to me. Because what they are really saying is, “I’m scared no one will like me.”

Right? Obviously. Was I misunderstanding this sentiment? What other possible motive could be kindling their fear? What else is there to be afraid of? They’re not scared their pen may spontaneously explode in their hands. No trepidation a keyboard might electrocute them. Talk of “courage” is because they fear their efforts are a waste of time and will meet with ridicule.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m a very arrogant bastard. I know I do a good job of coming across like one too. But, in this instance, I want to be clear in stating I’m not being condescending toward the fears of other authors. I’m not belittling them for being afraid. That’s not my intention at all. What I’m attempting to express isn’t bemusement or contempt for their insecurities. What I’m try to say is, and you may not believe this, but in all my years of writing, such a fear has never crossed my mind. I know I’m a good writer. Having even an inkling of insecurity about the quality of what I create has never occurred to me. Certainly, there are many writers with far more talent and skill than I and I can easily find myself humbled by the genius of gifted writers. But, despite being humbled by those I admire, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m still really damn good.

“Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,

Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.”

- William Shakespeare

Romeo & Juliet

Never have I written a single paragraph of a loveletter so eloquently. Who would not fall in love with Juliet?

I fear I may never be so fine a wordsmith.

Nevertheless, I have never needed courage to put words on paper.

That’s why this writer blew my mind. She expressed an emotion toward writing that I didn’t even know existed. Needing “courage to write” is an idea that left me flabbergasted, because doubting my value is a thought I have never experienced.

I would never proclaim to be fearless. Far from it. Like many creative folks, I have an immense fear of failure. But - and here is the vital distinction - my fear stems from failing to find my audience, not from questioning my worth. See the difference?

This is an important distinction. Are you afraid you have no skill for your passion? Or are you positive that you are amazing, but you fear your work remaining unknown despite being fabulous?

My writing can have flaws. I know that. Sometimes I ramble too much, when I need to get to the point. Sometimes I sum things up too quickly, when I need to let things breathe. Sometimes I awkwardly compose sentences with some weird grammatical structure, and when I read it 6 months later, I have no clue what I was saying until I go over it 2 or 3 times. Sometimes I phrase things 90% perfect, but I just can’t quite manage to find that ideal word to make it flawless.

On the flipside, I know what I do well. I work very hard at using spellcheck (the Achilles Heel of many amateur authors). I spend weeks reviewing story structures to avoid gaping plot holes. I write realistic dialog. I create some damn beautiful descriptions and set a mood exceptionally well.

Yes, I have a good idea of my strengths and weaknesses.

But to think anyone wouldn’t like my stories? Incomprehensible.

On the rare occasion a person does dislike my writing, they clearly didn’t understand it. They’re obviously illiterate. Or morons. Or both. That’s the way I see it.

Some people believe it when someone says they suck.

The rest of us think, “How about you fornicate with your mother using a severed donkey phallus?”

Long ago, I learned no matter who you are and what you write, there will be people who love it and people who hate it. This is an undeniable fact. Simply logic. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. Sadly, fools have told me such a philosophy is misguided and I had “been done a disservice by whoever told you those things”. Later I found out, the person giving me that criticism had worked as an editor. No wonder. Professional editors are paid to convince writers, that editorial opinions matter more than others (and obeying said opinions will reap greater financial rewards than any other consultation).

Of course, such a philosophy has been proven a lie, time and time again.

There have been many documented incidents of frustrated authors submitting classic, bestselling manuscripts to publishers, with the deliberate intention of being rejected, just to prove that the editors never do their job or bother to read the work anyway. Or if the editors do read it, they are too uncultured to recognize a bestseller published by their own house. Check out Doris Lessing publishing a book under the pseudonym Jane Somers or the very low sales J.K. Rowling had under her pseudonym Robert Galbraith. Chuck Ross passing off work from Jerzy Kosinski proved the point in 1975 as did his rewrite of the screenplay to Casablanca. David Lassman submitting Jane Austen novels under the name Alison Laydee was yet another instance of authors screwing with the world of publishing. Those are just a few examples.

What does this prove?

It proves the praises and acceptance of publishers, editors and agents is not validation of a story being any good, and it proves the rejections and criticisms are not a condemnation of your writing having no worth.

The only opinion that matters is your own.

Think about your favorite book. You adore it. It changed your life. It touched you deeply. Reading it was profound and moving. But, there are people in this world who hate that book. They think it’s awful. They tell their friends it’s a waste of paper. They couldn’t even finish reading it. I cite Richard Bach - one of my favorite authors of all time, full of insight and wonderment and wisdom; yet many people loathe him as some hippie freak spouting spiritual hogwash.

Think about a book you find terrible. It was a joke. It was laborious. It was horribly written. You have no idea how anyone could praise such a piece of crap. How did it get published? Yet, there are people in world who love that book. They think it’s genius. A masterpiece. I cite J.R.R. Tolkien - I admire the depth and breadth of his work and think his efforts to build an imaginary world are extraordinary and will remain unparallelled for a century, but when it comes to his actual writing, he’s one of the most dry, tedious and convoluted authors of all time; yet many people worship the man.

As a writer, my job is not to write something I think people will love. No. Never. My job is to write something I will love and then work to find an audience who will appreciate what I have created. Finding your tribe. That’s what it’s all about. You write what is true to your own heart, then you find your tribe. Find those who regard you as a tribal minstrel. Find those who will admire and appreciate your efforts. Find your fans. Find the ones who will say, “Yes, this speaks to me.”

Some folks “never had the courage to put words on paper”. Courage isn’t about impressing the world. Courage is about undertaking the quest to find your tribe. May your tribe be vast and devoted, honorable and true.

“Getting rejections all the time... you don’t even notice. Yeah, you’re momentarily bothered, but you figure that they’re all stupid. They don’t recognize your genius and some day they will, and so I suppose your ego keeps you going.”

- Ray Bradbury

Are You A Total Book Geek?
3 September 2013

There’s a reason we love to read after dark.

There’s a tenebrous membrane that we feel ourselves pressed against, bookending the dark hours around midnight. Those lonely hours, because that’s what readers are. We are the lonely ones. Befriending makebelieve people, doing makebelieve things, in makebelieve places, during makebelieve times.

But during those moments, lost upon those pages, our minds shrouded in those worlds with all the mystery of morning dreams, we do share something real. A connection not to the authors, but to the fellow readers. You feel her. She feels him. Lonely as you. Intertwined souls. You wondered about each other at the same instant. On the same page. Reading that same sentence, they stopped, just as you did.

When most minds are quieted to dreaming, you feel your kind more clearly.

The lonely ones. The readers. In bed, curled upon the couch, wondering who else is on this journey at the same time? Dozens? One or two? Where might they be? In your town? A street away? Halfway across the country? The other side of the world? Who is to say? All you know for certain is, you felt them. Just for a moment.

The membrane grows thin. You are not alone.

Yet, of course, you are. Very much alone.

Knowing others have shared this road, same as you, almost makes the loneliness worse. Dreams of camaraderie give way to a reality of isolation.

Nothing makes you happier than reading. Nothing makes you feel more alone. Especially during those moments, when the veil grows thin, the membrane stretches just beneath your fingertips, and you can feel us out there, staring out from the pages, looking back at you. Knowing none of us will ever meet or touch. We shall remain each others spectres for all eternity. Bookending midnight. Alone in bed. The dark hours of silence where the only sound is the flip of a page.

When Is An Artist A Sellout?
16 September 2013

“[By] the time I met my wife Maggie I was 25 and... I began to make plans to sell out... I wanted to sell out in the worst way because I wanted to be with her, but the wonderful thing about creativity is that once you get an idea that’s decent, even though you may want to commercialize it, you can’t. I tried to be commercial and it never worked, because my intuition was so powerful always in my life, I could never be a commercial writer.”

- Ray Bradbury

Previously, I’ve talked about the distinction between the fear and insecurity of thinking you’re no good as a writer, versus knowing that you’re awesome, but fearing you’ll never find the people who recognize your brilliance.

As I spoke of this difference, I neglected to mention another trepidation that I think many self-published authors cultivate like a garden of crap. For all my brave talk of fearing nothing, I also feared making an effort to find an agent and publisher. The truth is, I was afraid of that for as long as I could remember. Something about it scared me, but it wasn’t rejection. Something else burrowed under my skin with mandibles of terror. Something I had feared all my life, but never knew how to articulate until now.

Compromise.

That is what all creative souls fear. That is what fans berate musicians for when their favorite punkrock band finally becomes popular. That’s what the degenerates crucify their skateboarding heroes upon when the skaters actually manage to make money and earn a living.

Sellout.

The ultimate insult. More offensive than any other word in the English language.

I know what you’re thinking. No. Those other words aren’t as offensive. “Sellout” is the worst, because a sellout is something you choose to become.

That was my fear, only I never knew it. Because “sellout” is never a word that anyone uses to describe themselves. Sellouts call it “compromise”.

“Commercialism is the last sinkhole of love, and when it is reached, by paths of desperation and paths of cruel, misused emotions - all hope is gone.”

- Harlan Ellison

Harlan wrote those words in a short story called “Lonelyache” in reference to a character hiring a prostitute. But the “love” of which he speaks can apply to any love, not just sexual.

As the old saying goes - “Sluts do it for fun. Whores do it for money.”

I have feared making an attempt at traditional publishing, because I fear I might need to compromise. To sell out. That is why I have never sought a publisher. Why I have never queried an agent. I fear that the things I want to write, and the stories people want to buy, might be two different things. I know there are people in this world who will be adoring fans of my writing. But what if there’s only 5 of those people? I’m going to have to sell my books at $15,000 apiece! What if I am expected to change my writing to be more “marketable” to the world?

Like that scene in the movie Amadeus when Mozart is devastated at the notion of changing his music and he cries to Salieri, “It’s unbelievable. The Director has actually torn up a huge section of my music. They say I have to rewrite the opera! But it’s perfect as it is. I can’t... rewrite what’s perfect!”

I may not be the literary version of Mozart, but I’m delusional enough to think I am. This is the truth of why I mistrust editors and publishers. What if they ask me to change my work? I can’t... rewrite what’s perfect!

There is only one reason to ever do that. Every single editor who has ever existed has altered work for one reason and one reason alone - to sell more books. I know. I know. They will lie and say it is done “in service to the story” and the “story is the most important thing”. Blah, blah, blah.

Bullshit.

The truth is, no editor or publisher has ever wanted a story to be the “best” it can be. Their job is to make it the “most marketable” it can be. “Best” is publisher-speak for “sellable”. The “best”, not for the sake of the artistic integrity of the tale, but for the bottom line. For sales.

That is selling out.

That is compromising.

To write as I will, and make a living at it, is freedom.

To alter what I write, at the whim of publishers and editors, is servitude.

One is a dream.

One is a job.

I’ve had plenty of jobs in my life. I want to live the dream.

“You can live in your dreams, but only if you are worthy of them.”

- Harlan Ellison

The job of the author is to write. The job of the publisher is to sell. Publishers don’t know their jobs. They think their job is to make the work of an author profitable. That is not true. Their job is to make a profit from the work of the author. Huge difference. Their job is sell what the author gives them. Period. Too many publishers think their job is to alter the work of the author, to make it more bankable. Their job is never to alter the work of the author. No. False. Never. If they can’t sell what the author gives them, then they have no business working with that author. Work which is not “easy to sell” is not the responsibility of the author. It’s the responsibility of the publisher. If work by an author isn’t selling, that’s because the publisher is bad at selling that work, not because the author was bad at writing it.

If ever I met an agent or publisher or editor who understood those things, who knew their place in the kingdom, I would embrace them and be honored to have them serve as my knights and shieldmaidens.

Many folks would say, “How do you know so much about publishers if you admit you never had one?” Hey, go fuck yourself. I don’t need to have a rhinoceros shoved up my ass to know it would hurt.

At what price do we sell our souls?

When do we turn from writing sluts into writing whores?

Sometimes I feel like I’m Ernest Borgnine in drag. No wonder I struggle to sell my whoring.

“Don’t be afraid. That simple; don’t let them scare you. There’s nothing they can do to you... a writer always writes. That’s what he’s for. And if they won’t let you write one kind of thing, if they chop you off at the pockets in the market place, then go to another market place... Because the chief commodity a writer has to sell is his courage. And if he has none, he is more than a coward. He is a sellout and a fink and a heretic, because writing is a holy chore.”

- Harlan Ellison

26 Pathways to Everything
20 October 2013

“I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.”

- Stephen Wright

Amazing, isn’t it?

A mere 26 letters in the English alphabet. 26 weird shapes. Haphazard marks on paper. Ones that can change your life forever, depending upon how you decide to arrange them. The birth and death of entire worlds, encapsulated in 26 tiny oceans of ebony.

Astonishing to think language is nothing but noises. Say the right thing, to the right person, at the right time, you can win the lottery. Say the wrong thing, to the wrong person, at the wrong time, you could go to jail.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with your actions beyond speech. You can be standing there, not doing a thing, merely speaking, and have your entire life change based solely upon the words you utter. Words can seal a marriage. Words can cause a divorce. Words can get you killed. Words can seduce you into acts that create life.

Words, and our understanding of them, can alter all of life as we know it.

For example, I don’t speak French. Don’t speak it. Don’t understand it. So you could insult me in French, you could say the most vile, disgusting, rude things to me and I wouldn’t be remotely offended, because to me, you’re just making weird noises. They aren’t insults. They aren’t words. They’re just meaningless sounds. But, go to Paris and say the same things to a French police officer and you’re spending the night in prison.

The exact same words, spoken at a different time and place to different people, cause vastly different results. Don’t you find that fascinating? I sure do. As an author, such aspects of language and communication are intriguing to me in ways I can barely articulate!

To me, that’s utterly astounding! Language is nothing but noises. Yet those noises change our lives. We fall in love. We get new jobs. We get fired from jobs. We get divorces. We become incarcerated. All because of when, and how, and to whom, we make certain noises with our vocal chords. Our culture has deemed some of these noises so offensive, we’ve created euphemisms for them. We’ve substituted one set of noises for another because certain people don’t like certain noises.

The word “fuck” is called “the f-word”.

The word “nigger” is called “the n-word”.

People have such a strong emotional reaction to a noise, that we’ve replaced it... with a different noise.

Strange, isn’t it?

Written language is the same, of course. Little squiggles. Random jumbles of ink on a page. Dots of light on a computer monitor. Pixels of electronic ink. Yet, they have the same power as spoken words. Healing broken hearts. Shattering peoples lives. All because of the arrangement of some lettering. People have been banished into exile for fear of their very lives, all because of words they have written or said.

Indeed, the old saying “the pen is mightier than the sword” is not a metaphor. It’s quite a literal truth. After all, a single sword can only kill one man at a time, but the stroke of a single pen can declare a war. That same pen can also sign the peace treaty, but the sword can’t resurrect a life it has stolen.

The pen is mightier than the sword.

The ink above which it flows is the cauldron of all our birth certificates and love letters, all our last wills and testaments. Swimming in the 26 seas of happenstance, every river of our destiny is brewed.

“People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.”

- Harlan Ellison

We are the Music Makers
25 October 2013

Back in 1997, when I published The Gothic Rainbow, the first volume in my duology, The Vampire Noctuaries, it was the only novel I had ever seen with a musical playlist in the back of the book. I’m not saying I originated this idea nor do I proclaim to be the first author to create a playlist. I’m saying I was the first, to my knowledge. Feel free to correct me if you can prove anyone did such a thing before 1997.

Today, I wouldn’t call musical playlists “common” for novels, but they are far more prevalent in 2013 than they were 20 years prior.

When I first got into music, like most teenagers, I was into Top 40 Pop Music. Between radio, and movies, and MTV, that type of music was the most commonplace. It was easy access. Simple to find. Artists being played in the American Bandstand and American Top 40 genre have evolved over the years, but those tunes have been the predominant staple of American teenagers since the 1950’s. During my high school days, I was into Madonna and Prince and Michael Jackson and Van Halen and Cyndi Lauper. That was my style of music.

Then in 1987, my whole musical world changed.

I started skateboarding with a friend from high school named Attila (no, that wasn’t a nickname) and he was into all sorts of punk and industrial music. We’d go skateboarding and he’d bring along a boom box and play The Sisters of Mercy and Front 242 and Front Line Assembly and Siouxsie & The Banshees and I was totally blown away by this music. Especially industrial acts like Nitzer Ebb - I’d never heard music like that before. It was amazing! It was danceable like pop music, but so hardcore and aggressive like metal, but it was all electronic and didn’t have guitar solos and stuff. I was floored by this. Discovering a new band is a great feeling, but to discover entire genres of music you had never heard before transcends into a life-changing experience. Plus, it was so great for skateboarding because the music was so aggressive and technical, exactly like skating. A little My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult provided the perfect soundtrack for a skate session. It’s great. It’s great. I’m the white rabbit!

Skateboarding to that music is how I got hooked. This style of music was truly “underground” because it was harder to track down. You needed to make more of an effort to find these bands. I started watching 120 Minutes on MTV and listening to college radio. (Incidentally, to this day, Cleveland still has the absolute greatest variety of college radio stations I know. Los Angeles doesn’t have anything like it. I can still stream 88.7 and 89.3 and 91.1 over the Internet and hear all the great Cleveland stations from John Carrol, Cleveland State and Case Western.) I became immersed in that musical scene. As time went on, I started clubbing, and going to shows, and making music videos for local bands. I even started a music video program on cable access called Shellsongs and showcased bands from Nettwerk and WaxTrax! and Projekt and any other labels that would send me videos of alternative acts.

By the time I started writing The Vampire Noctuaries, I was steeped in that scene and had become exhaustively knowledgeable about the people, the atmosphere, the culture, the music, everything. That was my crowd. That was my social life. That “counterculture from the underground” (to quote KMFDM) was where I met all my friends, and where I was introduced to all the girls I dated, and where I went to parties, and where I spent my weekend nights. That club scene became my universe.

Being an author, immersed in a world of pale clubkids covered by black lipstick and fishnet and shadows, writing a vampire novel was just a natural progression from the atmosphere within which I was living.

One of the major differences between being a fan of Top 40 music and being an underground clubkid was how important music became to us. This is something the Top 40 kids never understood, but we knew intimately. When your favorite band is Bon Jovi, you get to see one show every three years from nosebleed seats in a massive arena. Your musical heroes remain distant. Untouchable. Removed. When your favorite band is The Dead Milkmen or Nine Inch Nails, you got to see them every 6 months in a club that seats 800 people and go stagediving and hang out with them at the afterparty. Energy from the band and the crowd becomes symbiotic. You become a part of the music scene. Shows are intimate. Connected. Our counterculture microcosm was a completely different experience from the fans of commercial radio.

As a result of these experiences, The Vampire Noctuaries became filled with gothic and industrial music. The Gothic Rainbow contains references to over 180 songs while the sequel, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival has a list of over 90 songs.

How much does music play a part in The Vampire Noctuaries?

The first line of the first book reads:

Allyson called it “The Killing Game”.

A reference to the song by Skinny Puppy.

To this day, I remember how excited I was, the first time I read a book with a song reference in it. It was in the book Yarrow by Charles DeLint and the reference was to “Don’t You Want Me” by Human League. (Actually, there was a reference to “Clampdown” by The Clash before that, but I was only 15 years old and it would be another year or two before I discovered music as cool as The Clash.)

Perhaps I found it so exciting simply because no other books I had ever read made any pop culture references. Most books just existed within their own little universe with few references to the real world around us. Sure, I had read urban fantasy before. But somehow, having a character walk past McDonald’s just wasn’t the same as listening to music. The emotional connection we feel to music makes it a far more visceral thing to mention. When a book finally broke that barrier and suddenly a bit of pop culture and music was part of the story, I was completely enthralled. The novel felt so much more “real”, because now the author was referencing things I was familiar with, instead of just creating imaginary euphemisms for reality.

That became my goal with the songs in The Vampire Noctuaries.

I wanted readers to really feel those scenes. I wanted the music to truly act as a soundtrack and an emotional buoy to help readers float through the sentiments of the landscape. Every song is very deliberate and chosen for the lyrics, the emotional tone, or often times for both.

Once the book was released, the sheer volume of music helped to get the book noticed in places that would ordinarily ignore it. For example, when I sent a copy to the alternative music magazine Outburn for a review, they initially refused to cover the book, since they were a music magazine, not a literary magazine. After reading the book, the editor realized how relevant the book was to the music scene and not only was I offered a two-page interview, but they started distributing it in their catalog. Thus the mere presence of so much music in the story started to make the novel stand out, in places it ordinarily would never have appeared.

The most exciting part about including all the music was the opportunity to meet various musicians like Siouxsie Sioux of Siouxsie & The Banshees and Toni Halliday of Curve and give them copies of my novel. I never heard back from them. I don’t know if they read the book or not. That’s not the point. The point is, I gave it them.

I’m very grateful to all the wonderful musical acts who inspired and helped to shape the world of The Vampire Noctuaries and even if you never read my books, I highly recommend that you purchase these songs and albums and add them to your collection. I can only hope that someday, the admiration might come full-circle, and one of my novels might be quoted in a song lyric of a fantastic musician. That would really be something. We’ll see what the future holds.

The Genesis of Birthing Dawn
24 November 2013

“Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer.”

- Ray Bradbury

How did I become a writer?

Ah, the age old question...

Storytelling technology has advanced at a staggering rate. In the course of a mere 4 generations, the entire world has shifted. At the start of the 20th century, children had nothing but books to tell them stories. The next generation had silent movies. The next generation gained radio. A generation after that was given television. The next generation culminated all of these technologies into the Internet.

Like most kids in the latter half of the 20th century, I grew up with storybooks and movies and television. Although I had an early love for Choose Your Own Adventure tales, my love for true literary books (i.e. ones without illustrations) didn’t begin until the 6th grade when our English teacher, Mrs. Moose, began reading stories in class. She would read us children’s literature books like The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks and A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle and The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. Thanks to Mrs. Moose, I started reading other books on my own, like The Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell and Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White and more Chronicles of Narnia. That was my first exposure to “real” books. Other than storybooks I read as a child, I had never read books for fun, and Mrs. Moose showed us just how spellbinding they could be. Her influence was where my voracity for reading originated.

During that same year, my obsession with reading faded and a new obsession began - playing Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. Instead of reading stories, tabletop role-playing games led me to start inventing stories. Developing characters. Making up histories and plots and backgrounds. Slowly, I became interested in other tabletop role-playing games as well, such as Star Frontiers and Marvel Super Heroes. Role-playing games are unequivocally the greatest single resource for developing creativity. Gaming with these dice and rulebooks hones skills in writing, acting, mathematics, cartography, storytelling, illustration, diplomacy, critical thinking, and more. Depending upon the level of detail you incorporate, you can learn painting and architecture and engineering and costuming. The potential for education is staggering and the benefits for sharpening ones imagination are nearly boundless as no whetstone polishes a keener edge than tabletop role-playing games.

Around the same time, I started collecting comic books. I never became a big comic book collector. I doubt I ever owned more than about 50 of them. However, comics became yet another form of storytelling to explore and savor.

Those experiences - movies, novels, role-playing games, comic books - all informed my love of weaving tales, but the idea to actually become an author still hadn’t occurred to me. Not ever. Not once.

All that changed in the summer of 1984, at the age of 13, when I saw the movie The NeverEnding Story for the first time. That film became the turning point.

In that darkened movie theatre, in Parma, Ohio, when the Childlike Empress spoke of we others sharing in the adventures of Bastian, my heart sank. The lines between fiction and reality began to blur. Where did dreams and fantasies end and the real world begin? The Empress was clearly “real” in that moment. I saw her. I heard her. The story of which she spoke had truly unfolded before my eyes. I had shared in this experience. Everything she was saying was true. This wasn’t makebelieve at all.

How could that be? How was it possible that a makebelieve movie had actually become real?

For the first time in my life, the immeasurable potential of storytelling had become evident. All at once, I understood that the power of imagination had the ability to transform the real world around us and I was astonished by this realization. Everything shifted in that moment. This wasn’t merely the birth of a dream, the spawning of an aspiration. No. This manifested as an omnipotent enlightenment, germinating deep in the very core of my consciousness. This was not a mere call to spirit. It was a definition of being.

Reading the book proved to be even more wondrous than seeing the film.

The lightningstorm. Power going out. Forced to read by candlelight with a Gmork shadow in the corner.

Most of you don’t know what any of that means. If you’re over 18, you’ve probably forgotten. One or two of you are from my tribe though, and you know. You know the enchantment of which I speak.

That was when I knew, my task was to be a savior of Fantastica. As one who had grown up loving storytelling so much, and having been telling stories without even realizing it, all of those feelings decisively coalesced in my discovery of Fantasia. At last I “got it” and all the loose ends tied together perfectly.

This was the answer.

This is what I was supposed to be doing with my life.

As human beings, we are our stories. All we are as people, our values, our dreams, our most beloved memories, wishes, hopes, accomplishments - they all manifest as stories. Talk about your childhood. Talk about your career. Talk about your family. Talk about your lovers. They are all stories. We are nothing without our stories. This is why Alzheimer’s is so heartbreaking to families - because a loved one is becoming disconnected from the stories of who they are. Memories are stories. Storytelling is the essence of all humanity. In every culture. In every age. And thereby, storytellers are entrusted to a sublime quest and elevated to the most sacred custodians of the human soul. Thus I finally understood why, to follow this path is both burden and blessing; a loathsome curse and the greatest of honors.

But one of the most important elements of the experience, the deciding factor that tipped the scales for me, was the simple fact that no one else had any clue what I was talking about. Anytime I attempted to articulate my epiphany, friends and family looked at me as though I were a 5 year old with a brain injury.

“Ohhh. Poor kid. Few screws loose, huh?”

All my life, if there’s one thing I’ve learned - the more people think I’m crazy for trying something, the more I’m treated with doubt and scorn, the more I know I’m on the right track.

During and after highschool, I tried to write a few novels off the cuff. They never seemed to work.

After years of soulsearching, in 1993, I conceded that perhaps I should attempt outlining a novel first.

Three years later, The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries was complete.

At that point in my life, it was my single greatest achievement. My proudest moment. I had done it. I was no longer a wanna-be novelist. I was a legitimate novelist.

The pride and sense of accomplishment didn’t last for long. Slowly, I began to feel inadequate. I had achieved something, but hadn’t done enough. Only one novel? This was so minor, so small, compared to what I felt capable of achieving when I had looked into the eyes of the Golden-Eyed Commander of Wishes all those years ago. No. Not only small compared to what I felt capable of achieving, but compared to what I felt avowed to achieve. Was I letting the Empress down? Was I a second-rate hero?

The most important lesson I learned in completing The Gothic Rainbow is that writing a novel is meaningless. Anybody can do that. What a terrifying thought to realize. I had not become a young dreamer, nobly forging ahead to make his wishes come true. Instead, I had joined the ranks of the tenacious failures - the ones who give up the race after the first hurdle. How many fools out there create one movie and never set foot on a filmset again? Write one novel and quit when the sales are awful? Direct a single play? Choreograph one dance? The world is full of underachievers like me - only touching 80% of our potential, because we know it put us 120% ahead of everyone else. The boulevard of broken dreams is littered with the fortitude of quitters. Any hobbyist can construct a novel on a whim. Being a mere writer is pointless. Being a prolific writer - ah, now there is an aspiration. Not to create a singular effort, but to amass a body of work. Works of substance. Works with depth and weight and valuable meaning. A lone novel is simply a cornerstone. It’s nowhere near being the entire chapel and every god of light and darkness has decreed I have a monsoon of cathedrals to build.

All my life, I thought I wanted to write novels.

I was wrong.

Such is a child’s ambition; an infantile hope devoid of vision.

What I truly dreamed was legacy.

That is what I was meant to conjure. Not flashpaper illusions. Dragonflames. Blizzardborn alone to torchbare the gift of Prometheus.

Writing isn’t about a book. I know that now. Writing was never about a story. Writing is about a lifetime. Writing is about building something imbued with transcendence. This is bigger than any book. This needed to be something that could be looked back upon in history, with awe and reverence, as legendary. That is the mark, nay the scorch, one seeks to leave etched into the Earth.

In this task, I must not fail.

Authoring a novel is only a drop, in an ocean demanding to be filled with the sacrifice of your blood, sweat, and tears.

Writing a single novel is the most irrelevant of achievements. Merely the first step on the path.

Learning that was the most vital of lessons. The moment of realization that your greatest achievement is insignificant. And you have much, much more to do; and seas of ink to bleed.

That’s how I became a writer.

“Writing is the hardest work in the world. I have been a bricklayer and a truck driver, and I tell you - as if you haven’t been told a million times already - that writing is harder. Lonelier. And nobler and more enriching.”

- Harlan Ellison

What the Heck is BookTube?
6 December 2013

“Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”

- Kurt Vonnegut

I’ve been on YouTube for half a decade and I never knew what the hell “BookTube” was about until a few months ago. As a novelist, once I understood how cool the BookTube community was, I felt it was my duty to explain it to you good people who may not know.

Now the reason I call it an official/unoffical community is because there’s no centralized “membership” to become a BookTuber. Basically, anyone can start doing book review videos and declare themselves a BookTuber and if the other popular BookTubers accept you, then you’re in. That sounds awful to put it that way. Makes it sound like some clique in junior high or a fraternity hazing or something. But like I said, it’s not an official thing. So, if the circle of people in the BookTube community decide that you’re lame or something, it’s not like you can’t keep making book review videos. You can still declare yourself a BookTuber, you just might be one who is sitting all alone at the lunch table.

A majority of the BookTube community consists of very cute college girls who read young adult books and never seem to swear. They’re adorably prim and proper in that way. There aren’t many boys who are part of BookTube and there aren’t many people who are under 18 or over 25. I’m not sure why that demographic comprises a majority of the BookTube community. Perhaps because girls read more than boys, they are old enough to have the money to buy books, and young enough to not be intimidated by Internet technology. There you go - not all, but most BookTubers; college chicks.

Three of the most popular styles of BookTube videos are reviews, tags, and book hauls.

Reviews are pretty self-explanatory. You read a book. You talk about it. You give your opinion. I have made quite a number of book reviews myself and have a list of many more I want to do. I don’t do negative book reviews for three reasons:

a.) Even a shitty book takes a lot of work and as an author, I don’t want to disparage the effort a fellow author has made.

b.) There are 6 billion people on earth, so if a book is so awful only one in a million people like it, there will be 6000 people who think it’s brilliant. Just because I dislike it doesn’t make it bad. You might love it.

c.) Why waste my time talking about a shitty book? Books are like girlfriends. Even if they treated you like shit, you don’t talk smack about them; that’s just not classy.

My reviews tend to be a little different than most. Often times, I enjoy going off on anecdotes and tangents and telling tales related to my own life and experiences with the book. Or maybe I’ll talk about ways in which my writing was influenced by another author. After all, to me, that’s the whole point of reading. Reading not about the book. Reading is about how that book touches your life. I’m sure some readers would dislike that style of review, but that’s the type of review I enjoy the most coming from other people, so I like emulating such an approach.

In a tag video, someone posts a question for fellow BookTubers to answer. For example, “Who are your 5 favorite literary villains?” or “Do you tend to buy hardcovers or paperbacks?” or “Which novel by Eric Muss-Barnes did you like the most?” Now when a BookTuber makes a tag video, they pick other BookTubers to “tag” and those BookTubers are supposed to create response videos and in turn tag some more people. You notify people they have been tagged however you want. YouTube messages. Twitter hashtags. Facebook notices. Whatever. By tagging and responding and passing the tag along, it creates an ongoing dialog and stronger sense of community. Tagging is a way to emulate the kind of interaction you have on a standard Internet forum wherein you post a topic and people respond. I’ve never tagged anyone or been tagged, which is a good thing because I shoot my videos in batches. Which means, if I got tagged, I wouldn’t answer for months and that would just be rude... or eccentric. Depends on your point of view.

In a book haul video, people share the latest books they have purchased. Like music lovers buying a ton of records all at once, many booklovers tend to buy books in bulk. Three, four, five, ten, a dozen at a time. Then they make a video telling you what they bought. Book haul videos are so popular, many BookTubers post more book haul videos than book reviews. Book hauls are a thing I just don’t understand. Who the hell cares which books you own? What matters is what books you’ve read. Owning books is pointless if you never read them. Right? So, book reviews I get. You want to talk about something you enjoyed or disliked. Okay. Cool. Talking about books you merely purchased but haven’t experienced? I don’t get that. Suffice to say, I will never do a book haul. I’m happy to tell you what I’ve read, I see no point in telling you what I’m planning to read.

But hey, more power to you! If you enjoy making book haul videos and people enjoy watching them, that’s great. Like I said, they are exceptionally popular in the BookTube community. So if that’s your thing, you keep on truckin’ Pippy Longstocking.

Well, that’s that. A quick overview of BookTube. Be sure to check out some of my book reviews. I like to think some of my reading preferences might broaden your horizons and open you up to wonderful tales you’ve never heard of before. And of course, I highly recommend you check out some of the channels I’ve subscribed to on YouTube and watch some of the more popular members of the BookTube community. Their videos are often fun and entertaining and clever and most important of all, you may end up being exposed to some great writing and books you never would have otherwise discovered.

Plus, there’s nothing sexier than a bookwormish girl. Did I mention most of them are cute college chicks?

The Bile of Apathetic Critics
16 December 2013

“If this nation is to be wise as well as strong, if we are to achieve our destiny, then we need more new ideas for more wise men reading more good books in more public libraries. These libraries should be open to all - except the censor. We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. Let us welcome controversial books and controversial authors. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty.”

- President John F. Kennedy

Writers often presume that criticism falls into two categories - positive criticism and negative criticism. Positive criticism is seen as a good thing. Negative criticism is seen as a bad thing. But I beg to differ. I say they are both good. Why is negative criticism a good thing? Because people who offer negative criticism of your work actually do care about it. They cared enough to read your story. They cared enough to comment. They cared enough to bother.

I’ve always said, “I would rather be hated than ignored.” That doesn’t apply to Nazis or Ku Klux Klan members, but it does apply to book critics.

I think a lot of creative people can understand that. Would you rather create something and have people say, “Oh, my god! That was awful! I can’t believe you did that! What were you thinking!? How could you waste your time!? It was so offensive. So poorly made. You look like an idiot!” or would you want to hear, “Eh, it was okay, I guess.”

After pouring your heart and soul into something, hearing, “Eh, it was okay” is one of the worst reactions you can receive. Being completely ignored is awful. When no one gives a shit to say anything, because what you create is so irrelevant, it doesn’t inspire a response from anybody; Those are the worst of insults. Those lukewarm noncommittal compliments. Disingenuous support. Passionate loathing at least stirs up some emotions. To have someone react with utter contempt shows some fervor! Utter disinterest is far more crushing.

So, you see, negative criticism can be a good thing.

Don’t be disheartened by negative criticism.

Being truly disheartened comes from apathetic criticism.

What is apathetic criticism? Apathetic criticism is a phrase I have coined as the horrid third type of criticism. The type you will hear far more frequently than the others. Apathetic criticism is defined as comments from those who don’t actually give a shit to purchase or read your work, but offer you their opinions on it anyway. Fuck those people. Good or bad, positive or negative, you don’t need them. Apathetic critics are far more cruel than negative ones. Negative critics at least take the time to read your work. Apathetic critics couldn’t care less. They couldn’t care less about you. They couldn’t care less about your book. They couldn’t care less about your success or failure.

Do you really want those people to influence your decisions?

The ones who find your dreams to be so irrelevant, they don’t even regard them as laughable?

There is a special place buried beneath the sewage of the Ninth Level of Hell reserved for apathetic critics. Right below child molesters and people who shoot video of rock concerts on their cellphones, you’ll find apathetic critics.

As I alluded to earlier, an important thing to note is that apathetic critics are not always negative. Sometimes, apathetic criticism comes from very well-meaning people who are actually trying to be positive.

For example, I’ve had people tell me how proud they are of me for writing a book, when I know for a fact they have never read them, nor do they ever intend to.

That is apathetic criticism. Pretending to care, when they actually don’t give a fuck.

Now I don’t know about you, but, if I were sincerely proud of a person who wrote a book, or composed an album, or filmed a movie, I’d want to read that book. Right? I’d want to listen to that album or see that movie. If I were truly proud of them, if I were genuinely impressed with their accomplishment, I’d want to experience whatever artwork they created. To claim that you’re proud of something, then turn around and totally blow it off and ignore it, means you’re a lying sack of shit. You’re an apathetic critic. You’re telling someone how great they are, without really giving damn about what they have done.

I will admit, there have indeed been times when fellow authors have given me books to read, and I’ve never read them. There have been musicians who have given me albums, and I’ve never listened to them. However, if I have not taken the time to read a book or listen to an album, I have never presumed to make a commentary on said work. Therein lies the distinction. I would not dare criticize books or albums that I know nothing about.

Apathetic critics also come in a negative form. The people who have never read your work and say you should continue to pursue other skills, so you can be sure to make a living.

Case in point, one day in the summer of 2013, I was riding the pool at the Venice skatepark and I ran into a fellow who had been job hunting for 3 years. He was accustomed to earning a 6-figure income, so being out of work for 3 years had been quite difficult on him emotionally and financially. He knew I had been laid off from Disney a few months earlier and I told him I was still diligently job hunting but in my sparetime, I was focused on being a novelist and I am writing every single day. He replied that I should make sure I get a job to pay the bills and I should write novels as a hobby on the side.

It was a wonderful moment. After all, a guy forced to leave the state of California because he can’t find work clearly has no business giving anyone career advice. I maintain that you only take advice from people when you want to emulate their lives. His fear and incredulity made me realize, I was definitely on the right track.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a literary genius, but, what if I was? He had no idea! He’s never read any of my books. Never read my commentaries or essays. He has no clue about anything I’ve ever written. I could be the most brilliant author that has ever walked the earth, possessing a mastery of the English language with a skill beyond reproach. And he’s telling me to make sure I have a fallback, working at McDonalds, just in case?

Fuck him too.

Apathetic critic. They don’t really give a shit if you’re any good. They don’t care. Without knowing anything about you, they just assume you suck.

I said it before and I’ll say it again: Negative criticism is a wonderful thing. I love negative critics. Because they actually cared enough to bother. They respected your efforts enough to take time out of their day to read your book, listen to your album, watch your movie. For that, I am truly grateful.

Apathetic critics? Those jerks can jump off a bridge... onto shards of glass... while on fire.

“I have spent a good many years since - too many, I think - being ashamed about what I write. I think I was forty before I realized that almost every writer of fiction or poetry who has ever published a line has been accused by someone of wasting his or her God-given talent. If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that’s all.”

- Stephen King

The Illiterate Readers
16 December 2013

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.”

Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

There once was a time when the utterly mindnumbing lack of reading comprehension and deductive reasoning skills illustrated in comments on the Internet were disheartening to me. I used to actually waste my time trying to explain myself to the mindless denizens of cyberspace until I finally remembered that the reason no one understands me is not because I’m inarticulate, but because they simply lack the intelligence to grasp what I’m saying. Intellect (or lack thereof) varies depending upon the nature of the Internet community in question. I’m sure you’ve seen the kind of people I’m talking about. People (for lack of a better term) are atrociously ignorant on news websites and theistic video commentaries. Personally, I don’t even waste my time by acknowledging the existence of people who are intellectually inferior. Why bother? Bragging about decimating these people in a debate is like a katana-wielding ninja thinking he accomplished something by killing a newborn armed with a wet noodle. I never argue with idiots on the Internet because winning is the equivalent of being an Olympic athlete and beating someone in the Special Olympics. That’s not an achievement.

When I was in gradeschool, year after year, I consistently ranked in the top percentiles for reading comprehension on IOWA Basic national aptitude tests. In fact, in the fourth grade, I ranked in the 98th percentile of the country, which my ego recalls very vividly, because it put me on par with the average high school senior.

In other words, when I read something, I get it. In fact, I get it better than almost everyone.

So, I evolved from being frustrated, to being angry, to being apathetic when I encounter people who are too dumb to follow what is being said. Now, when I explain things very clearly, and people don’t understand it, I rarely even bother to clarify. Why waste my time on the neruotypical drones?

The neurotypical drones have been dutifully programmed to read certain things, to understand certain things, to follow certain algorithms, and they dare not deviate from their preordained paths.

At the time I did this commentary, one of the more popular social networking websites for discussing books was called Goodreads, which had about 14 million members.

Goodreads is set up like most social networking sites. You create a profile for yourself and you are free to make it as sparse or as personal and detailed as you would like. The site has an enormous cross-referenced database of hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of books. People add books they have read to their profiles and write reviews of books and categorize books and so forth. Goodreads is a fantastic platform for book lovers to discuss their passions for stories and authors. And for future dystopian tyrants, a wonderful way to herd the dissenters who have perused forbidden literature.

Lately, I’ve noticed there was one member on Goodreads who seems to have, well, let’s just say she appears to have some men issues.

The woman is a voracious reader, which is usually a good thing. However, all of her reviews, which she posts quite frequently and cover hundreds of books, all seem to be trashy romance novels. She reads nothing of substance. And her personalized categories of books are things like:

hero-jerk

hero-alpha-obsessed

cheating-abuse

hero-cheats

hard-to-forgive

cruel-hero

hero-chauvinist

manslut

Now, if it wasn’t bemusing and odd enough that she took the time to invent and organize her books into these granular misandrist categories, most of these categories have an average of 20 books in them, while her more positive categories of books only have 3 or 4 entries tops. Incidentally, she had also recorded that she was interested in reading Romeo & Juliet. How’s that for ironic? She’s read hundreds of trashy romance novels and never read what most people regard as the single most romantic lovestory in the history of the English language.

Does she understand what she’s reading? Remember when I took those aptitude tests in gradeschool, I consistently scored in the top percentiles for reading comprehension, so this is why I’m always so exasperated with people who make comments on the Internet and clearly scored in the remaining 2nd percentile. I’m genuinely baffled by her criticisms of these books because, she’s reading trashy romance novels! What the hell does she expect? This genre of books has always been brimming with bodice ripping chauvinists and submissive prissy sluts. They should really stop calling them romance novels and just call them Chauvinists & Sluts, like it’s a new role-playing game. These books do not contain deep and profound insights on the human condition or imaginative tales of love and passion. They are tripe. Fluff. Filler. They are useless shit bought by fatchick virgins, lonely housewives and frigid business women in airports who read it on the plane and get their panties wet before tossing them in the garbage at their destination. I mean tossing the book, not the panties.

This is why I suspect the woman in question clearly has some psychological trauma pertaining to men. Abuse issues. Infidelity issues. Daddy issues. Whatever it happens to be, I don’t fucking know, but it must be something. After all, reading hundreds of novels about romantic relationships just so you can angrily complain about the immorality of fictional men? Hey, I’m no psychiatrist, but that doesn’t sound very healthy to me. An emotionally stable person might get kind of bored with deliberately subjecting oneself to an endless barrage of lovesick animosity. You might want to go read a children’s book or pet a kitten or watch a sunset or some fucking thing.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not of the mindset that all art must have value. Of course not. You have timeless and priceless Renaissance master painters, then you have garbage from graffiti taggers and Andy Warhol. You have music from Mozart which stands the test of time, then you have mindless bullshit like dubstep (which is nothing but techno under a different name, which is nothing but instrumental disco) and an entire generation of hipster fucktards who have honestly deluded themselves into believing that DJs are musicians (which is as ignorant as saying projectionists are actors, but that’s a different tangent). Worthwhile and worthless, they all have their place. Books work the same way. You have classic fiction like Ray Bradbury and L. Frank Baum and you have these trashy romance novels that you can’t even wipe your ass with, because it would be an insult to toilet paper.

I have no gripe that these obtuse books exist. I have no problem with authors who write this crap. Pulpy bullshit is just as valid as a belletristic masterpiece. (You like that word? Belletristic? Go get the dictionary. It’s a good one.) Trashy and classy have equal rights to be part of our academic heritage. Besides, there are a lot of hollow skulls walking around out there and those zombies deserve some literary entertainment just as much as the rest of us. You don’t honestly expect the entirety of the literate populous to comprehend Shakespeare, do you? We need a certain quantity of feebleminded books, composed at a 2nd grade reading level, for all those public high school graduates to understand. Encouraging our benighted culture to read is much easier when we provide them with novels that are the scholarly equivalent of The Beverly Hillbillies.

There’s nothing wrong with vapid books, I just don’t understand why some people cleave to them so.

In a similar vein to the angry fem-Nazi man-hating psychochick I just mentioned, I also came across an effeminate fairyboy on the Internet, who does book reviews, and bragged that he only reads one particular genre of books, Young Adult. There’s nothing wrong with preferring a certain category of books, but to proudly profess you read nothing else? Again, I thought this was rather pathetic and certainly not something to boast about.

There’s nothing wrong with having a classification of books that you enjoy more than others. But to blatantly disregard everything else? That’s sheer stupidity. Such an attitude makes you kind of an intellectual buffoon, an illiterate reader. After all, if you possess the ability to read but the only thing you ever read are fortune cookies, then in practice, you are illiterate. All the wonderful thoughts and stories and ideas and learning you can gain by diversifying your interests is gone. You end up turning into a fucking idiot with a big library. I’ve never been impressed with people simply because they read a lot. Diversity is far more important than quantity. Just because you read a lot of books doesn’t make you smart or worldly or intellectual. You are what you read. Bragging that you read nothing but vapid and shallow and unimaginative books makes you... well... there you go.

Remember that; being a voracious reader is something to be proud of only if you are reading a vast array of books. Fiction. Nonfiction. Poetry. Essays. Comics. Screenplays. Read it all. In every genre and category you can imagine. Reading, in and of itself, is not a noble thing, because if you read nothing but hollow and empty books you’re just as zombified as someone who watches trash television. Don’t get all high and mighty and presume reading makes you special, if you spend all your time reading garbage. Don’t pride yourself on being an illiterate reader.

“I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.”

- Mark Twain

Most Of You Authors Are Dictators
17 December 2013

“I got the characters to come to me. Montag came and said, ‘Do you know who I am completely?’ I said, ‘No.’ I said, ‘Tell me.’ And the fire chief came to me, and he told me about his prior life. I said to the fire chief, ‘Why did you burn books?’ And he told me. And Clarisse McClellan came, who was a 16 year old girl, who was in love with books and libraries and life. And she told me more about herself. And Fabers came to me, and he was a philosopher, and he wrote the book. You see, all my characters write the book. I don’t write the book. All these characters come to me and say, ‘Listen to me.’ And then I listen to them and I put it down, and the book gets written. That’s how I write, you see. All these lovers surround me, and they love life and they tell me about it.”

- Ray Bradbury

Fictional characters are sacred beings. They are the epitome of divine messengers, deserving of all the reverence bestowed to the holiest celestial spirits.

But to you authors who “control” your characters, they are never respected as angels, they are your prisoners. To be blessed with the toil of storytelling is to become a custodian of the human spirit. You who attempt to control that, are the worst of miscreants. This is not about something as petty as your will. This is a far loftier charge.

‘Tis a crusade of nobility. The only virtue I lack is humility and thus I am quite free to judge.

Our mission is to observe. To report with poetry and clarity. To be true to their story. To share it as they will. To befriend the whisper. To hearken the shadow. To respect that which they entrust to us. We are merely the messengers. Humbly and temporarily bearing the torch bequeathed unto us.

And with the purest and noblest intentions, it feels like we’ll never, ever get it right. The breeze muffles the whisper. The fog shrouds the vision. We tear the shirts from our bodies and give ourselves ten lashes for failing them. We can only pray that someday, perhaps after we’ve done this for 50 or 60 or 70 years, we might learn enough to barely glimpse the far off pinnacle of the potential we have been striving to live up to, since the first second we were countenanced to scrawl ink to parchment. To such ideals shall I always cling, even unto the Stygian depths.

And through all those decades, every moment we sit before the promise of a blank page, our hearts overflow their brim with love and honor and bliss at knowing we have been charged with this prodigious burden to be the lifelong chamberlains of dreams and chroniclers of destiny.

“Posterity is the only reason to do this. If you want to make money, writing is not the way to do it. My God, writing is one of the toughest gigs in the world. So why do you do it? It’s ego and posterity.”

- Harlan Ellison

There Are No Adults Or Children
17 December 2013

“The reason why my books are popular because they know I’m a lover, and my works are poetic. I didn’t know I was writing poetry, but I am. But at the center of my books is the gift of life. That day, when I was 12, and discovered I was alive. When people touch my books, they’re alive. So that’s the gift I give to them, and I want them to carry them back and forth to the library. Love what you do and do what you love. Don’t listen to anyone else who tells you not to do it. You do what you want, what you love, so you as a child must imagine what you want, and then you build it. Anything that you want, but imagination should be the center of your life. Fantasy at the center of your life... We are all the sons and the daughters of time, so I thank the universe for making life on earth, and allowing me to come alive here.”

- Ray Bradbury

You are a brand. What is your theme?

As a writer, those are two concepts you need to recognize if you’re intending to market your books to the world. Remember, publishing your books is a business and like any business, you need to project a certain image and promote yourself as such.

There were two reasons I was mortified the first time I heard this idea:

1. No human being wants to see themselves reduced to symbol. I love to write! Period. I wanted no more “granular” a category to be placed upon me! All manner of subjects pique my interest. I refused to be labeled and categorized and stuffed in a neat container to describe my written creations! Don’t all artists yearn for “artistic freedom”? How can you have that freedom if you’re packaged into an singular genre? Perhaps the worst part about this was knowing, no matter how much I wanted to fight against being a “brand”... I would become one regardless of whether I wanted to or not. As people came to know my writing, they would put the labels upon me. That’s the way people are. I had no choice. I would become a “brand” even if I didn’t want to be! Well, if I have no choice in the matter, shouldn’t I at least invent the niche myself?

2. I thought I didn’t have a theme. The diversity of my writing, which I feel is a great strength, may, in fact, prove to be my downfall. I have no consistent message to anything I write! I’m not a genre writer! I don’t write horror books or science fiction or fantasy or young adult or romance novels. In fact, I have touched upon all of those genres and have even written non-fiction books! I don’t even fall into speculative fiction or imaginative literature. I’m like Ellison, Bradbury, Yeats and Asimov - I’m all over the place. Certainly, individual works may conform to genres, but as a raconteur I can not be classified so easily. How can I become marketable if I cannot pigeonholed into a genre?

That is why the idea of being treated as a “brand” frightened me. Because I didn’t want to be one, and although I knew I should label and categorize myself before anyone else did, I feared, to my detriment, my diverse writing styles left me too confounded to verbalize a succinct label.

Then one day, it hit me.

I realized, while a singular genre may not be befitting, nevertheless, my writing does have a motif. There is a theme to all of my work. I do have an underlying message. Mine is relishing our brief mortality. Our finite time upon the earth. “The transcendental nature of man” if you want to get haughty about it and phrase it in a way that sounds pretentiously academic. All of my work, everything I write today, everything I wrote as a teenager, all of it, ultimately boils down to that same message - reminding people “life is short, so make the most of the time you’re given”.

There is a common misconception that kids and teens “think they will live forever” but if that is a typical attitude, I know I certainly never possessed it. For as long as I can recall, I have always been very cognizant of my own mortality. Perhaps, as I often have theorized, this fact about my personality stems from my unconventional perception of time.

See, most folks view time as a linear and compartmentalized experience. Birth. Infancy. Childhood. Teens. College. Adulthood. Retirement. Older Than Dirt. Death.

Newborns and senior citizens are practically perceived as different species. I’ve never seen life that way. I’ve always viewed living as a singular experience. I’ve never perceived time as a line. It’s a sphere. You hold it in your hand. Life. And all those moments between birth and death are swirling around inside of it.

Even when I was a teenager, I was painfully aware of this sense of mortality. I always viewed my life with a certain remorse because by the age of 15 the thought that I may only have another 80 years to live seemed so painfully short to me. 80 years? That’s all!? That’s not enough time to accomplish anything! Not with all the things I would love to do in life! How can I be expected to achieve greatness with so little time on my hands?

And here’s the thing - I know, I know for a fact most of you will laugh at that! You will think that’s a joke. But it’s not. I’m completely serious! And that’s what makes the way I see life so very different from the way you see it. You think 80 years is all the time in the world and I think it’s barely a heartbeat. Barely a heartbeat!

There’s so little time. And it does not matter if you die at 8 or 18 or 30 or 97, it’s always too soon. It still wasn’t enough time to get everything done. There’s so much to do. And so little time to do it.

I was listening to the radio

I heard a song reminded me of long ago

Back then I thought that things were never gonna change

It used to be that I never had to feel the pain

I know that things will never be the same now

- Eddie Money

I Wanna Go Back

When I was in high school, I remember that Billy Satellite coversong coming out and feeling nostalgic for my high school days. I totally understood what Eddie Money was talking about. I was a high school Sophomore at the time.

When I told my friends, “This song is going to be how all of us feel someday.”

They laughed at me and said, “What the hell are you talking about? You’re still in high school!”

I saw the big picture. I could see the whole of my life. They could only see the pinpoint they were living. They had no clue. They had no vision. The blinders were secure.

Just like them, once again, most of you don’t have any fucking idea what I’m saying. You think 4 years of high school is a long time. You think graduating college puts you so far away from junior high. You think 18 is an adult, just because the law says so. You think 25 is getting old. You think 40 is over the hill. You think 60 is ancient. You think 80 is one foot in the grave and you live your life to assure that’s what it will be. For the likes of you. You people have no fucking clue how young we all are, how very little we have learned, and how short all of it is. How brief a time you have. How close 20 and 70 are to each other. Fifty years is nothing. You don’t know that to live a life which lasts a century is only a fleeting singular event blooming into wondrous existence and snuffing out in the blink of an eye.

What is the theme of my writing? This. To awaken and live what you have, for there be so little time to live it.

This is why writing is so important to me. This is why the dream of posterity is so crucial to all writers like myself. We have a sacrosanct message to convey. One so vital that we must fight to assure the world keeps hearing it, even generations after we are gone.

Writers I idolize, like Ray Bradbury, spoke of love being his theme. Love is the ultimate message of all his works. Indeed a noble one. And if mine be a reverence for the time you have to live upon this earth then writers like he and I do have immortal messages.

For no matter what the future holds. No matter if humanity becomes enlightened in a grand utopia or oppressed in a dire apocalypse, no matter if we be ravaged by wars and atrocities and global catastrophes or we flourish in peace and harmony and enlightenment, messages of love and relishing life will always be applicable to the human condition. No matter if you are the elite upper echelon of an advanced civilized culture or the lowliest depraved criminal in the foulest of third world prisons, simple human truths never change. This is who we are. Good or evil. Wealthy or destitute. Young or old.

Age is irrelevant. You are far younger than you think, yet death is closer than you can possibly imagine. And you are running out of time. Don’t squander the hours you have remaining.

Forget the line.

Remember the sphere.

Every single event in your entire life has lead you to this exact moment in time.

Everything is happening at once.

Savor every second you have left. I guarantee you, they will be gone too soon.

“I talk about the things people have always talked about in stories: pain, hate, truth, courage, destiny, friendship, responsibility, growing old, growing up, falling in love, all of these things. What I try to write about are the darkest things in the soul, the mortal dreads. I try to go into those places in me that contain the cauldrous. I want to dip up the fire, and I want to put it on paper. The closer I get to the burning core of my being, the things which are most painful to me, the better is my work... It is a love/hate relationship I have with the human race. I am an elitist, and I feel that my responsibility is to drag the human race along with me - that I will never pander to, or speak down to, or play the safe game. Because my immortal soul will be lost.”

- Harlan Ellison

How Did Walt Disney Make Me Rant About Levi’s Jeans?
20 December 2013

“By the way if anyone here is in advertising or marketing... kill yourself. No, no, no it’s just a little thought. I’m just trying to plant seeds. Maybe one day, they’ll take root - I don’t know. You try, you do what you can. Kill yourself. Seriously though, if you are, do. Aaah, no really, there’s no rationalization for what you do and you are Satan’s little helpers. Okay - kill yourself - seriously. You are the ruiner of all things good, seriously. No, this is not a joke, you’re going, ‘There’s going to be a joke coming.’ There’s no fucking joke coming. You are Satan’s spawn filling the world with bile and garbage. You are fucked and you are fucking us. Kill yourself. It’s the only way to save your fucking soul. Kill yourself.”

- Bill Hicks

Many times you hear writers talk about the the joy of writing because you get to share these common aspects of the human condition or simply bring smiles and much-needed-escapism into the lives of readers. And, you know, I tend to be a happy and optimistic fellow and honestly, I agree with those motives. Writing is a joy and a blessing and a wonderful medium by which to interact with the world around me.

But sometimes...

Sometimes, when people are self-centered and presumptuous assholes, it’s fantastic to wield the pen which it mightier than the sword and cut off the heads of people who are pricks.

Are you familiar with Bill Hicks? He’s one of my favorite stand-up comedians of all time. Tragically, he died very young in 1994. He was only 32 when he passed away. If you don’t know his material, I encourage you to look him up. In one of his funnier bits, Bill Hicks did a piece on people who worked in marketing and he spoke about how they were all evil demonic spawns of darkness and should kill themselves. It is a hilarious bit. But, I never knew how true it was until March of 2013.

Now, before I tell you what happened, you need to understand a little background about me that you may not know; namely I have been a skateboarder all my life and I have scores of skateboarding videos on the Internet which have upwards of 15,000 subscribers and more than 2 million views. I feature videos on learning to skateboard and reviews of skateparks and contests and so forth. I shoot these videos all around Los Angeles with some of the top skateboarders in the world including Holly Lyons and Sarah Thompson and XGames medalists, Julz Lynn and Lizzie Armanto. Thus, I am quite knowledgeable about skateboarding and skateboarding culture.

Consequently, on 7 March 2013 at 6:55pm I received an unsolicited email from an advertising agency in Marina Del Rey. This is what it said.

Hi Eric,

I hope this email finds you well. My name is Carolyn and I work on the Levi’s account. Levi’s is interested in exploring the Skate culture as a passion point and is interested in getting to know the skate community better and wanted to see if you could help us gain a more intimate understanding of your skate site(s) and its audiences. We are providing a preliminary deep dive on the media landscape as it pertains to Skate, and while Behavioral and Demographic site user data would be helpful we are curious to see how your site participates in an active community role. Information on the unique perspective of your skate communities and how your site communicates with them would be most useful.

Attached is a template for the points of information that would be helpful for this deep dive, but feel free to provide further information as you see fit and list all sites as it relates to the skate category. In addition, any applicable information that could help us gain a better understanding of how your sites relate and converse with its community would be much appreciated. This includes any unique advantages your sites may have interacting with its community such as unique distribution of branded content, organic ways to reach highly-relevant influencers, fostering true engagement, igniting peer-to-peer sharing and other socially relevant activations.

Please let me know if you can help us get to know your community better. We would greatly appreciate if you could send the info back to us by EOD Friday. Please confirm receipt of this request.

Thanks in advance!

Carolyn

She also copied this email to her coworkers Spencer, Scott and Christina. Attached to her email was a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet called “Levis Skate Site Deep Dive”.

That spreadsheet had multiple fields for multiple websites and categories like “Demo breakout and sweetspot” and “Estimated CPMs” which is a marketing term referring to the cost of advertising impressions.

Now, keep in mind, this email arrived about 6 months after I was laid off from working at Disney, after having been there for over 6 years. I loved working at Disney. Working for Walt Disney Studios was truly the proudest moment of my professional career and I was livid that I no longer had such a blessed opportunity in my life. I’m a firm believer in always advancing in life, always improving, and what could be better than working for Disney? How could I improve after that? Any other company would a step backwards. I had been thrown off a plateau, the heights of which I would never surpass. In other words, despite my typically chipper and positive outlook, my general demeanor towards life had become a lot more angry and pissy than usual.

Then this fucking email shows up filled with corporate-zombie euphemisms, asking me to do work for them, with no mention of any compensation. They expect me to fill out a fucking speadsheet and give me a goddamn deadline to get it done!? Who the fuck do they think they are!? Their client is Levi’s fucking Jeans for christsake! Not like they don’t have any fucking money. They didn’t even offer me a goddamn pair of pants for my trouble. Fuck them. I was furious at the gall, the audacity, and the arrogance of these marketing agency scumbags.

So, I responded with the following.

Carolyn,

Wow. Are you fucking kidding me? Have you read your email?

“We are providing a preliminary deep dive on the media landscape as it pertains to Skate, and while Behavioral and Demographic site user data would be helpful we are curious to see how your site participates in an active community role. Information on the unique perspective of your skate communities and how your site communicates with them would be most useful.”

Who the hell talks that way!? What’s wrong with you? Let me guess. Some fuckwit wrote that form letter and you just plug in words like “skate” where needed? Right? Whatever fits the “target demo” you’re trying to analyze.

“Hey, I work at an advertising agency and Levi’s Jeans are interested in knowing more about skateboarding culture. Can you help me out?”

That’s all you need to say. That’s how humans talk. Your email sounds more like it was written by an emotionally vapid asshole with a BMW and a 3-piece suit, who spends too much time in meetings.

And what’s with this end-of-day Friday shit? You ask a complete stranger for help AND GIVE THEM A DEADLINE? How dare you! Who the fuck do you douchebags think you are? Sorry to shatter your self-important delusions of grandeur, but your irrelevant client and your agency are meaningless to me. I don’t need to complete any Excel surveys for you by the end of your Friday workday, or any other day for that matter. I graduated high school a long time ago. Do your own fucking homework.

Go home Carolyn. You sent this email at 7:00pm. You should have been home hours ago. Your job is not that important. You’re not rescuing orphans or curing terminal diseases. You work at an advertising agency. Stay there 9 to 5 and not a minute more. Your friends and family take priority over your job. Get out of the office and go see them. You want to learn about skateboarding culture? Take the day off work. Go to RipCity or Venice Originals. Buy a skateboard. Learn to ride it. Become part of the culture. Don’t send out inhuman emails asking about “unique distribution of branded content” and “CPM impressions”. Get out of that cubicle and live a little. That’s how you develop “organic ways to reach highly-relevant influencers” and start “fostering true engagement”.

Read my book Schooling Your Boss to not Suck and learn how humans need to behave in the corporate world. This is for a grade, so have your book report finished by the end of the day on Monday. I’m sure a drone like yourself is used to working all weekend, right? Figure out how to treat human beings like human beings, instead of seeing every person as a fucking statistical analysis.

Finally, don’t ever write back with some bullshit corporate-speak apology about offending my sensibilities. I’m not interested in your apologies. I just want you to start living like an actual person again. Life is so painfully short and that office is killing everything that makes you human.

Eric

Oh, that felt good. I made sure to copy Spencer, Scott and Christina. Obviously, I never heard back from any of them. My only lament is that I couldn’t be a fly on the wall to see their reactions. I bet my email was the talk of the office all afternoon.

Or perhaps not.

Maybe my reaction is commonplace. Perhaps those evil little demons of the marketing world are accustomed to being verbally decapitated and simply sewing their pustulant craniums back on their rotting necks. But in my fantasies, I like to imagine they were filled with such indignant consternation they could barely put gas in that Mercedes they can’t actually afford. I hope she cried. That’s what would make me happy. I hope Carolyn cried and hated herself and took a long look in the mirror and saw that she was dead inside. I hope she was miserable that night. I hope the next day, she woke up and quit her job. I hope she started working as something she always dreamed of being. Pursuing that passion she had when she was a little girl. That thing she always wanted to try, but was too scared to try it. I hope I was the Tyler Durden to her Raymond K. Hessel. Because goodness knows, no one ever aspires to working in advertising. Working in advertising is a career that you “end up doing”, not a job you ever dream of achieving.

But maybe I was too late for Carolyn and her coworkers. They may already be inexorably fused into the ratrace, and like batteries in The Matrix, they are unable to be unplugged.

For those of you already on that path and staring into the inevitability of transforming into mindless drones, let this be your final warning. Turn back. Run. Do not become part of a system that strips away all joy and humanity, lest you end up working in an industry that uses terms like “deep dive” and “peer-to-peer sharing” and staying in the office 12 hours a day under the delusion you will be “appreciated” for your self-imposed slavery and the only moments of laughter you will know are hollow happy hour gatherings with the assholes who sit in the adjoining cubicles.

Perhaps I am too late to save Carolyn and her brethren from that hellish fate.

But I pray it’s not too late for you. Get out while you still can.

I opened this piece talking about writing providing joy and entertainment. My scathing reply to Carolyn certainly entertained me and I hope conveying my little story brought you some joy.

Today’s Date Will Be On Your Tombstone
20 December 2013

What are you working on?

Why do authors constantly get this question from people? “Oh, you’re a writer? What are you working on?”

Piss off, motherfucker! I’m working on your goddamn epitaph. “Here lies an asshole, struck down dead for being a dickhead.”

Don’t placate me with your phony fucking interest. You don’t give two shits about what I’m writing. Have you ever read any of my published books? No? Then what the fuck do you care what I’m working on? You have no intention of buying it. And here’s a newsflash, shit-for-brains: You can’t buy a book I’m working on. You can’t read a book I’m working on. You can only buy and read books I’ve finished. Ask me what books I have written, not what books I am writing.

Get the difference?

But do they ever ask that? No.

“What have you written? Where can I find your books?”

Ah! Now there’s a polite guest in the vampire’s castle.

Sure, you might never buy any of my books either, but at least you have the courtesy to feign some interest.

Why am I so put off by this? Why make a big deal out of it? I’ll tell you why, my dear reader.

Asking what I’m working on, when they know nothing about what I’ve already created? That’s plain fucking rude. Because those shitheads lack the decency to even hide the fact that they don’t really care. Few things stick in my craw more than the bullshit pandering of passive-aggressive niceties, like some cretinous douchenozzle pretending to give a fuck.

“But, Eric, they’re asking about your work. Obviously they care.”

No. That’s my point! Showing appreciation for what I have written shows caring. Feigning interest in something I haven’t done is patronizing.

Why not ask about books I’ve written? The books I’m done writing are far more interesting than the one that isn’t finished!

People who are genuinely interested in my writing will ask about books I have published; books they can buy and read. People who ask what I’m working on don’t really give a shit. They’re just making idle conversation.

Have they ever read The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger or The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett or Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury or The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis? Each of those books are more than 50 years old and they are still just as wonderful and amazing to read today as they were when first published. Why the fuck does anyone need to know what I’m writing today when they’ve never bothered to read what I’ve written a decade ago? Books are not cartons of milk. They have no expiration date. A good book written 50 years ago is still a good book today.

Don’t misunderstand me. I appreciate my fans immensely. If someone buys and reads all of my books, they have earned the right to ask, “What are you working on?” When a fan asks, that question comes from a different place. Fans are eager for more. I appreciate and respect that. Fans are always allowed ask what I’m working on. I will never tell them, of course. But, they have earned the privilege to ask without being victim to my vitriol.

Those fuckwits who have never purchased or read a single thing I’ve written? Fuck off. How dare you ask me to reveal what I am hard at work on, when you know damn well you’ll never fucking read it anyway. Eat shit.

From now on, that’s going to be my answer.

“What are you working on?”

“I’m working on a novel about an author who is a serial killer. Everytime someone asks what he’s writing, he asks if they’ve read any of his existing books. When they say, ‘No’, he kills them. Typically in a gruesome way involving their netherregions and rusty hunks of sharp metal. I think it’ll be a huge bestseller. How would you like a cameo?”

Your epitaph, motherfucker. Your epitaph.

Are you irritated by any brainless questions from people? Things that insult you, even when the person asking doesn’t know it?

“Charles Dickens said any book you haven’t read is a new book. What does it matter whether it’s old?... I don’t understand what this lemming-like dementia is about constantly having new stuff. When was the last time you read the totality of Steinbeck or Faulkner or Katherine Anne Porter or Shirley Jackson?... We’re dealing with a more and more illiterate and amnesiac constituency. It’s impossible to get a readership that will follow you, because all they know is what they knew yesterday. And they’ve been so bastardized as an audience that there are actually average citizens out there who think William Shatner writes those idiot novels with his byline on them.”

- Harlan Ellison

Dungeons And Dragons is Evil!
20 December 2013

Not everyone appreciates the fact that many roleplaying gamers are smarter than average. In fact, I always found it amusing that the theological zealots, who condemned roleplaying games like AD&D, also happened to be the most ignorant and uneducated backwater inbred pigfuckers you have ever seen.

Like the slimy cockroaches they are, the religious fanatics began to slither out of the woodwork once the game started to become more popular. When the phenomenon of AD&D started to trickle down from college campuses, into highschools, into gradeschools, many puritanical groups of parents started to become “concerned” about their children playing a game with spells and demons in the rulebooks.

In 1985 there was an infamous expose aired on the television show 60 Minutes by host Ed Bradley, featuring a fundamentalist crazy woman named Patricia Pulling, who actually formed an organization to lobby against the evils of Dungeons & Dragons. The episode was laughable, and the people crusading against the game, were genuinely psychotic. Dr. Thomas Radecki who was teaching at the University of Illinois medical school actually said, “For instance, one case the parents were actually saw their child summon a Dungeons & Dragons demons into his room before he killed himself.”

Seriously. I recorded the episode and still have the VHS tape. A doctor, teaching in a university, claimed on national television, that a kid had summoned demons into his bedroom. These lunatics actually thought a makebelieve game could summon beastly monstrosities from the netherworld! The one good thing to come out of that 60 Minutes broadcast? I wrote a long letter of support, reviewing every quote of that video and debunking all the insane claims and mailed it to TSR, the company who published AD&D. A few weeks later, TSR sent me a huge package filled with scores and scores of positive news articles about role playing games. That was pretty awesome. Nearly thirty years later, I still have it.

Incidentally, in August of 2013, that very same Dr. Thomas Radecki (who had his medical license revoked in 1992 for having a sexual relationship with a patient*) surrendered to police for overprescribing anti-addiction and anti-anxiety drugs, and trading them for sex, with women he was treating.** You gotta love those upstanding religious fundamentalists. Where are the demons now?

Despite the insanity of sexual predators on a witchunt against AD&D, many parents were stupid enough to believe the fear-mongering bullshit. My own did. I was raised in a Roman Catholic household by God-fearing grandparents who were of the WWII generation. Needless to say, they didn’t much like me playing a game with demons on the bookcovers. Thankfully, I was smart enough to learn at a young age that all forms of theism are the equivalent of clinical insanity. Unfortunately, the brains of devoutly pious people have the intellect of a plate of scrambled eggs and their primitive gourds honestly believe demons and devils are running around with horns and pitchforks eating souls. They don’t understand that the only real demons and devils in the world are potheaded gangbangers, genocidal tyrants, Wall Street suits outsourcing jobs, and rapist football jocks in fraternities.

Thankfully, I was never banned from playing AD&D, although my mother did once have a “talk” with me and she wanted to see the rulebooks. Once she looked through them, and could see they contained nothing sinister, and it really was nothing more than a game, and there was no pigeonblood slathered over the inside of the pages, she basically told my grandparents to leave me alone. Maybe they slept better once she reassured them I wasn’t going to carve pentagrams into their chests in the dead of the night. Then again, they wouldn’t have known a pentagram from the Star of David.

These unfounded parental fears unfortunately were influential enough to alter the revisions of the game.

Over the years, the publishers of Dungeons & Dragons came out with many new and revised editions. The pathetic part about these revisions was how sissified and politically correct they became. Due to all the negative publicity from nescient church groups and illiterate parental watchdogs in the 1980’s, they removed references to demons and devils in Monster Manual and erased the character class of assassins from Player’s Handbook. Like so much of our culture, D&D became watered down and dumbed down, so as not to “offend” all the nitwits who think playing a game with imaginary gods named Zeus is crazy, but believing in a God who demands you eat his flesh and drink his blood every Sunday is perfectly rational. In order to appease the cultists who worship zombie vampires, this second edition of rules, released in 1989, replaced all the existing rulebooks, making the 1979 version obsolete and running it out of print. A third edition came out in 2000. Fourth edition in 2007. A fifth edition began development in 2012.

The most predominant rule of Dungeons & Dragons, the one emphasized over and over again, is that players get to make up and modify the rules. House rules trump anything in the books. The rulebooks are guidelines. Players and Dungeon Masters are encouraged to use their imaginations, break the rules, and alter them into whatever works best for you. Modify things. Invent things. Create new stories. Conjure new monsters. Make up new magical treasures. Concoct your own maps and adventures. Therefore, there’s never any justifiable reason to upgrade to a new edition of the game. But, of course, most people aren’t imaginative enough to play a game designed to empower their imaginations. They don’t understand that those first three books are all you ever needed.

Oddly enough, modifying the rules is the single principal that most gamers never have the creativity to obey.

The mentality of our culture is so brainwashed into being obedient lemmings that most of you will follow the rules at all costs. If a game lays out 5 rules and the sixth rule says, “You can change any of the previous 5 rules as you see fit.” people will ignore that sixth rule. They will only conform to the original five. They will not deviate. They are good little soldiers. They are indoctrinated to conform, and conform they do.

AD&D works much the same way.

You don’t need any of the rules. You can throw them all out. The game repeatedly encourages you to do this. Yet, ironically enough, although playing the most creative game ever invented, most people are so incapable of thinking for themselves, they love to add more and more rules to the game. Hence the reason the first edition grew to 13 rulebooks in the first place. They will argue about which rules are “official” and adhere strictly to the core rules and debate over which are contradictory and therefore invalid. Bickering in a basement with people who smell like Doritos is not a productive way to spend an evening. One of the biggest reasons to lose interest in AD&D is being surrounded by people who are sticklers for the rules, causing me to slowly realize I could invent much better stories without them.

Stories without rules.

Stories that defy convention.

Stories only a novelist can tell.

* SOURCE: New York Times - November 16, 2013 - “Addiction Treatment With a Dark Side” by Deborah Sontag (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/17/health/in-demand-in-clinics-and-on-the-street-bupe-can-be-savior-or-menace.html)

** SOURCE: Pennsylvania Attorney General - August 20, 2013 - “Attorney General Kathleen G. Kane announces arrest of PA psychiatrist for over-prescribing, trading opioid-addiction treatment drugs for sex” (http://www.attorneygeneral.gov/press.aspx?id=7132)

To The Readers Who Discovered My Writing After I Died
25 December 2013

“Like the wind crying endlessly through the universe, Time carries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we are, all that remains, is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment.”

- Harlan Ellison

Hello, my friend. This is my time travel message to you. To my knowledge, no other writer in the history of the world has ever made an effort to speak to his (or her) fans the way I’m speaking to you now. Hard to believe I was ever so young, isn’t it? You know, I was still just a little kid when composed this message for you. Still a new author. Still figuring out how to write. I created this all the way back in December of 2013. When I made this, I did not yet know when my last day of living would be. But I did know, someday, long after my life had ended, you would find my books, and you would love my stories. Believe me, as much you wish you could meet me and talk to me and tell me how much my writing means to you, I wish I was still there to hear you say it. Time is a strange thing. We only have a limited supply, and we never have enough, and it seem the people we love most can often slip out of lifetimes, just when we yearn, harder than ever, to cleave those beloved souls to us.

In all the years I spent writing, there was one thing consistently weaving a common thread through all of my work. One message. One obsession. That was to make sure every man, woman and child who reads my books will come away with a sense of appreciating their tragically limited time. We spend so much of our lives zoned out and nearly catatonic. I’m just as guilty of that as you are. Only in brief flashes do we ever truly feel alive! That summer afternoon when you finally lost your virginity to that gorgeous girl or charming boy. That amazing day at the beach when waves sprayed the breakwall like diamonds in the sunshine. That wonderful book that changed your life. Or maybe it was something even more simple. Something innocuous. That special afternoon with your grandfather when you took a walk together and he told you how he fell in love with your grandma. Those brilliant moments stick with us. Those are the times we feel so aware that we exist! That life matters!

Yet our decades upon this earth are always too brief. When a person dies under the age of 50, people always say, “Oh, they were so young.”

When a person dies at 97 they say, “Well, at least they had a long life.”

The heck with that! When you get to be 97, are you, in the words of Dylan Thomas, going to go gently into that good night? I think not. We should all be so lucky to reach 97 and when we do, that will still be too young. Personally, I’m striving for about 125. Life is far too wondrous and magical to ever want to let it go. No matter what age we are when we awake to our last day on earth, we will always wish we had a little more time. The existential regret encapsulating the lot of humanity.

There are some souls born into this world who leave things behind. We construct architecture like Egyptian pharaohs. We found entire nations like presidents and kings. We bear children who carry on a legacy of business and commerce and invention. We compose music and literary works that endure for centuries like Mozart and Shakespeare. Unquestionably, such artifacts shall endure long after everything I contributed to the world. Yet, for a time, perhaps decades or even centuries after my own death, my work too shall remain. Unlike the most infamous emperors of old, you are not only be able to read my words, you are be able to see me. To hear my voice. And in that way, I have attained a great privilege, for although I was never a mighty leader or messiah among men, even after I departed the earth, evidence of my existence is preserved more vividly than the very kings of antiquity. For the honor of this near immortality, I have an obligation and I owe fans of my work this message.

Thus to you who love my work, to you who did not discover I existed until after I died, I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we never met. I’m sorry that I passed from the world before you even arrived. I wish I could have lived longer and spent more years upon that beautiful earth.

I know you really connected with my writing. I know it meant something special to you. I know you never read anything else like it. I know you wanted to write me a fan letter, just to have the chance to tell me how much you connected with my stories. You don’t even care if I would have written back or not. You just wanted to let me know how much my writing means to you. You wanted to tell me how it influenced your life. How it made you see things in a new way. How it helped to save you from the dark. Sometimes, you feel like you’re nothing more than a ghost. You feel like no one cares that you are alive. And when you read my stories, you feel like someone gets it. In my stories you find kindred souls. You find your friends. The ones you have never found out there in the real world. People who think the way you think. Who appreciate life the way you appreciate it. And you’ve never met anyone else who cherishes the subtle beauty of living the way those people do in my stories. Until you found my writing, you didn’t think there was ever anyone else in the world who was from your tribe.

You just wanted to thank me. Now you’ll never have the chance.

Believe me, I would that I were still there to hear you say all those wonderful things. I wish I could read your letter and thank you for sending it. I wish I could shake your hand and tell you that you’re welcome, when you thank me for all my writing has given to you.

And to this girl. To you, my lovely. I’m especially sorry that a young and beautiful girl like you ended up being born years after my gravestone was planted. You are the one I wish I could have met most of all. A smart girl like you, who gets bigger crushes on dead authors than on living boys. I know the boys you meet are jackasses. You wonder what I was really like. Was it true I was quite the charmer? All those fantasies you have about meeting me at a book signing and then, well, doing what pretty boys and girls do best? Oh, I would have been very dashing, my dear.

Forgive me. I know that talking directly to you like this almost makes it worse. Almost makes it harder. Your head is spinning. You’re wondering if I’m really saying this to you? Is this an actual conversation? Would I hear you if you spoke back? Is the voice in your head truly your own? Will these only be my words the first time? Will you pray that somehow my words might be different the next time? That I could reach across time and space.

Does it really matter?

In the end, I just wanted you to know you’re not crazy. No matter what the rest of the room tells you or says behind your back. They have never spoken the language of our tribe and therefore they have never comprehended the way the universe truly functions and the way we have always instinctively understood it. You’re not alone. We are the rarest of creatures, you and I. But even if you never find them, rest assured there are others of our blood. As I said earlier, time is a strange thing after all. And although we can never touch, dreams are still very, very real. And it is there that I can always take your hand.

So, to all of you, to all you dear friends who discovered my books long after I died, I apologize for not being there. I’m sorry that all you have left of me are the books and the stories. But know this, all that you dream you might have become, can still be. All the friendships and love affairs and the pen pals that we are, can still happen in your wondrous daydreams. You were right about me. I do get you. I do know you. I do understand you. That’s why I left you this message. How many other writers have ever done this? I did it because I know that you’re real. We are brothers and sisters of the same tribe. Time does not encapsulate us. And for all the inspiration and hope and love you have found in my stories, I now beseech you to remain unyielding in your long quest, for you and you alone are the knights and shieldmaidens of our noble banner. You still have your life. Make something of it. Achieve something splendiferous with the time you have remaining. Because one day, one day far too soon, you will no longer be upon that earth either. One day will be your last. And when you awake on the morning of your final day, you owe it to yourself and to all our tribe represents, to be able to look back and say, “I’m proud of what I achieved. I made the world a better place. I left something beautiful to this good earth.”

I may not be with you in the flesh any longer, but my spirit endures in your magical world. Through my words. Through my stories. In my books, I am still there. As people we are nothing more than stories and thoughts and words and memories. And all of mine are still with you. I remain far more than just dreams and remembrances. Our tribe is mightier than that. Those others out there, the ones who are not of our tribe, don’t understand what in the world I’m talking about. But you do. Unlike them, you know the essence of who you truly are. Hold steadfast to that, remain a beacon of light in all the shadow, and we will meet again. Fare thee well, my friends.

“For a brief time, I was here; and, for a brief time, I mattered.”

- Harlan Ellison

“The world is so exquisite with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with pretty stories for which there’s little good evidence. Far better it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief but magnificent opportunity that life provides.”

- Carl Sagan

McKayla Didn’t Come for Silver (The Maroney Factor)
1 January 2014

“I am big! It’s the pictures that got small!”

- Norma Desmond

Ever wonder how people become “B-List” successes in life? You know, those who just get near the edge of the spotlight, but it never shines on them?

Call it the Jackie Lomax curse.

Have you ever heard of Jackie Lomax? No? That’s okay. No one has. Jackie Lomax was an English musician who died in 2013 at the age of 69. He had two different record deals in the 1960’s and even spent a week on the UK singles chart. He then became a protege of The Beatles and was signed to their Apple Records label and had three of the four Beatles play on his debut single. Here was a musician getting multiple record deals, singles on the UK Pop charts, and had the full backing and support of the biggest rock-and-roll band of all time! And in 1987, he was working at the Cat & Fiddle in Hollywood to make ends meet.

How many rockstars would get to record an album with The Beatles, only to watch their career fizzle!? Jackie Lomax is the kind of man who makes you think how cruel the universe can be. The red carpet is laid before your feet and the universe tells you that you will be a star, but as you start your meteoric rise, as you saunter suavely down the path laid before you, it’s yanked out from beneath you. And only then, when you fall flat on your ass and your clothes are dirty and your elbows are bloodied, do you realize the truth - the universe may love you, but the world is playing you for a fool.

It’s like when that gymnast girl in the 2012 Olympics, McKayla Maroney, made a face after winning the silver. Some criticized her for being unsportsman-like. I disagree. McKayla wasn’t making a disapproving face at her competitors - that certainly would have been unsportman-like. No. Obviously, she was making it to herself. That was an introspective disappointment; frustrated and dissatisfied with her own performance. And who can blame her? You don’t train your entire life, to go to the Olympics, so you can win silver. You go to bring home the gold. You go to be the best in the world, not the second-best.

Sometime back in the 1990’s I saw a very strange documentary about half a dozen wanna-be celebrities in Hollywood. These were all very odd people who were exceptionally atrocious actors and musicians and comedians, sincerely convinced that their “big break” was just around the corner. They were certain, after their 205 years of struggling, they were going to be the “next big thing” anyday now.

It was tragic. It was laughable. It was heartbreaking. It was pathetic.

The worst part of all, was their unshakable confidence. They were so passionate! These are traits that are usually admirable! Usually, hope and fortitude and perseverance are good things. But in this instance, they were heartwrenching. You knew these people were never going to give up. Yet they were so awful, so talentless, you also knew, they were never going to make it. No matter how hard they tried. They would never succeed. They would never be appreciated. They had nothing to offer. Even though nothing could convince them otherwise, you knew they’d stay living in their cars and rundown studio apartments until the day they die. The dream would never come true and they’d go to their graves, still determined that tomorrow would be better.

I have frequently expressed a strong confidence in the quality of my writing. I’ve never been insecure or questioned if it was any good. Some things I write are better than others. I have ups and downs, but I like to think I have peaks more frequently than valleys. But one day, I had a mortifying thought. What if I was just like those people in that documentary?

What if I was a really awful writer, and I just didn’t know it?

What if, like those downtrodden dreamers, I was so blinded by my self-assurance that I was incapable of recognizing my incompetence.

Oh, shhhit!

That was a horrifying thought!

What if I were sitting here mocking and pitying these Hollywood wanna-bes when the truth was, I might be just as desperate and laughable as them. Had the director met me, I may have been one of the people in that documentary. Ridiculed for my ineptitude without even being conscious of the fact that I was the butt of the joke.

That’s the terrifying thing about deluding yourself. How the hell are you supposed to recognize it? After all, the whole point of deluding yourself is that you not recognize it. So, if you are, how do you figure out that you are?

Oh, shhhit!

But then, I started to feel a little better.

I remembered that I frequently get compliments on my writing from total strangers. You can’t trust friends and family to be honest. Looking to them for validation is a mistake. But when strangers offer unsolicited compliments, that’s saying something. After all, success isn’t dependent upon whether you’re genuinely any good or not. What matters is duping a few million souls into thinking you are.

Also, I think people who delude themselves often know it. Somewhere deep inside, they know. I don’t feel deluded, so I’ll presume I’m okay.

They always say, “If you’re going to dream, dream big.” But that’s stupid, because it’s so obvious. Of course you’re going to dream big. The truth of the matter is, no one ever dreams of winning silver.

But as a note to the phenomenal McKayla Maroney (and if you ever see her perform, she is a magnificent gymnast), I don’t think second-place is the worst.

You know what’s gotta be the worst? Fourth place. Just ask track and field star Lolo Jones. She got fourth in the 2012 Olympics. That must be torture.

Think about it.

Even if you come in dead last, you can just say, “Well, I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t at the top of my game.”

But fourth place?

That must be the worst. To know if you pushed just a little harder, if you had made one less mistake, you would have at least gotten the bronze. But you didn’t. You’re not even allowed a toe on that podium. You go home with no recognition whatsoever. Just the knowledge that you failed, by a fraction, to be acknowledged by anyone. Knowing there are only 3 people in the world who are better than you, and on a better day, you might have knocked one of them, or all of them, out of their slots. You could have been a contender. You could have been somebody, instead of a bum.

But of course, there’s something even worse than that.

You know what that is?

When you get fourth place and you know in your heart of hearts that you couldn’t have given anything more. When you get fourth place and your body is wrecked. When you’re in pain for days and you can’t breath and you’re throwing up on yourself and you know you gave it everything you had, down to the last ounce of your blood. And you still weren’t good enough.

What then?

That’s why you don’t try, isn’t it?

That’s why you don’t give 100%.

Because you know, so long as you give 80% and you fail, you can always tell yourself you had more in you. You can comfort yourself with the idea you might have made it.

But when you give 110% and that’s still not good enough? What then? You have nowhere else to go. You have no more excuses. Your best isn’t good enough.

No one wants to face that.

But that’s the only way you’ll get the gold. Swim so hard, you don’t care if you drown. Run so fast, you don’t care if you break your foot. Lift weights until you literally get crushed (make sure you have a spotter - your stomach will thank you on the bench press, I speak from humiliating experience). That’s the only way you get the gold. The only way.

No one is good enough to get the gold when giving 80%.

No one. Is good enough. To get the gold. When giving 80%.

As I have said many times, better to attempt the impossible and fail, than to aspire to mediocrity and succeed.

How long are you going to keep giving less than your fullest potential?

A friend who is a competitive runner once reminded me, I’d never let her get away with anything less than first place unless her knee collapsed or she was puking her guts out. She was right. If we’re not pushing ourselves past our breaking point in order to achieve something, why bother? Why waste your time if you’re not going to devote yourself as hard as you possibly can? We must be willing to eviscerate ourselves on the alter of our passions. Through much of my life, I haven’t been fighting that hard. The time has come to change that.

One day, not long ago, I finally came to realize because I have never belonged in this world, the further I distance myself from the people within it, the closer to my divine decree shall I resonate. At last I learned nothing in my life I thought was important ever mattered. Nothing I imagined I might achieve someday was actually worth a damn. Friendships fade. Careers fizzle. Girlfriends abandon. Marriage eludes. Companionship dies. All of these things that bring the greatest value and meaning to the human experience have always evaded me. What are lasting and defining for most, for me are transient and ephemeral. This is neither tragic nor regretful. There is no sorrow in sacrificing hopes and dreams when it is done for the sake of fulfilling an even loftier destiny. I’m a ghost living in stardust, baby blue. In the words of The Eagles:

“I found out a long time ago

What a woman can do to your soul.

Oh, but she can’t take you any way,

You don’t already know how to go.

And I got a peaceful easy feeling”

Finally, I came to see those things were never meant to endure in my life. The only things that have ever remained constant, the only passions that won’t betray, must be ones reliant upon no other soul but my own. All which depends upon others is for naught. Why yearn for friends or lovers in the real world, when I can reach them on paper? The beautiful souls I meet in my stories are the best friends anyone can hope for. They never forget your birthday. They spend Christmas Eve with you. They call you just to go see a movie. As such, I have come to understand isolation is my sanctuary and my greatest company, my one true devoted love, are the words. The only thing that ever mattered are the words. Even if I don’t compose them as skillfully as others. Even if I am derided a no-talent hack, at least they have always been there. With wind and sun and the good earth itself, the words are the one thing to never let me down. They are my life. They are my meaning. They are the things that have always been ordained to define me. And when they have all been written, when those tales are done, my story will finally come to rest as well. This is why being reclusive is the only option anymore. My tribe does not yet exist and my sole purpose in life has always been to write for them. To finish these stories. Once they are complete, there will be no reason for me to remain here. I can finally depart this Earth knowing the quest was fulfilled. My destiny a success. My fate sealed at long last. Like all the heroes of old, I can ride off into the sunset and fade away forever. I shall perish as another John Keats. Unappreciated in my lifetime. Unknown. Undiscovered. Meeting my demise young and penniless, which is a shame because really, really old and really, really wealthy seems a lot more fun. But that’s okay, because one day, many years after I am gone, my tribe shall arrive and discover what I left behind for them. Our tribe does not speak a language uttered by any living soul. I now know the solitude was an unavoidable necessity, simply because I was sent here first. To blaze the trail for you. At least my words will persevere. At least I left something behind for antiquity. Something that can be loved and although they may not change the world with the magnanimous blessings of human potential, my words shall change the life of one who will.

Yes. This - all of this - is for you. You who shall change the world by guiding them to the light they have always wished to embody.

Help them. Help them to find the way. This task has fallen to you.

Maybe giving 100% and getting fourth place isn’t so bad after all.

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.”

- Ray Bradbury

Born Of The Night
3 January 2014

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Back in 1999, I was invited to contribute to an anthology of artwork by Joe Vargo entitled Tales From the Dark Tower wherein each author would write a story based upon one of Joe’s paintings, of our choice. To give the anthology some consistency, all of the stories center around a character named Brom who comes to occupy an abandoned castle, called The Dark Tower, outside of the town of Vasaria. Each author was free to invent whatever we wanted within these parameters.

I had been friends with Joe Vargo for about 2 years when he asked me to contribute to his book. When he first asked, I knew I wasn’t the first author he had approached, so I was quite disappointed. Surely, another author would have already chosen to use his painting “Born of the Night”, because I sincerely think that image is the most iconic print Joe Vargo had ever created.

Much to my surprise and pleasure, I was wrong. None of the invited authors had chosen “Born of the Night” and therefore I was free to use it. I instantly went from being a reluctant contributor to being thrilled by the opportunity. I absolutely love the “Born of the Night” piece. In fact, it was an image I had admired before I even met Joe Vargo. I couldn’t get over the fact that the artist who created it was going to let me write the official story behind it. How cool is that? I was totally stoked.

Unfortunately, my published story was edited rather extensively and differs quite a bit from what I submitted for publication. For those of you who are fans of “Tales From the Dark Tower”, if you would indulge me, I wanted to share with you my original draft of “Born of the Night”.

Born Of The Night by Eric Muss-Barnes

Madness incarnate giggles outside my chamber door.

Madness has a form. Twisted and deranged with a harlequin smile.

I find my pen trembling as I write this. I know not why I bother to put these words to paper. For the benefit of what soul do I perform this act?

... Ah...

The tapping again.

And the giggling. Maniacal, terrifying giggling ...

Yes ... That is why I write this. To stave off my own insanity.

There is a tapestry in this place which has haunted me since the night I discovered it. And moments ago, I discovered a tome in the library which must describe the origin of the tapestry. No other explanation can account for the strange tale the tome told.

For countless ages, Night longed for the Moon.

All loved passion as a fever. The heat of spinning dreams and illusions. Wander then from the jester’s grin and wondered wherein the insane do slumber.

Night gazed to the Moon, smitten of her seduction. In the heaven’s she laid, her silver glow the canopy of a succubus bed.

Devils and the dead and wraiths of the darkest dread surrounded him. The Night turned about, longing for the embrace of her icy hands. A single touch. The lightest whisper of her flesh upon his. So shadowed is her skin. As if her body itself were etched from the very sound of forbidden lusts and carnal deviance. Sculpted of starlight and ivory, her perfection paralyzes him. Frosted wings were a crescent of moonglow across the darkness and no creature of shades could ignore her moans of passion.

Her enchantment weakened him. Falling to his knees, he would question his own power. As though the Night itself were robbed of his own identity by her ability to consume all which his mind was able to fathom. So completely consumed by her was he, that he began to doubt all he was. Every authority, every strength he possessed, seemed to fade when he was in her presence.

Was he Night and darkness?...

Or was she?

No. Perhaps he was not Night at all. Perhaps he possessed no dark magics. Perhaps he was as weak as any mortal man, seduced by demoness beguile. And if so, what if she was everything? Moon. Shadow. And Night itself as well...

And if he were mortal and she were indeed Night, then the Night summons like an unquenched love, beckoning with the promise of dark desire.

Looking upon her, he felt rage and pain and passion with depth he could not fully comprehend. To be denied her is anguish.

Night could bear it no longer.

For aeons he was confined to shadows and caves while the light of Day and Sun held the Moon.

No more.

Through sheer will alone, he had to fly to her. Cursing or vowing to worship any god or devil. By the fate and will of any evil or light, it did not matter.

And so, from the pure conviction of his longing, the Night took to dark wings and soared to her. Night rose from the caverns and darkened forests and drove the Day from the sky for every hour that the Moon shone there.

No words could be spoken.

No words were required.

None but she could seduce the Night. None but he could charm her. And of none but each other would either ever dream.

The satin of their bed, soft as owlfeathers and the cloudglows of midnight. Together they touched tenderness. Softly. Gently. Sinister and sincere were their seductions. Lovemaking which bore them the darkest of beautiful and bad things.

So the dark ones watch over them. Protecting the lovers in the shadowed skies across the four corners of the earth. Serpentine medusas, cursed of vain beauty and love. Coil-horned devils watch with hollow, black eyes. Warrior legions of the dead stand guard in centurion helms. Ferocious demons with lion-fanged roars, rip through the darkness.

All these shadows stood guard in the dark as Moon and Night become one. The fire of their passions bringing a hush to the evening light. Bad things in the gloom danced to the sounds of their silent desires.

Shadows as children of the Moon. Children fathered and born of the Night.

Reading those words triggered an odd memory. A memory of a dream.

Strange dreams have come to me since my first night. Dreams which lay think over my waking mind. Visages cover my days in a haze of vague memories and images which I am not entirely certain are dreams at all.

A night or two past, I dream that I am in the ballroom.

There is a masquerade ball happening at early dusk. Hundreds of guests are in attendance and the revelries stretch down into the gardens outdoors. In the dream, I know that I live in the village of Vasaria. I have a wife there and a child, but for some reason, they are not at the ball.

The Dark Tower looks so different in this dream.

There is a warmth to it. An atmosphere of comfort and of loveliness.

Except for one door ...

Back in the furthest rooms, I find a door that I dare not to open. A servant in a strange mask motions me away and ushers be back to the ball.

I know something evil is behind that door.

Something terrible.

And simply having been near it seems to permeate my clothing with a dread which brings a dark, ominous and shadowy aura to the party which was so light and joyous.

One of the guests is a beautiful young woman. She is costumed in an elegant, flowing dress with huge, owlfeather wings folded across her back. Two others are with her, dressed in similar clothes.

The first one introduces herself to me. I do not recall their names. They sounded very similar. Sanshi, Sevin and ... no ... that is not right.

Something very different?

“Ranna,” perhaps?

... No. That name is wrong too...

I do not remember.

But, the first one asks me to dance with her. For a moment, I am about to decline. She is so beautiful and I feel my simple garments would reflect poorly upon her and show that I am below her class. Then I look down and see I am dressed in my armor, but it is far more beautiful and intricate than any suit I have truly owned.

We dance.

My angelic-partner keeps addressing me as “Brom of the Knights,” although I do not recall introducing myself to her.

Each time she says my name, the others whisper something I can not understand.

Everything stops.

Without warning, I find myself before the door again. Alone.

Every instinct tells me not to open it. Yet every impulse demands that I do.

Slowly, I lift the latch.

Parts of the dream vary each time I have it. But not this part... And for some reason...

For some reason, I often wonder if it is a dream.

I can never remember.

When I look back upon it, have I seen this door for real? I know exactly what the handle feels like. The chill of the metal in my palm. The textures and hues of the wood and the exact mark of knots and veins. The weight of it, slipping open on blackened iron hinges.

So real.

... And yet not.

And so I can not say for certain if I have merely dreamed of this door or if it is a thing which I have truly seen.

With a begrudging creak, it edges open. And what lies within is not something I expected at all.

Behind it leads a dank, stone stairwell into... nothing.

A dozen and one steps slink down into the gloom and stop at a stone wall.

... A wall with something scratching on the other side.

That sound alone terrifies me more than any ghoul I could have envisioned. Because, somehow, the claws resonate as if scratching within my skull instead of behind the wall.

Suddenly, I am back in the ballroom again.

But everything has changed. There are fewer guests. Night has fallen. The Tower itself is in ruins. Dust and filth cover everything and yet the oddly-masked souls continue to dance to silence.

I have changed as well. My knightly garb has gone and I am left standing unclothed. Spotting my hazy reflection in a mirror, I see horns atop my head and black, feathered wings sprouted from my back.

For some reason, this frightens me more now to write down than it does when I see the vision in my dream.

The angel who danced with me is still there. But she looks different too.

Her garments are less detailed and more sheer. A misty cloak drapes light as fog over her shoulders. Barley covered at all, her dress is translucent as spider-strings, loosely fitting over voluptuous breasts and long, ivory legs. The wings upon her back are now thinner and more sleek. Her entire body is more defined. Seductive. Dark.

Her two friends have been replaced by a group of four more hideously costumed things. Each of the four possesses daemonic wings and unsettling masks. Masks which seem to change and blend from plaster into their true faces and then back again.

They do not look like costumes.

An impossibly muscular, lion-like demon with leathery wings moves aside as the beautiful woman approaches me.

Two of the other creatures join hands; a horned, bearded devil with falcon wings and a bat-winged medusa. They walk to the center of the ballroom and begin their eerie, musicless dance.

The fourth fallen angel, a skeletal warrior with ratty, pigeon wings, seems to grin at me as the beautiful woman leads me to dance.

For a moment, I hesitate. I fear touching her. So perfect and flawless is her beauty that it is almost grotesque. Like a porcelain statue come to life. And yet I go with her, despite my apprehension. For she does own all the charms of night. The night summons like an unquenched love, beckoning with the promise of dark desire.

As we dance, her cloak twirls and arcs through the air, framing her in a crescent of glowing white like the moon. With every step, I feel I am floating above her - held aloft by the seduction of her slightest touch.

Every movement is dreamy and light. Like the fading sensation one feels as when moments from awakening. Things are so dark and unclear that I am unable to focus on any of my senses. Every color, every sound, every touch feels dulled somehow. Blurred and muted.

She too calls my name.

“Brom of the Knights...”

Only this time, I hear the whispers of the evil entourage of beings. Words sighing so lightly, they could be the sound of my own breath - “Born of the night... Born of the night... Born of the night...”

The momentum of my fall is stopped by my face slamming into the wall. The stone beneath my hands is rough and solid. Cold. Damp. Completely real. I can smell the mildew and feel the sandy grit on my cheek.

I turn around; my breath steaming on the chill air in the shrinking shaft of light. I find myself at the bottom of a flight of thirteen steps... as the beautifully seductive demoness closes the door above me.

That is when I awaken.

Each time I do, my first thoughts are shameful; I imagine the woman I loved in Vasaria discovering my affair with the demoness... and I laugh.

...But is she the woman in a dream or one I have known for real?

Yes. I do think it was more than a dream.

I loved a woman in Vasaria too. A woman of the sweetest tenderness and compassion. A beautiful woman.

Oh, no...

No.

...Usually I can recall her name when I am awake... And now, I can not remember!

Am I asleep again?!

Has madness taken me this far, that I no longer know what is dream and what is not?

Day. Night. Darkness. Shadow. The hours of dusk and black pitch all blend together in this tomb.

There have been times when I know sunlight has touched this land. Days of glorious beauty like those I had seen when I was a child ... But now such memories seem like a cruel torture. Visions of an imaginary time in a promised land which never truly existed at all. Now, when sunlight touches Vasaria, I move within the deepest confines of this dread place; continually masked in shadow and gloom.

Light, it seems, is a dream for me born of dismay. And it seems that I was born to be of the night.

Noctem aternus... indeed.

So it was written.

So this place has become for me.

Has madness truly come to take me? And if I already be mad, how would I be able to know it?

And... why... won’t... the... giggling... STOP!?

But wait...

It has stopped.

And now instead... What is this?...

Behind my bedchamber wall, I hear scraping... Clawing which resonates as if scratching within my skull, instead of behind the stones...

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

There you have it. My original version of the short story “Born of the Night” from the 1999 anthology entitled Tales From The Dark Tower featuring artwork by Joe Vargo.

Why Do Book Reviews Matter So Much To Writers?
5 January 2014

“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”

- Ray Bradbury

One great advantage of being an unknown writer is how liberating anonymity becomes. When you know no one is paying attention to what you’re saying, it frees you up to say anything you want! After all, you can’t offend anyone, if no one is listening. Right? Like most young authors, I once was saddened by the idea of low book sales and not earning a living; being ignored. Now I see the truth; if no one cares about your work, there’s no reason to pull punches!

When you do care about the work of a writer, it’s important to let people know. The general public, even those who love to read, fail to understand why it’s so important to writers to have positive book reviews in print and on the Internet.

Unfortunately, many readers mistakenly presume it’s just for ego. Right? You think authors want you to write a fabulous review just so that author can feel good about themselves.

Well, maybe some authors are like that, but for most of us, that’s not it. That’s not the motive at all.

The reason we need positive reviews is so we can maintain a career and write more books. For those striving to make a living as writers, that will obviously never happen if no one buys the things we write. Plain and simple, we have to sell our work. We have to make money with our writing. We can’t hand our landlord a stack of short stories instead of a check.

How do we assure that people will actually buy our stories?

Well, no matter what anyone in marketing or advertising tells you, the absolute best publicity for books and movies and theatrical performances and albums still remains word-of-mouth. It’s not about advertisements in magazines, or hits on websites, or television commercials, or billboards. After thousands of years, the greatest success for all the arts still arises from people talking to people. Friends telling friends to check out that new record, go see that play, watch that movie, or buy that book.

In December of 2013, I received a fanletter for my novel The Gothic Rainbow that read, “I found that it was the best book I have read all year. I have read quite a few this year, from Neil Gaiman to Stephen King and often feel that their work is sensationalist tripe with great marketing. However, with The Gothic Rainbow it really lived up to my expectations and then some... I can honestly say that you’ve become one of my favourite writers, right up there with Anne Rice, Edgar Allen Poe and Robert E. Howard.”

That was a wonderful and amazing compliment. To be dubbed superior to Gaiman and an equal of Poe? Wow. I may be quite the narcissist, but even I wouldn’t dare to place myself in such company. I was truly humbled by his praise. But, if the author of that fanletter never posts a review in public, how would you ever know my readers react so passionately to my work?

I once read a quote from an author who talked about the fact that her readers are not obligated to kiss her ass and praise her work when they enjoy it. She’s wrong. We are all obligated to share things we love, to spread the word about those works of art which bring light and joy into the world. Discovering art which touches our soul is a rare gift. What is the point of having such an experience if we keep it all to ourselves?

One thing you may not know about, in the world of books and publishing, is this: on all the major bookselling websites, the more reviews we get and the higher our sales become, the more prominently we are featured on that site. Works the same way in a bookstore, right? The bestsellers by Stephen King are displayed prominently out front as soon as you set foot into the shop. There’s the latest hit novel, framed by huge posters, right in your face. Easy to find. Books that don’t sell so well, they’re stuffed on the shelves in the back of the store. Buried further away. You have to look for them. Lost in row after row of paperbacks. The Internet functions exactly like that too. For example, if you go to a bookstore online, just like a brick-and-mortar shop, they have categories for all their books - science fiction, romance, thriller and so forth. The top-selling and most highly-recommended books are the ones that appear first on those webpages. The worse your sales and reviews are, the further down your book gets stuffed into the virtual catacombs. Thus, just like a physical bookstore, popular books are given a display front-and-center on the prominent webpages while unpopular books are entombed with the dead, way in the back corner, down among the shadowy nooks and crannies of the Internet that no one ever sees.

Can you start to understand why good reviews are so vital to our survival as writers?

Not only is it important to be displayed out front where our readers can see our books, but there are multiple marketing and promoting companies that won’t even accept our business if we don’t already have some stellar ratings on them. In other words, if we don’t have ten good reviews, they won’t even promote our book for us. Our money is no good there. We’re not worthy.

I even faced this kind of rejection at an independent bookstore here in Los Angeles. I offered to supply them with my books and the owner of the bookstore said because of their limited space, he could “only stock books by writers people have heard of.” Ouch.

Since no one has heard of me, they won’t sell my books. But if bookstores refuse to sell my books, and promoters refuse to advertise my books, how will anyone hear about me?

Obviously, you can see the conundrum for writers here. Catch 22. Cart before the horse. No reviews without sales. No sales without reviews. What to do?

These are the kind of frustrations writers deal with. We need word-of-mouth. We need people to talk about our books and tell their friends how much they enjoyed them. When no one talks about them, when we don’t have any written reviews, the books get buried on websites and bookstores won’t even put them on their shelves.

This is why it’s so important for you as a reader to write reviews of books that you love. Even if that book already has 50 great reviews, write another one. Everything you do to help get the word out there, to help keep the dialog going, is helpful. On behalf of all writers, we apologize for pestering you so much. We’re sorry that we constantly ask you to “pen a wee testimonial” as Dr. Hammond said in Jurassic Park. We’re sorry that we constantly ask you to be sure to tell your friends that you enjoyed the book. You have to understand though, we need you. We need you to write those reviews. We need you to tell your friends. Not because of ego. No. We need you to tell your friends and write the reviews so we can keep paying the rent. We need you to help us and write those reviews so we can keep food on the table. Without you, dear readers, everything we create, all that we have made which you loved so dearly, will be lost. As a writer, I merely create the dream. As a reader, you are the one who keeps the dream alive. You and you alone can make a difference.

Now that I’ve appealed to your emotions, or at least attempted to, let me do something I shouldn’t do. This is something no marketing expert would ever condone. Let me go over the math. Wait. Wait. Please, hear me out. I’ll make it quick.

As an author, if you’re selling a $3.00 ebook, you might only make $2.00 on each sale. According to the US Census Bureau, as of 2013, the median household income in the United States is $51,000 a year. At a profit of $2.00 per book, that means a writer has to sell 70 books per day, 365 days a year, to earn the same living as the average American. That’s over 25,000 books a year. Now, how many authors do you think are selling 70 books every single day? Hell, I’ve never even sold 70 books in a year, let alone 70 a day.

So, next time you read a book and really enjoy it, take the time to post some reviews. Write a paragraph or two and copy it onto a few different websites. Stick it up on Amazon and Goodreads and Barnes & Noble and whatever other websites you can think of. Post a link on your social networking profile. Mention the book on Twitter and Facebook and Google+ and whatever other social media sites are popular today. I understand, you may be reading this 10 or 20 or 50 years in the future and those websites may no longer exist. But, some type of media opportunities are still there, even if it’s just verbally telling your neighbors and co-workers. Word-of-mouth is everything.

Tell the world what you think. Maybe you feel your opinion doesn’t matter, but for some of us, our future is in your hands, and your opinion can change the world.

“Don’t ever apologize to an author for buying something in paperback, or taking it out from a library. That’s what they’re there for. Use your library. Don’t apologize to this author for buying books second hand, or getting them from bookcrossing or borrowing a friend’s copy. What’s important to me is that people read the books and enjoy them, and that, at some point in there, the book was bought by someone. And that people who like things, tell other people. The most important thing is that people read.”

- Neil Gaiman

Faithless Fortitude
7 January 2014

“He says, ‘Bill, I believe this is killing me,’ as a smile ran away from his face. ‘Well, I’m sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place.’”

- Billy Joel

There once was a time when I read an article by an author who said that writers should never admit their insecurities. She said everyone has their bouts with self-doubt and you should never reveal those moments of misgivings to the world. Keep it to yourself. No one wants to hear it.

I agree with her sentiment. In fact, I think, most of us agree. Right? We hate to hear people whine. However, most of us also love to hear ourselves complain. There’s a cathartic satisfaction in ranting. Many of us love to hear others expound a well-phrased rant as well. Therein lies an odd contradiction. We enjoy the ablution of rants, yet, at the same time, no one wants to hear somebody mope about their misfortunes. We walk a fine line betwixt the two. I would argue that the difference between “ranting” and “whining” is all in the presentation. The difference isn’t necessarily in what you say, but in how you say it. Tone. Attitude. Right? Complaining with a bit of pissy anger is ranting and people enjoy identifying with that. Complaining with despondent woe is whining and people hate that shit.

Typically, ranting is also inclusive. Ranting says, “I am so frustrated by this. Are you bothered by this too?” The reason whining is so irritating is because it’s so self-absorbed. Ranting acknowledges the hardships of others and says, “We all get upset about this!”

Whining ignores the misery of others and says, “Woe is me, I’m all alone in this!” That’s annoying because none of us are ever as alone as we like to pretend. We enjoy crucifying ourselves on the lonely nobility of misunderstood martyrdom. No one understands!

But that’s bullshit.

You may not personally know anyone who can relate to you, but if your problems are one in a billion, there are 6 other people in the world going through the same shit you are. Blowing things way out of proportion and turning minor setbacks into catastrophic disasters is repugnant. Especially considering the world is filled with people who have much worse trials and turmoils. We are surrounded by people suffering the deaths of loved ones, and crippling injuries, and diagnoses of terminal illnesses. In the face of those kinds of tragedies, those horrors that befall the lives of us all, to be an artsy bastard bemoaning creative struggles becomes trite and laughable and downright offensive.

That author complaining about venting insecurities was right. Keep your artistic gripes to yourself.

We should all be so lucky. Dying hospital patients would gladly trade places with any starving artist.

Yet, for me, for my frustrations in my writing, something strange and unexpected has happened.

I have completely lost all faith in my potential for success and yet, I still have no desire to quit.

That seems to be a self-destructive mentality the likes of which I can not fathom.

Recently, I confessed this lack of faith to an acquaintance of mine. Came right out and told her that I expect every single book I write to be a financial failure. I don’t have any faith in myself to sell books. I don’t think people will ever buy my stuff. Sure, someday if I’m lucky, I might become popular enough to sell a book or two a week, but I will never be an author selling enough books to earn a living. I sincerely think I will never make it. I will never succeed. I will never pull this off. There is absolutely no way I will ever make a living as a writer.

When I told my acquaintance this, she asked me the obvious question. She said, “Then, why are you doing it? If you really feel that way, why don’t you just quit? Go back to working at Disney and forget about writing.”

And I didn’t have an answer for her beyond the fact that I have no choice. And I’m not talking about that melodramatic bullshit you hear from writers like, “I have to write or I’ll die.” or “I have to write to stay sane.” That’s a load of crap. The only people who lay those claims are nobodies who want to convince themselves they are “special” or “gifted” or “answering a calling” and they are all full of shit. Writing isn’t oxygen. No author on earth is reliant upon it. I can quite easily keep breathing and remain mentally stable without writing. Nevertheless, something in me, an instinct I can not quantify, is telling me, “I have to finish this next writing project.” I have to. There’s something inexplicably important about it. It has to be done. For reasons I don’t understand. For reasons I don’t even believe are real. For reasons I can’t imagine or define. Yet, despite my own sense of futility and skepticism, I know there is no option to quit. Every fiber of my being tells me this must be done. This endeavor must be seen to completion. Doing it as quickly as possible is imperative.

And I have no idea why.

I have no faith that it will lead to anything relevant.

I have no hope that I will ever sell enough books to put gas in my motorcycle.

Every shred of my conviction tells me I will be an utter failure and yet my instincts scream equally as loud, that I have no choice but to keep going.

Keep going.

Don’t stop.

You. Must. Complete. This. Task.

The thought of quitting, the notion of giving up, fills me with dread and nausea. The mere thought of being a quitter makes me reel with vertigo. There is absolutely no way that quitting is a viable option. Makes me horrified and sick to my stomach to even entertain such an idea. I can not deviate from this path.

I can’t explain that. The ultimate contradiction. I’ve lost every shred of hope and yet I’ve never lost a drop of my determination.

Why is that?

Why would someone be so resolute to complete a task they genuinely believe to be futile?

What’s the point?

I have no explanation for this diametrically opposed mentality. “I’m going to fail, but I’m not going to quit.” That’s not exactly the type of slogan they put on workout shirts. You don’t see many triathletes expressing that attitude.

They say you have to believe in yourself. No you don’t. Not really. I never believed I’d work for Walt Disney. Even after my interview, I was sure I’d never get the job. I ended up being employed by Walt Disney Studios for more than 6 years. You don’t need to believe in yourself at all. You just need to keep moving forward. Belief has nothing to do with success. Tenacity. Fortitude. Showing up day after day. That’s how you make it. I think people say “believe in yourself” because they labor under the assumption that if you cease to believe, you will cease to make an effort. Thus, everyone says you must believe in yourself, because they think only unwavering belief will preserve your dauntlessness. Not so. My efforts as a writer are unwavering even if my belief is non-existent.

Don’t take this the wrong way. Like I said at the beginning, everyone hates a whiner. Self-pity is a pathetic thing that turns off everyone. People riddled with self-pity, you don’t want to hire for a job, you don’t want have sex with, and you don’t even want to be friends with them. To be clear, this isn’t self-pity. I’m a brilliant writer. My books are absolutely fantastic. On occasion, I certainly do fall short of my potential, but when I’m at my best, I write on a level that is far beyond what most authors are capable of attaining. I’m fucking amazing. I don’t doubt my capabilities as a writer. Not for one second. What I am lamenting, what I am doubting, is that my writing will ever gain any recognition. I know I’m a great writer. I just don’t think anyone is ever going to figure that out.

Which leads me to another point.

“I just think it’s good to be confident. If I’m not on my team, why should anybody else be?”

- Robert Downey Junior

The girl who asked why I don’t give up has also scolded me for being too arrogant. Definitely not the first or last time I heard that in my life. Are you able to relate to that? Do people criticize your life too? The three things I always hear are:

1. I’m too arrogant and full of myself.

All my life, plenty of people, ranging from former coworkers to former girlfriends, have told me that. I’ve also been reminded numerous times that toning down my vanity would get me laid more, because girls don’t like egotistical jerks. I admit that’s certainly a valid motive to adopt some false humility, but girls are turned on by confidence and I contend that I’m merely confident, not arrogant. I know the facets of my life wherein I excel and I know those where I flounder. I willingly acknowledge my shortcomings yet I see no justification to downplay my achievements. Narcissism isn’t ego if it’s true. (I need that on a tshirt.) Truth be told, my sense of self-respect is only interpreted as “conceit” by those who have no faith in themselves. If you think you’re a fuck-up, you’re going to think I’m arrogant. But if you know you’re the shit, you’re going to see me as your peer.

2. I need to get out more.

This is also a way for acquaintances to say, “You need to make friends, so you will leave me the fuck alone.” Those with no interest in being your friend always complain that you need to make more friends. People continually berate me for being a hermit and a recluse and shunning the company of humanity. My self-imposed isolation seems to especially frustrate women who think I’m cute, because, with the best of intentions (misguided though they may be), these ladies seem to labor under the delusion that an endless bevy of nymphomanical naked teenage girls are poised to throw themselves at my feet were I only to venture into the world. They somehow think I’m missing the opportunity to collect a harem, which would inevitably manifest the instant I set foot outside. I certainly would not be opposed to inspiring such a phenomenon, but despite fantasies for that to occur, it definitely doesn’t happen.

3. I’m wasting my life and not doing anything.

Always the most bemusing criticism of all, which is similar to saying I “need to get out more” but it’s a slightly different insult because it disregards and devalues everything I’ve accomplished. The irony is, I’m always working on a new project, a new task, a new achievement. So, when I appear to sequester myself and waste my days away, the truth is that while my critics are watching television, I am always doing something productive.

Yeah, I’ve heard those 3 things countless times from countless people. I have been berated that no one will pay attention to my books and writing if I come across as being full of myself. I need to be more down-to-earth. Approachable. People appreciate humility and to be conceited repels my potential audience. My arrogant attitude will drive people away. Best to keep my big mouth shut and let my novels speak for themselves. The way I talk is too lofty. I need to bring it down a few notches. I know all of that is true. And I could do it. Truth be told, for the purposes of diplomacy, I’ve done that most of my life. But, when I started these commentaries, I told myself I was done with that. I refuse to feign average intelligence, to dumb-down the way I speak, just so ordinary people can understand me. If people don’t follow what I’m saying, that’s their problem, not mine. Get a fucking dictionary. If being articulate comes across as arrogant, fine, so be it. The thing no one has ever understood, everytime people accuse me of being arrogant, is that I don’t fucking care. I don’t care how many people are offended or estranged by my attitude. As George Carlin said, “Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that!” I don’t care if the way I talk alienates people. In fact, I’d prefer to alienate most people, if in so doing, I endear those who possess a vocabulary.

Took me many years to come to terms with the fact that I’m more misanthrope than introvert. I’m not quiet and solitary because I have some sort of endearing boyish shyness. I’m quiet and solitary because I’m thinking, “God, I fucking hate these people.” It’s not that I’m afraid to talk to people, it’s that I don’t want to waste my fucking time.

Takes awhile to learn that about yourself.

“Eric, why you so quiet? Are you shy?”

“I’m not shy, I just think you’re an asshole. Figure it’s better if I keep that to myself.”

If who and what I am pushes people away, fuck ’em.

I don’t fucking care.

All I care about achieving, is writing.

And I don’t know why.

I have no aspiration for a serendipitous fortune which writing might avail. I have no grandiose delusions of this obsession being a fate or destiny or a calling. I am not motivated by a single hope or dream. I don’t possess even the smallest shred of faith that my efforts shall be rewarded in any way whatsoever. All I have is a drive to keep moving forward, for no semblance of a reason.

I know not to what ends this shall lead. I only know it must be done to appease the will of unspoken edicts I can not articulate.

For some reason, although there admittedly be a fear underlying this strange and outlandish impulse, that ambition alone inspires a serene contentment the likes of which I have never before known. The more I write, the brighter gleams my equanimity.

I told you, get a fucking dictionary. E-Q-U-A-N-I-M-I-T-Y. Equanimity.

“You want to know how I did it? This is how I did it, Anton: I never saved anything for the swim back.”

- Vincent Freeman

World’s 7 Best Tips for Writing a Novel
9 January 2014

“Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well.”

- Stephen King

Often, I suspect the wisdom we gain in life is only applicable to our own lives.

Most people never figure that out. Most people learn things in life and feel the need to forcefully impart their wisdom on everyone, as if their personal lessons were universally pertinent.

Can you indulge me for a moment? Let me be an armchair philosopher?

Life is like a river. But we’re not sharing our rivers with other travelers. Each individual person on earth is flowing down their own personal stream. Nobody accompanies us. We’re in kayaks. We’re on our own. We have rocks and rapids and obstacles in our way and we have to deal with that. Now, if someone else meets us on the shoreline, and they have successfully navigated their own river, and they wish to divulge some of the lessons they’ve learned, they need to be careful in how they advise us. Remember, all our rivers are different. What works to save your life in one set of whitewater might not work for a different person, on a different river, where the rapids are a lot bigger and there are bears along the rocks.

What’s more, we all wish we could go back and sail our rivers again. Oh, man, if only I could apply all the stuff know today, back 100 miles upstream! Knowing what I know now, those challenges I faced back there would have been so much easier to overcome! I wouldn’t have said that stupid thing. I would have talked to that person sooner. I never would have talked to that person at all! If only I knew then what I know now.

Ah, youth is wasted on the young.

We lament the wisdom it took us too long to gain and feel foolish when someone else says, “You big dummy. We’re the same age and I learned that shit 15 years ago.”

Well, hoo-fucking-ray for you. That does me no good whatsoever. Want a cookie? Asshole?

Allow me to reiterate something I have said before - after nearly 30 years, I know far too little about the craft of writing to presume to give advice to anyone. Therefore, the thoughts I am about to share are not advice for other writers, rather they are gentle reminders for myself, of what works for me. Perchance if such reminders benefit you and inform your writing, all the better. But I’m not like those other jackasses who presume their personal truths are universal truths. Wise insights in my life could prove nothing but foolish naivety if applied to yours. These are things I’ve learned along my own river. Attempting to follow these suggestions may give you smooth sailing, or it may dash you against the rocks. I urge you to follow only with discretion.

Remember, the wisdom I have gained in life is only applicable to my own life. Be smart in what - and whom - you choose to emulate.

1. Write

The oldest advice in the book. Remember the line in Rocky Balboa - “A fighter fights.” Well, a writer writes. I have often tried to explain to non-writers that a great deal behind the act of writing consists of thinking. Perhaps “thinking” is a poor choice of word. “Visualizing” is more accurate. Sometimes, you just need to sit quietly and imagine the story. See it unfold before you. Listen to the characters. Watch what they’re doing. Ask them what happens next. Talk to them. Don’t write down anything. Just observe. Visualize. Imagine. Dream. But, sooner or later, you have to stop quietly visualizing the story and actually start the physical action of getting words on paper. When I first dreamed of being a writer, I spent far too much time daydreaming stories and far too little time actually writing them down. My ambition in life was to be a “writer of novels” not a “daydreamer of novels”. Want to be a writer? Stop daydreaming and start writing. Real fucking simple. A writer writes.

2. Don’t Struggle to Emulate Your Idols

This is a big one. “Struggle” is the operative word. When you are learning to write (a process that should be lifelong and never cease) it is fine to look up to writers you admire and attempt to emulate their writing methodologies, but never follow anything if it’s a struggle. Remember, the whole point is to learn how to write with ease. When you are “on the right path” the writing will be effortless. It will flow and undulate and roll gently down the creekbed like a gentle stream. If it’s moving like tar and sticking to everything and making a huge mess, you’re not on the proper path. When I started writing, I was very guilty of this. All writers have little idiosyncrasies to help them write. Some people like to outline first. Some people like to write in loud places like coffeeshops. Some people have to use a typewriter. Some people write best with a pen. Some people have to have a specific brand of tea and sit in their den at the same hour everyday. Whatever it happens to be, we all have our quirks. Many authors, when they are starting out, discover these little habits by finding interviews with their favorite authors, and they try to mimic those things. That’s fine, if those habits help you out. But most of the time, they won’t. They will only hinder you. So, find your own routines. If you are struggling to emulate someone else and it’s not working, let it go. Find your own voice. Find your own customs.

3. Structure is Everything

Notice that I did not use the word “outlining”. I used the word “structure”. My choice of words was careful and deliberate. Outlining is the basic framework. Outlining is the overview. I equate the outline with a blueprint. The “structure” is the actual rebar inside your concrete. The “structure” is the framework of your house. Blueprints are important. Outlines are important. But the rebar, the framework, the structure is where the construction of a story really begins to come together. Structure is everything. Build that right. Have a solid structure or all the beautiful work you put on top of it is going to collapse. In storytelling I equate structure with things like plot holes, the flow of the story, knowing what scenes to write as exposition and which to write as action. These things are the structure. Get them correct! Just like in architecture, building out those details comes after the outline, but before the writing.

4. Follow the Tone

This is a hard lesson to learn. I still struggle with this one from time to time. Never fight the natural tone and cadence and poetry of your story. There have been stories I’ve worked on where I imagined them with a certain tone, but as I began to write the story, it took on a life of its own and the characters began to speak and react and as I observed their conversations, I began to realize the tone I envisioned was all wrong. Maybe you are picturing a comedic tone and the story ends up adopting a more rollicking adventure tone. You think you’re writing the Muppets, but you’re actually writing The Goonies. You think you’re writing Hamlet, but it turns into The Crow. In other words, you may find the tone is close to what you thought it would be, but it’s not quite what you expected. When that happens, go with it. Don’t fight it. Follow the tone. Yes, it can be frustrating because the story is not conforming to your “vision” of what it was meant to be, but that’s not the fault of the story. That’s your fault for not paying attention when you discovered the idea! Don’t punish the story by forcing it to conform with your misguided vision. Trust the story. Have faith that it knows where it’s going. It knows how it should sound. It knows what it needs to be. Give it the tone it is telling you it has. Don’t attempt to dictate a different tone and wrangle something else upon it.

5. Writer’s Block Means You Wrote The Wrong Thing

“People are always saying ‘Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage, and you don’t know what to do about it?’ Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, isn’t it? In the middle of writing something, you go blank and your mind says: ‘No, that’s it.’ Okay. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying, ‘I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a damn for.’ If you’ve got writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.”

- Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury was so correct about this simple idea. This advice was so profound to me, that it’s really the one idea that inspired me compose this entire commentary in the first place, because it so beautifully applied to my situation. I always say I never get “writer’s block” I get “writer’s branch” - meaning I never get blocked on moving forward, instead I have too many ideas, to many branches of the river, and I don’t know which one to take. Remember the river analogy? Well, if writing is like a river, then writer’s block is like taking the wrong branch of the river. When you go down a deadend fork in the stream, you don’t start paddling against the sand, trying to push your boat up and over the riverbank. No. You circle back. Go upstream and figure out where you made that wrong turn and start over from there. For years, when I would have difficulty in writing something, I’d try to plow my way through it. Writer’s block isn’t caused by where you are, it’s caused by where you were. The mistake isn’t right in front of you. The mistake is 3 pages back. Where did you go wrong? Where did you start to drift off track? That’s where you messed up. Backtrack a little and find it. Go back to the last pages where you felt, “Yeah, this is really good.” The part of your story where that feeling stops, is probably where you made the mistake. Of course, if you obey the previous two rules - Structure is everything and follow the tone, you’ll never go down the wrong branch in the first place.

6. And with the Power of Conviction, There is no Sacrifice

“It’s a do or die situation. We will be invincible!”

- Pat Benetar

That’s a song I always loved, but I never truly understood the lyrics until recently.

“And with the power of conviction, there is no sacrifice.”

I realized that line embodies what it means to have devotion to your writing. Many writers will tell you that you need to make “sacrifices” in order to write. Come to terms with being a hermit. Accept it. Your social life is going to make Yoda’s hovel on Dagobah look like the heyday of Studio 54. Remember that you’re going to have to say, “No.”

No, you can’t go to that concert with your friends. You need to stay home and write.

No, you can’t start dating that person. You need to stay home and write.

No, you can’t go check out that movie. You need to stay home and write.

No, you can’t go out drinking. You need to stay home and write.

I’ve never been drunk in my life, so that’s not a sacrifice for me. Turning down these opportunities requires a commitment and dedication and discipline that few people possess. You need to come to terms with those sacrifices. You need to accept the fact that you have to sometimes disappear for weeks or even months at a time. You are not doing it right until your friends start looking for your name in the obituaries instead of their phone books. You’re not doing it right until everyone stops calling altogether. But I suddenly realized, by definition, a “sacrifice” is something that is difficult to give up. When you are truly dedicated to writing, those things are no longer sacrifices. When you transcend those desires and you reach the point where you love writing so much, you don’t want to do anything else. You no longer perceive yourself as giving things up. The power of your conviction to your writing becomes so dominant, that you no longer care about the things you are tossing aside. There is no longer any sense of sacrifice. And with the power of conviction, there is no sacrifice. You will be invincible.

7. Compose Poignant Verisimilitude

Doesn’t matter if it’s an entire paragraph or a single sentence, peppering that writing with poignant verisimilitude is vital. Those are the moments that resonate long after a book is shut.

There are other things, to be sure. But, those seven things are the big ones. Those are the ones I wish I had understood when I was 14 years old. Notice I didn’t say I wish I had been told these things when I was 14 years old. Being “told” something is useless without understanding. I chose the word “understood” very carefully. We often spend our lives being told bits of wisdom or insight, but it may require years before it finally sinks in and we understand it. Being “told” something and “understanding” something are very different things. I had already heard a lot of this advice at the age of 14, but I never fully understood the meaning until many years later. Thus, I reiterate, I wish I had understood these things when I was 14 years old.

Why didn’t I think of that sooner?

“There is no nobler chore in the universe than holding up the mirror of reality and turning it slightly, so we have a new and different perception of the commonplace, the everyday, the ‘normal’, the obvious. People are reflected in the glass. The fantasy situation into which you thrust them is the mirror itself. And what we are shown should illuminate and alter our perception of the world around us. Failing that, you have failed totally.”

- Harlan Ellison

Books Are Only Imaginary The Second Time
31 January 2014

“There are two perfumes to a book. If a book is new, it smells great. If a book is old, it smells even better. It smells like ancient Egypt. A book has got to smell. You have to hold it in your hands and pray to it. You put it in your pocket and you walk with it. And it stays with you forever.”

- Ray Bradbury

Let me guess. You never quite fit in. But you weren’t an outsider like they were. You weren’t a nerd. You weren’t a geek. You never got bullied or picked on. You were just kind of invisible. You’re the kind of person no one ever talks about. You weren’t popular. You weren’t the isolated freak sitting in the corner by yourself either. You were the one who sat at the lunch table with the ordinary kids. No one popular. No one weird. You were part of the kids who were just kind of “there”, but nobody ever cared or noticed if you were there or not. You were the recluse with companions. The loner in a crowd. You had more acquaintances than friends, but not too many of either. Your parents never hurt you or abused you, they just kind of left you alone. Your friends never took you out on your birthday, because none of them ever knew when it was. Nobody ever asked. You got invited to parties. Sometimes. When they remembered you existed. But when you didn’t show up, nobody missed you. You were never there, even when you were standing right in front of them.

Sometimes, you think, if you became a criminal, you could confess to all your crimes on the Internet, and never get arrested. Because no one has ever paid attention to anything you do.

Seems like you almost get hit by a car everytime you walk out of the house, because the world always fails to notice you until the last possible second.

Reading became your glorious escape. Not from an awful life, because your life was never awful, just from one where you were dying because you were already a ghost among the living.

In books, you are alive again. Inside those stories, there are people who feel things. Understand things. Express things. Have emotions. Dreams. Desires. In stories are the friends you wished you had. The kind of people you long to hang out with. The kind who uphold the morality you attempt to preserve. Honorable. Loyal. Devoted. Virtuous. True. Fun. Passionate. Hilarious. Crazy. Alive. More alive upon those pages than any real people you ever see and certainly more alive than you ever permit yourself to be.

The most thrilling part, was the magic of the words. Unread pages in a book seem to be a maelstrom of letters. A swirling whirlpool of possibilities. Anything could happen. Like life itself, you never know where the path will lead. The very first time you read a book it glimmers with the endless magic of any possible future. The characters are living and breathing souls. Every moment is a looking glass into a real world, a real life, where nothing is imaginary at all. You feel the wind in your hair and hear their voices in your ear. You are there. Living the story with them. Only after we read the words do they become solidified. Only after we read the words do they become frozen on the page. Locked into an immovable position for all time.

Books are only imaginary the second time. The first time you read them, they are absolutely real.

Those of you so young you’ve not yet seen the inside of a high school, so new to reading you’ve only just begun to see the spellbinding of bookbindings, may be wondering how the magic works. Why do you look for unpopular books? You’re not like your friends. Sure, when you found your fellow readers, you thought they were like-minded, but they read all those bestsellers. They read what everyone else reads. You don’t. You never do. Why? Why do you intuitively seek out the stories that are not on the bestseller lists?

Here is why.

You, my friends, are gifted. That isn’t a pandering lie that gentle souls tell to lost souls. Those who seek magic, like you, are gifted. That’s why you seek it. You’ve always known that. What is it you always say? You don’t know everything, you just know more than everyone. You don’t think you are better than everyone else. You know you are. Yes, all your life, people have told you that “everyone is special” and everyone has meaning, but, come on, who are we kidding? You know that’s not true. It has never been true. There are souls of this world who are of the darkness. Ones who are empty of mind and spirit. And they are not your equal. You are a being of light and skybound radiance. You are above them. There are beings among us who are the elite and you know who you are. Those inferior denizens who ignorantly profess superiority to be determined by race or wealth or religion or bloodlines or intellect are too far below you to acknowledge. I know who you are. And so do you.

The magic is not a game for you. It’s certainly not some phony fortune teller or deceitful tarot reading and it’s never been explained in a new age bookstore. All the Abrahamic fiction in scriptures of vindictive gods have hidden it. Real magic has never been inscribed in a textbook or taught in a pagan hippie classroom. Rituals and charms and sacraments and ceremonies and gnostic glyphs are for amateurs. When you are a Seer among The Chosen, there is never a need for dogmas or initiations or spellbinding incantations, for the magic is innate in your very breath.

Books are decanters of wonderment. Each holds their own waters of magic. The more who drink from those waters, the less water remains, the more tainted the elixir becomes for all those lips touching the brim, and in time, the decanter is left with nothing but a sheen. All the magic drained away.

This is why the unknown books work better. This is why you are drawn to them. This is why those novels whisper to you. This is why you see the characters so clearly. This is why they come to your dreams. This is why they make the strange noises in your house. The thunderstorms. The lights flickering out down your block. The fewer souls who drink of the decanter, the stronger your connection to the magic will be.

That is why you naturally gravitate to read the novels no one has ever heard of.

For you, reading will never be about the camaraderie felt by book clubs who read what’s popular. For you, reading is about a magic they have never seen. Reading is about opening the gateway. Finding the key to the gardens and locking the door behind you. Adventure belongs unto thee. Quests are solitary. This isn’t a group effort. This mission is yours and yours alone.

You already know all this. I’m not teaching you anything you haven’t always known instinctively. You already know everything I’m talking about, even though you’ve never spoken of this to a single soul. Because you know they’d all think you’re crazy. Wouldn’t they? You’d end up being the only one at the lunch table. So, this is something you keep to yourself. No one else would ever believe you. Would they? They have never lived the magic as you have, because their books are lifeless. Their books have been squeezed bone dry. Their books have lost all their magic. Perhaps most never had it to begin with.

You know where to find it. And you’re keeping your little secret.

How do I know all this? You know it’s not just because I have been in the garden before you. Not just because I know the path to magic as well.

How do I know the magic so well? I’m a novelist. You think I don’t know how the magic works? I’m the conduit who conjures it. The ink which invokes the spell is the ghost of my marrow.

Don’t be ashamed of the fact that you’re better than them. Not everyone is special. But always remember that you are. Stick to the path. Remain pure. Hold to the magic. We’re out gunned. We don’t stand a chance. There are far more of the magicless normals than there are of us. In the end, we’re going to lose. The battle was never ours to win. But be comforted in knowing, the rest of your tribe is out there. Though there be very few of them. But, like you, they keep fighting the good fight. They keep holding vigil for lost hopes and defying the mad gods. And one day, perhaps not until your very last day, they shall call us home.

“Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit.”

- Neil Gaiman

How Does Writing Evolve In Various Drafts?
14 February 2014

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out.”

- Stephen King

For years, I’ve been wanting to do a piece like this! I’ve always wanted to take an example of my writing and show how it evolves over time. Save multiple drafts of a chapter or a paragraph and use it to illustrate my own creative process of reworking and editing something. Now, I’ve finally done it. So, this is a little story about the evolutionary process of my writing. This shows how you write something that’s pretty good, but you know it can be better. When you struggle to tweak your writing and get it just right, so the punch is a little stronger.

Sometimes, writing flows so easily. You just get on a roll and you fly through scenes and dialog and it’s beautiful. You don’t even feel like you’re doing anything. You’re just along for the ride! You’re like the conductor of a great symphony. Like the director of an epic motion picture. All you’re doing is keeping things organized, all the characters in front of you are the ones doing all the work.

Other times, discovering the overall arc and tone is a grind. It’s a struggle. That’s when you start to question if you’re listening properly. Are you on the right path? Are you paying attention to what your characters are telling you? Maybe you’re not following what the story is trying to say. Or, worse yet, maybe you’re not the one meant to tell it. Writing is always joyous, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy; even the greatest of passionate love affairs demand a diligent effort.

Finally, after all the symphonic themes of the overall masterpiece have been composed, you also have the smallest of notes in the form of single paragraphs. Lone sentences that you just need to get perfect.

A few months ago, I wrote an article about my novel The Gothic Rainbow and I wanted to have a very powerful ending to a paragraph describing the book. I just couldn’t seem to find the last sentence. But I finally remembered what I’ve always wanted to do, about showing the evolution of the writing process, so I saved every draft. Each version I wrote, no matter how small the change, I kept them all. Here is what that last paragraph said:

Fans of The Vampire Noctuaries are not most people. The Vampire Noctuaries fans appreciate the story because it speaks to them; the weirdos, the freaks, the outcasts, the loners. They are the readers with whom it resonates the most. The heart and soul of The Vampire Noctuaries is a story about the kind of pain you felt the night of your first heartbreak. This isn’t for the kids who get bullied, it’s for the ones who are invisible. This isn’t for the kids who cut themselves, it’s for the ones who know what the barrel tastes like. This isn’t for the kids who want someone to talk to, it’s for the ones who have never spoken of what happened that night. This is for the kids who punch holes in the wall while Ministry is blaring “Stigmata” at a volume that risks shattering the fishtank. Teen angst is for sissies. This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black, and a rage turning it into ash.

That was good, but I felt it could be better. I liked the whole thing. Except the last sentence. It had a great build up. But the last sentence was merely an awkward smack to the face. I wanted it to be a confident kick in the chest.

I rewrote the last sentence nearly 20 times.

The first version wasn’t very good. I knew it could be improved:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, and a rage turning it into ash.

I liked that. The visual of “black sludge” was better than “black”. Still needed work though:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, and a firestorm of rage turning molten sludge into ash.

I liked the addition of “firestorm” - that was a good word. I liked “molten sludge” too, but using “sludge” twice in a single sentence wasn’t working:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage turning molten sludge into ash.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so blazing turning molten sludge into ash.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot turning molten sludge into ash.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot it turns the molten sludge into ash.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot it turns the molten sludge to ash.

Those subtle changes are important - “into” becomes “to” while “and” becomes “with” and I played with “hot” and “blazing” but none of that was quite right either:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot it turns your flesh to ash.

Ah, yes. We’re getting closer. “Scorches” is a good word. Let’s try using that in place of “turns”:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot it scorches your flesh to ash.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot it scorches your very flesh to ash.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it poisons your very marrow to black sludge, with a firestorm of rage so hot it scorches your very flesh to ash.

Wait. Wait. Wait. The visual isn’t “black sludge”; it’s supposed to be more precise; “sewage”. Now we’re really close:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it poisons your very marrow to sewage; with a firestorm of rage so hot it scorches your very flesh to ash.

That sounds great, but “firestorm” and “hot” and “scorches” all in a single sentence feel redundant. What else could I do with one of those words? How about mixing up the meaning of the words? The words “hot” and “scorches” both cover the sense of touch. What if I use some poetic license and replace “hot” with a auditory adjective to modify the tactile visual?

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it poisons your very marrow to sewage; with a firestorm of rage so deafening, it scorches your very flesh to ash.

That’s it! Logically, “so deafening, it scorches your very flesh” doesn’t make sense. But as poetry it is easily understood. Finally, the word “ash” isn’t correct. Not working for me. That word has been in every iteration, but it just feels wrong. What should it be?

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it poisons your very marrow to sewage; with a firestorm of rage so deafening, it scorches your very flesh to cinders.

Yes!

That is it.

Perfect.

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it poisons your very marrow to sewage; with a firestorm of rage so deafening, it scorches your very flesh to cinders.

That’s beautiful. Compare that to the original:

This is for those sick with a depression so thick, it turns your very marrow to black, and a rage turning it into ash.

That sentence was passable, but now it sounds pretty weak.

Finally! Closer and closer, one word at a time, until I found each word that happened to be wrong. The evolution was slow going, but in the end, the sentence became far more clear and sensible.

Obviously, you don’t always need to write flowery poetic prose.

His face was graven and the shadows made it seem as if deep bags were dusted beneath his eyes, when he said, “You need to sit down for this.”

Do you really need that all the time?

He said, “You need to sit down for this.”

Sometimes, that’s all you need. Keep it simple.

Writing is very much like music. Things do not ride at a crescendo the whole time. Sometimes, you need to bring it down. Make it quiet. Keep it soft. Gentle.

Imagine if a movie score was epic and sweeping and loud for an entire film. That wouldn’t make any sense, would it? What if the adventurous theme of James Bond or Indiana Jones was playing during every second of the movie? That would have been terrible! In movies, the music must fit with the emotional tone of the story. In novels, the words must fit with the emotional tone of the story.

I wanted the tone of my paragraph to rise and rise, but at the end, it couldn’t burst into a crescendo. It had to drop back down, then burst. That’s why I made the final sentence so long. You notice preceding sentences had been far shorter. Punchy. Brisk. Crisp. You think the pace is going to quicken. Instead, it resets with a nice roundhouse to your ribs. That sticks.

And you know what? Maybe you disagree. While I’m waxing philosophical in my approach, you might come up with your own pretentious analysis to contradict me. Hey, that’s fine. Whatever. I’m just pointing out there’s a method to my madness. I do what I do for a carefully calculated reason. It’s not just random. It’s not done without thought. This is carefully constructed. Orchestrated. While you may disagree with my methods, you can recognize a method is evident.

Obviously, I don’t do this all the time. I don’t spend the effort to rewrite every single sentence in a story or an essay a dozen times. However, there are moments when it’s important to tweak something and get it just right. As I said at the beginning, this is a small example of something I have always wanted to illustrate. So, I hope you found it entertaining and it gives you a little insight into what the writing process is like for me. I can’t speak for other authors. Maybe I’m the only one who rewrites a sentence with that kind of obsessive compulsive fervor. Maybe all writers do that. I don’t know. But regardless if I’m alone in my idiosyncrasies, or if this is an idiocy from which all authors suffer, at least you now have a better understanding of why we sometimes spend a week trying to finish one page.

The exact words we use are of vital importance. As Mark Twain so famously said, “The difference between the ‘right word’ and the ‘almost-right word’ is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”

“Be proud of your mistakes. Well, proud may not be exactly the right word, but respect them, treasure them, be kind to them, learn from them. And, more than that, and more important than that, make them. Make mistakes. Make great mistakes, make wonderful mistakes, make glorious mistakes. Better to make a hundred mistakes than to stare at a blank piece of paper too scared to do anything wrong.”

- Neil Gaiman

How To Find Time To Write A Novel?
28 February 2014

“If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories - science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”

- Ray Bradbury

Damn, Mr. Bradbury. 20,000 days? That’s only 54 years. I need far more time. I’ll just be getting started!

You want to write a novel too? You haven’t started yet?

You have some great ideas though?

You read that one book by that one author you liked and you totally think you can do the same thing? The main characters, like totally reminded you of you and your best friend? You could totally write a story like that! It’s like, so much like your own life!

That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’ll get around to writing a novel just like that someday. I know you have some fantastic ideas.

You just don’t know where to find the time. You have school of course, and that takes up so many hours.

And what about you? You work endless shifts at your job, always putting in overtime. I understand. Maybe you can start writing after that.

Then there’s you, of course. You have children to raise, obviously. You have to get them breakfast, and go shopping, and dress them, and make them lunch, and take them to their practice in the afternoons. Where can you find time? Maybe you can start writing after they go to bed.

Writing doesn’t seem that hard. You wrote fabulous essays in school.

There’s that amazing new show on television! Did you watch it last week? Oh, my god, it’s so good! Maybe you can start writing after you catch the latest episode.

And how about that cool game app on your smartphone everyone is playing this month? Did you collect all the stupid candy or birds or jewels or coins or whatever the fuck you are commanded to do? Maybe you can start writing after you play that for a little while.

Writing is really easy, after all. Look at all the terrible books that get published.

You could start writing that novel this Friday night, but your friends called and they want to go out drinking. You can’t turn them down. Have to get your drink on! Woohoo! Party! You’re only young once! Besides, a writer needs life experiences, right? So you have to go be sociable with your friends. Live a little! Maybe you can start writing after you get home. If you’re not too wasted. LOL

Oh, and that new movie is opening this weekend! Did you catch the trailer? The one with your favorite actor in it! He’s so cool. All his movies are always so awesome. You have to check that out on Saturday. Maybe you can start writing when you get home.

Writing a novel shouldn’t be that tough for you. Your friends always say you’re so creative.

You really do love to read. Writers who are worth anything always read a lot. Right? The newest book in the latest young adult sorcery vampire dystopian series with that strong female lead character is out! Have to read that tonight before you go to bed. Too bad. You could have started writing your novel then. Maybe you can start after you’ve read a few chapters of The Harry Twilight Games.

Did you start messing around on the Internet again? How long did you spend on your social networking site today? Did you see those new posts from your friends’ vacation? That’s really important to spend time doing that. Did you make sure to click likes on those political rants? Your friends are just so tuned in to the social consciousness! Well, maybe you can start writing once you sign off the computer.

Writing a novel can’t take too long anyway. Right? You’ve heard some people write them in a month. Isn’t there that challenge every November where people churn out 50,000 word novellas they pretend are novels?

Well, once you hop off the Internet, maybe you’ll check out that videogame upgrade. You can start writing right after that.

Did you see what was on the news today? Can you believe what those crazy people in the Middle East and Asia are doing? How about the way that girl was dressed at the MTV Awards? Hey, that gives you some story ideas! Maybe you can start writing them down when the news is over.

That weekend trip you have planned next month with your boyfriend or girlfriend sure will be dreamy. You can’t wait. Maybe you can start writing when you get to that cute little bed and breakfast.

Anybody can write. You know you have the talent. You have such great ideas. You just can’t possibly find the time.

But you sure hope to get started soon.

Good luck.

The reason you will never be a writer is because you think you have all the time in the world.

For those of us who are writers...

54 years contain barely enough hours to begin.

“I’ve always been aware of posterity. Many, many, many, many years ago, I got a t-shirt when I was single that said, ‘Not tonight, dear - I’m on a deadline.’ And you stop to think about how many movies you didn’t go to, or how many times you didn’t get laid, or how many times you had to punk out on going out to a good dinner with somebody, or you missed seeing a concert you wanted to, because you were busy writing and you had to finish the story. As Von Kleist said, ‘I write only because I cannot stop.’ I keep writing because I cannot stop.”

- Harlan Ellison

Now It’s Time to Say Goodbye
14 March 2014

“You see, all my characters write the book. I don’t write the book. All these characters come to me and say, ‘Listen to me.’ And then I listen to them and I put it down, and the book gets written. That’s how I write, you see. All these lovers surround me, and they love life and they tell me about it.”

- Ray Bradbury

You know that feeling when a book ends.

All these characters and emotions and friendships and conversations and adventures and loves and wonderment and hate and laughter and tears and triumphs and tragedies and salvations and retributions and justices and injustices and moments and thoughts and ideas and insights and beauty that have changed your life for the better... and now you have to say goodbye.

Bad enough that all the real people in your life abandon you. The imaginary ones do it too.

That sense of loss and bereavement is something only you passionate readers can understand. Those of you who fall in love with those boys and girls on paper. Those of you who worry about their hardships in your day to day life, because they are so visceral to you. You worry about characters on the page even more than some people you know in the real world. After all, the world in the book is far more real than this place you’re in right now, isn’t it. This world is the dream. The book becomes your reality.

When I began to write my first duology, The Vampire Noctuaries, in 1993, I had already known the characters for 2 years. They wouldn’t leave me alone. They kept on talking. Kept on showing me things. I couldn’t get them out of my head. Anytime something in my real life reminded the characters of something, they were sure to start speaking up again. Next thing I knew, I was daydreaming about them all the time.

By the time I finished writing the first book, The Gothic Rainbow, I knew them intimately. They were more than friends. They had become a part of my psyche. Part of the fabric of who I am. After all, we are defined and shaped by our experiences and therefore, for every author, our characters become not just imaginary people in a book, but they are part of the story of our lives. Of our very being. You can’t talk about the life of J.D. Salinger without talking about Holden Caulfield, or J.R.R. Tolkein without Bilbo Bagins, or Mark Twain without Tom Sawyer, and by that measure, they not just imaginary characters, they are a very tangible facet of what defines the existence of these authors.

The Vampire Noctuaries are a very dark story. Very grim. Very depressing. And frankly, my real life became a lot better after I wrote that first book. One of the biggest reasons it took me 16 years to write a sequel was because I had started living a much happier life and I really couldn’t bear to return to those shadows.

Once I did return to that world, and I wrote the last sentences in the final book, something very unexpected happened. I fell into a terrible depression. It took me several weeks to pull myself out of it.

You know all that sorrow we feel when we finish reading a great book with characters we love? That grief is nothing compared to how it felt when I finished writing a book. I had no idea that would happen to me. I never thought about it. I never considered the possibility. It never crossed my mind. Because, you see, I didn’t feel remotely upset when I was done writing the first book, because I always knew there was more to write. I spent 16 years knowing there was more to the story. 16 years knowing anything the characters continue to whisper or nudge me about was always something I could write down later. By never writing the last book, it kept all my friends suspended in a state of endless possibilities. There would always be a new adventure to compose.

Once I completed writing Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival, all the possibilities had been exhausted. There was nothing left. My friends were gone. I could hear their voices no more.

Never did I imagine I could miss imaginary characters so much. I’ve lost flesh and blood friends in my life that I didn’t lament losing half as much as these fictional people.

I know many people would think that weird or strange, but it’s really not at all.

As human beings, we don’t really fall in love with people. We think we do. But we don’t. We don’t fall in love with a physical being. We fall in love with personalities. We don’t fall in love with what a person is, we fall in love with who they are. Their spirit. Their passion. Their outlook on life. Their dreams. Their hopes. Their humor. I’m not implying a physical presence is irrelevant. Obviously, there’s certainly a desire and a need for physical attraction and interaction and intimacy. Don’t mistake my sentiments for pragmatic nobility. I’m a shallow bastard just like everyone else and it’s a lot easier to fall in love with a girl when she looks like Aly Michalka instead of Keith Richards. My point is that falling in love is more than just a physical connection. After all, when a loved one dies, we don’t stop loving them, just because their physical body is gone. Right? We continue to love people who no longer exist. Their emotional connection remains. And that is what we fall in love with - how they make us feel when we’re around them. Their presence in our lives changes us forever and our feelings for them don’t vanish just because we can’t touch them or hear them talk to us.

How are fictional characters any different from a deceased loved one?

You still think it’s crazy to fall in love with imaginary characters you never met? Look at how many people fall in love over the Internet without ever meeting face-to-face. Messages and emails and phonecalls are enough to get to know a personality, to discover all the parts of a soul that are lovable. Keep in mind, these kinds of love affairs existed decades before the Internet was even invented. Before the Internet, generations ago, people would exchange handwritten letters and fall in love with pen pals, all over the world. In fact, in my personal life, not in a book or anything, I know a married couple who met and fell in love as pen pals. He was from England. She was from California. And they’ve been married over 20 years. Falling in love with someone you’ve never met, with a person who is just words on paper, is not crazy. It has been happening to people for centuries. How is the ink in the letter from a pen pal any different than the ink of a character on the pages of a novel?

Fictional characters have passions and opinions and dreams and hopes and humor and beauty, just like real human beings. In fact, fictional characters have everything a real human being has, except a physical body. When it comes to personality, a fictional person can be just as vibrant and alive and complete as any living soul. Therefore, falling in love with imaginary people isn’t strange at all. In fact, developing feelings for imaginary people might be even easier, because we are often exposed to their deepest thoughts and secret feelings; we get glimpses into their psyche that we never experience with people in the physical world. With imaginary characters, we get to know who they truly are, with no lies, no pretense, no betrayal. Even their imperfections and flaws are everything we dream them to be.

There was a time, when a girl I was dating finished reading The Gothic Rainbow, she told me that she felt sorry for the character of Helle. She said she wanted to get Helle a glass of milk and some cookies and take care of her.

I replied, “You know she’s me, don’t you?”

“What?” the girl said.

“As an author, every character in a book filters through the prism of the writer. Helle is largely based upon many girls I’ve known, but there’s also a little bit of me inside her. You do realize that, don’t you?”

The girlfriend didn’t really say much of anything in response, because she was horribly inarticulate and about as expressive as a plate of lima beans. Nevertheless, I think perhaps she began to understand what I’ve been trying to convey in this entire commentary. Fictional characters are still real people, with their own morals and beliefs and agendas and loves and desires and dreams.

Believe me when I say, there is no shame or oddity in falling in love with imaginary people and seeing them as your friends. Corporeal people are a constant source of disappointment. Incarnate people will abandon you. They will betray you. They will lie to you. They will lead you on and make you think they care about you, when in truth they only care about what they can get out of you.

Imaginary characters will never do that. Makebelieve characters will always be there for you when you need them. They will never expect anything from you. They will never let you down. They will always remain loyal.

We never need to say goodbye to characters in a book. They will always be there. We can always spend time with them, talk to them, bring them with us. There is no need to give your heart to lovers who will never cherish it. There is no need to nurture friendships that will serve only to forsake you. Unlike any living person, the characters of your dreams will love you forever, and befriend you for the rest of your life.

So, when you reach the end of a book, do not despair. That is not the time to say goodbye. That is the time to start a new chapter with soulmates who will live in your heart for eternity.

“The only thing worth writing about is people. People. Human beings. Men and women whose individuality must be created, line by line, insight by insight. If you do not do it, the story is a failure.”

- Harlan Ellison

Everything Counts in Large Amounts
28 March 2014

“Write a 1000 words a day. You’ve got to be madly in love. Don’t listen to your friends - they can’t help you. Write whatever you love - science fiction, romance, soap opera - it doesn’t matter.”

- Ray Bradbury

Spanning the summer to winter of 2013, I’ve been striving to write a minimum of 3000 words a day, so the advice of Ray Bradbury to produce 1000 a day is far below what I’m cranking out. Sometimes I reach it. Sometimes I fall short. Sometimes I surpass it. Depends on the day. But, I think I’m getting there more often than not. I did the math and I was maintaining an average of over 2300 words a day for 5 solid months.

There was never a point in my life where I dreamed of being a successful writer. I always dreamed of being a successful prolific writer. One day, not that long ago, I realized, being prolific didn’t elude me because I hadn’t found success. Success eluded me, because I hadn’t made the commitment to become prolific. Holding at 3000 words a day in a sprint should help. After all, maintaining a mere 1000 words a day indefinitely, means I’ll be producing 3 novels of 100,000 words every year. That’s not too shabby.

Not all authors aspire to compose prolific work.

That’s okay. You don’t have to be prolific. We can’t all be Issac Asimov.

There’s no crime in being less productive.

The sin is in those horrid authors who pretend to be prolific.

Recently, I stumbled across a woman selling full priced novel ebooks that are 25 pages long. 5000 words. Give me a break. That’s pathetic. Needless to say, all of her book reviews are negative - from readers who felt swindled and are complaining that she was charging the price of an entire book to read a single chapter.

I get so angry when I see these greedy hacks watering down the industry of publishing with their piss. If you’re publishing your book one chapter at a time, you’re a greedy fucking asshole. If your stories truly are only 5000 words, then compile a book of short stories. But to sell them one at a time is horribly deceptive to readers. Seriously, if you do that to people, you’re a piece of shit.

There are a large number of authors out there who love to rip off the public and swindle as much money out of people as possible. The most common ways to do this are twofold:

1. Divide standard 300 page novels into 100 page novella trilogies; artificially dissecting a story in order to make a trilogy where there isn’t one.

2. Give the novellas huge fonts and big margins as a way to artificially increase the page counts. That way people see a book is 320 pages and they think they’re getting a lot of value for their money. Truth is they are buying a 100 page book that has been falsely inflated through sneaky formatting.

This commentary is my humble way of trying to protect readers and warn you about those shifty authorfuckers.

Most readers don’t pay attention to page counts or word counts. You read a description of a book and it sounds interesting and you say, “Oh, I think I’ll check that out!”

Now, if you’re standing in a bookstore, physically hold a book in your hands, it’s pretty easy to see how many pages the book has. If it’s 80 pages long and they’re charging you three times the cost of a normal paperback, you can say, “Hold on a second! I’m getting ripped off!” However, if the page count is high and it’s got some heft to it, always make sure you flip it open and check out the printing. Did they use that sneaky trick of making a super huge font and really small margins just to make the book look longer? Don’t let them rip you off that way either.

Online, it gets a little trickier. You can’t physically see the book so, the page layout can be misleading. Usually when you’re online, it’s easier to judge the quantity of story you’re getting by checking the word count. Obviously a longer book doesn’t automatically mean a better book, after all, one of my favorite books, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, is under 10,000 words long, but for goodness sake, it’s a complete book and it’s reasonably priced! No one should have to pay the price of a novel to read something that only amounts to one chapter. For this reason, I always include the word count of all my books. On average, most novels are anywhere from 50,000 to 100,000 words. My first was 190,000. My second was 104,000. Honestly revealing the word count is the only way to legitimately measure the length of a book, since “page counts” can be easily rigged to be nearly any number you want. Many authors won’t expose the word count of their stories. Some of them don’t give you the word count because they don’t realize it’s important information to share, others won’t give the word count because they figure readers aren’t smart enough to know what it means, and then you have those who hide their word count, because they don’t want you to know they are selling a 5000 word book for the price of a full novel.

To readers out there, I challenge you to scrutinize the words counts of books. Don’t just look at page counts.

To authors out there, I challenge you to be honest. Admit your word counts. Make it conspicuous. Have the decency to post the numbers and don’t puff up your books to higher page counts just to try and make more money.

“It simply follows that quantity produces quality. Only if you do a lot will you ever be any good. If you do very little, you’ll never have quality of idea or quality of output. The excitement and creativity comes from a whole lot of doing; hoping you’ll suddenly be struck by lightning. If you only write a few things, you’re doomed. The history of literature is the history of prolific people. I always say to students, give me four pages a day, every day. That’s three or four hundred thousand words a year. Most of that will be bilge, but the rest... It will save your life!”

- Ray Bradbury

Writer’s Digest, February 1976

The Chosen Ones
11 April 2014

There is an immense proliferation of novels geared towards a prepubescent and college audience with the exact same plot: Awkward outsider meets attractive and charming member of the opposite sex and awkward outsider discovers they are secretly “The Chosen One” destined to do great deeds. Oh, and if the chosen one is female, there’s often two-guys vying for her love triangle attention.

You don’t need to take a high school psychology class to understand the simple reason for the appeal of this story. We all feel like awkward outsiders at that time in our lives, we all wish that we shall become something special, and we pray we never resign ourselves to settling for a mundane existence. In short, we hope to accomplish great things and we fear to become our parents. Because goodness knows, they never accomplished anything! All they ever did was give up all of their dreams when they had you. As for the love triangles - obviously those stories are all written for horny virgin teenage girls who would love to have multiple studpuppies fighting over them.

This is why I hate those stories.

We honestly believe in what we read. Some of us do. The magicians. The witches. The wizards. Those of us who possess the power to conjure these realms. Those of us who have always been meant to change the world by melding two universes together. We honestly think we can become mutant superheroes. Every kid awaiting puberty thinks maybe, just maybe, our generation will be the first. Maybe the mutations have already begun. Maybe we will be one of the illustrious “Chosen Ones” and maybe these makebelieve stories aren’t so makebelieve after all! Maybe these authors are in on the secret. Maybe they are trying to tell us something. Maybe we are being sent these stories by the universe, because the universe is trying to prepare us for something. For the change. For the great convergence of that world shifting moment.

I have a confession to make. I still believe. I still hope. Sometimes, I read a book or watch a movie and I think, “Oh, please. Let me be part of that world. Let me become something great. Let me make a difference.” Maybe the universe is trying to prepare me for my own moment of becoming a superhero.

Or maybe not.

Maybe the world is just full of crappy writers who can’t come up with an original story idea! There’s no clandestine secret society trying to prepare the new generation for their eminent destiny. No. All these stories being repeated is not a sign of some impending fate. There’s no meaning behind it at all! Just a bunch of dumbass braindead hacks churning out trite novels and screenplays and the same pathetic comic books because they don’t have two atoms of originality in their bodies.

When you begin to realize that, it really starts to piss you off.

When you reach high school and discover puberty didn’t leave you with a single superpower - other than needing 30 minutes to take a shower - you feel furious. You were betrayed. They promised you something! Well, maybe they didn’t promise, but they sure implied it! And they didn’t deliver.

Then in high school, you never meet that supernatural guide. That new girl or new guy never moves in to your neighborhood. The mysterious stranger doesn’t start attending your school. No one shows up to tell you about your otherworldly family lineage. You never get a letter. By the time you reach college, you find out nothing is going to happen at all.

Turns out you won’t grow up to be a superhero or a Chosen One. The old wizened mentor will never show up to teach you the ancient ways of your ancestors. You’ll never get the girl who is out of your league. The hot guy will never talk to you. The Lady of the Lake will not bequeath you Excalibur. The spaceships aren’t going to come and pick you up. You won’t find the Golden Ticket and you won’t inherit the chocolate factory.

And, goddamnit, that pisses you off!

You are not The Chosen One after all.

The superpower mutations are not starting with your generation.

You’re going to end up just like your parents.

And like your grandparents before them.

What the hell is so special about that?

Why did those stories make all those promises?

One day you wake up and realize that you’re just like everyone else. They lied to you. And that’s not what bothers you. What bothers you is knowing you will always be like everyone else. That this will never change.

That’s the worst part of all. Knowing those promises will never come true. Knowing they were always lies.

That is one of the moments when childhood ends. Some say it ends when you learn you will die. Others say it ends when you suffer that first broken heart. And of course no one ever wants to mention how quickly childhood ends in those who were touched in a way that was far too intimate, at an age far too young. The truth is, no one event ever kills your childhood. Rather it withers slowly through a culmination of disappointments that eat away at your innocence. In moments like the first phonecall that someone has died. That icy telephone voice, when a different gear snaps into the world and nothing ever moves the same again.

There is one great glimmer of hope in all this though.

That is for you to become your own Chosen One. For you to take charge and define your existence. To defiantly cast aside those shackles of mediocrity the world has in mind for you. The moment you refuse to be bound by their expectations, the moment you become the champion of your own legend, you can transform your life.

I can promise you two things right now. I can promise you that everyone who considers those thoughts will aspire to achieve them. And I promise that most of you shall fail.

There is no shame in that failure. Mediocrity is not a crime nor a sin. We can’t all be superheroes. Otherwise, who will the superheros have to save? We need the vanilla beige of mediocrity in the world. And if fate has decreed that be your destiny, wear the mantle with pride. There is no humiliation in living a simple and banal life. You mundanes and neurotypicals live days blessed with a serenity the chosen souls will never possess. You can shut off your mind and watch Monday Night Football and grab a beer. You’re lucky. You never have to worry about waking up at 3am to write down the next chapter of the novel. You never need to stay up for 20 hours on the film set. You’re never haunted by the circuitboard schematics when you go see your kids school play. You can just come home from working 9 to 5 and shut off your brain. That’s a privilege. There is no dishonor in following that path. We can’t all soar or the skies would be a danger to us all. Some of us need to keep our feet on the ground and if you be destined to remain the salt of the earth, then bless you. Be happy with your fate. There is just as much honor and glory in a humble life as there is in a spectacular one.

For the rest of you...

You must jump from the cliff and hope you sprout wings. If you aren’t brave enough or crazy enough to make the leap, you’re going to need to do the walk of shame back down the mountain. For although there be no shame in mediocrity, there is certainly shame in boasting of dreams you never have the courage to pursue.

Fly. The worst that can happen is that you die trying.

And in that defining moment of skyrocketing or squishing, you will find the most powerful realization of all - that the reality they insist you live in does not have to be the one you chose. You can defy the very perceptions they have ingrained in you. You can rise above their reality and never need to look back. And even if you fail, at least you made the attempt to break free.

That is the promise I seek to teach in my stories. I’ll never lie to you with false hopes of Chosen Ones and swordwielding mentors. I’ll never fill you with expectations that a sorcerer may appear on a particular birthday. Instead, I will deliver on my promises by sharing the virtues of tenacity and perseverance. But I temper that with a warning: There’s an excellent chance you won’t be the hero. You may accomplish nothing but defeat. Despite what storybooks tell you, the mere pursuit of your dreams is never a guarantee of success. I will not spraypaint over the horseshit, just to make you think the streets are paved with gold. They aren’t. They’re brick, and cracked, and covered with horseshit. I won’t guide you down a path of lies and claim it’s nothing but primroses. On the contrary, I’ll be the one to tell you the truth - watch your step, because the road you’re on is full of horseshit and flanked by thornbushes. But if you find the bravery to step outside your door and you make it down that path, if you navigate the dark road, ah, the rewards shall be real.

My stories will never seduce you into thinking you’re The Chosen One.

I won’t dash your dreams by filling you with the wishes to be that soul.

Instead, I will show you how to stop dreaming the dreams of others, and point you to the road where your own can come true.

Wear boots. You’re gonna need ’em.

The Most Common Writing Advice is the Worst
25 April 2014

“If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer. It means you are so busy keeping one eye on the commercial market, or one ear peeled for the avant-garde coterie, that you are not being yourself. You don’t even know yourself. For the first thing a writer should be is excited. He should be a thing of fevers and enthusiasms.”

- Ray Bradbury

Many writers give awful advice to aspiring writers. One of the most common - “Write what you know.”

Terrible advice. Let’s face it, there wouldn’t be any science fiction or fantasy books in the world if we only wrote what we know. All those overweight housewives self-publishing their horrible trashy romance novels about strapping oxen pool boys certainly aren’t writing what they know. What a shame to deprive their depraved readership of slash fan fiction.

“Write what you know” is a very ignorant way of saying, “Don’t try to sound like an expert on something when you’re completely clueless. Do some research.”

Like when you’re 15 years old, you can put a grandfather in your story, but don’t try to write a 300 page novel from the point of view of a 70 year old man or you’re just going to sound like an idiot. The opposite holds true too. If you’re 75 years old, you can put a teenager in your story, or reflect upon what your own childhood was like, but don’t try to write a story from the point of view of a teen today or you’ll botch all the slang and end up looking like a clueless fool.

Take myself. In real life, I’m not remotely into team sports. I don’t care about baseball, football, basketball, hockey or soccer. Basically, any sport involving a ball or a team, is of no interest to me. Athletically, I’m into skateboarding, hang gliding, snowboarding, BMX, mountain biking and sports like that. So, I might put a skateboarder in one of my novels, but I’m not going to put a professional baseball player in a book. Why? Because I need to write what I know and I know a hell of a lot about skateboarding and I don’t know squat about baseball.

I’m also 100% straightedge. Clean and sober since the day I was born. Always have been. All my life. Never drank alcohol. Never taken a single drag from a cigarette or a hit off a joint. Never done any illicit drugs. Not once. Not ever. So I can’t write a story about those kind of experiences, because I don’t have any idea what being drunk even feels like. Once again, I’d sound clueless if I tried.

Writing imaginative literature is about dreaming and exploring the fantastical and unknown. In that sense, forget the advice of “write what you know” because it’s bull. Just don’t try to sound like you’re informed about something when you’re not.

Prime example, in his wonderful story “The Deathbird” there’s a scene where author Harlan Ellison talks about a character going down through many layers of the earth. He describes mile after mile of the strata in detail and I remember thinking as I read it, “Harlan is a smart guy, but there’s no way he knows all of this!”

Sure enough, I get to the end of the story and he gives thanks to a geologist who helped with the tale.

I was right. Harlan didn’t know that much about geology. So, he educated himself, then he could write what he knew. “Don’t try to sound like an expert on something when you’re completely clueless.”

The other bit of terrible advice to writers? “Read more than you write.”

What?

That’s ridiculous!

Reading is certainly vital to understand the craft of writing, and reading also provides great sources of inspiration, to see what other amazing authors have composed.

But to read more than you write?

You don’t tell an athlete to watch sports more than they train.

You don’t tell dancers to watch dance recitals more than they step into the studio.

Should musicians listen to more music than they compose? Really? Should they listen to music 5 hours a day and write for only 3 hours?

Reading more than you write?

That will make you a great reader, not a great writer.

Improving your writing is only done... by writing! Duh! What kind of idiot thinks reading makes you a better author? Watching movies doesn’t mean you can direct them. Want to direct movies, then direct one. Attending a bodybuilding contest doesn’t improve your physique. Want to be a bodybuilder, then lift weights. Telling authors to read under the assumption it will make them better writers is like the stupid kids I see at the skatepark who play skateboarding videogames and they think they’ll be able to skate the pool. Then they see me drop in the 11’ deep end and they crap their pants. Fatass, snot-nosed little shits who play Tony Hawk videogames all day aren’t learning how to skate by sitting in front of their computer monitors. You aren’t learning how to write by reading a book.

Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not telling authors they shouldn’t read. Of course not! I’m a writer! Why the heck would I encourage illiteracy? That would be as senseless as a general claiming to be a pacifist. No. I want you to read. I want everyone to read. I want people to read all the time. I want you to constantly have a book on your nightstand. I write books. I love books. I love reading with a passion. Reading is glorious. But I don’t read in order to write better. My motive for reading is that I love to read. Period. And yes, obviously, I’m often inspired by things I read. I get excited when I read something that’s phrased with sheer elegance. When an author wields the foil of language with the prowess to compose phrases which ring with poignant verisimilitude. When an author has the ability to articulate a shared aspect of the human condition I never heard anyone express before; That’s always the most exciting, and rare, spark for me to encounter in reading. Those are the moments I savor. For me, that’s what reading and writing are all about. Capturing the commonality of those moments. Unifying humanity with the glee of knowing we are not alone and others understand the nuance of our existence. Giving a succinct voice to that heretofore unspoken experience.

Reading, for that reason alone, is a delight. As such, reading should retain a mythic delight. You can’t reverse engineer magic. Even a magician doesn’t ask a magician how he does his tricks.

Read because you love to read. Write if you want to be come a better writer.

You really think you can get better at writing through reading, read the dictionary. Improve your vocabulary. Broaden your pool of words. Educate yourself on that.

You want to be a better writer? Write.

You want to be a better reader? Read.

You want to be a better boxer? Turn off Rocky and climb in the ring.

You want to be a better skateboarder, put away the stupid videogame and go outside.

Skaters skate.

Fighters fight.

Writers write.

“It is not merely enough to love literature if one wishes to spend one’s life as a writer. It is a dangerous undertaking on the most primitive level. For, it seems to me, the act of writing with serious intent involves enormous personal risk. It entails the ongoing courage for self-discovery. It means one will walk forever on the tightrope, with each new step presenting the possibility of learning a truth about oneself that is too terrible to bear.”

- Harlan Ellison

You Have Been Lied to About Storytelling
9 May 2014

“You can’t learn to write in college. It’s a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do - and they don’t. They have prejudices. They may like Henry James, but what if you don’t want to write like Henry James? They may like John Irving, for instance, who’s the bore of all time. A lot of the people whose work they’ve taught in the schools for the last thirty years, I can’t understand why people read them and why they are taught.”

- Ray Bradbury

The ideas I want to share with you today are an excerpt of something I originally mentioned in the epilogue of my novel, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned about writing, the biggest “secret” was something that no one ever told me. I never read it in any books or heard any teachers talk about it. No screenwriting courses teach it. No writing-advice forums on the Internet mention it.

So, what is the big “secret” I learned?

I learned that the common ideas of what makes “good” writing, and the constructs within which to compose a story, such as the Hero’s Journey or the Three-Act-Structure, are all bullshit.

In truth, the formula to concoct compelling writing requires only two things:

1. Characters the reader cares about.

2. Interesting experiences for those characters to have.

That’s it. Period. Nothing else matters.

Few “professional” writers will agree with me.

Every creative writing teacher on earth will tell you I’m wrong.

I’m not wrong.

I can prove it.

What is your favorite story of all time? Now, hold on, before you answer that, let me quantify the question - I am not talking exclusively about books or movies or television shows. I am talking about every story in your entire life. Which one is your favorite? Think about our most common form of storytelling. What is it? How are our most predominant stories constructed?

It’s not movies. It’s not books. It’s not television.

It’s our friends and family.

Right?

Think about it.

Which story is your favorite? I bet it’s not your favorite book. I bet it’s a story your grandfather tells about meeting your grandmother. A story your uncle has told you about his days in college. The story of you and your brother getting lost in the woods during the blizzard. Those are the most important stories in your life. Those are the stories of who you are.

We are all storytellers. Every conversation we have with people tends to consist of storytelling. The largest and most prolific and influential source of storytelling in our lifetimes comes from our verbal interaction with fellow human beings. The oral tradition is alive and well. Everyone is constantly telling each other about things that happened to them at work, or on a date, or with the kids, or at the family reunion, or going out to the nightclub, or what happened at the bowling alley, or their day at the beach, or the plane ride on their vacation.

Now, I ask you, have you ever listened to your grandparents talk about their day at the grocery store and when they are finished, you say, “Well, that story didn’t have a proper Three-Act-Structure.”

Of course not!

Did you ever listen to your friend tell you a hilarious story of their vacation, then say, “Well, that was a great story, but it didn’t follow the motif of the Hero’s Journey.”

No! That would be moronic!

Critics of books and movies make those ignorant comments, because they don’t understand anything about what makes a great story.

Don’t get me wrong. The Hero’s Journey and the Three-Act-Structure are very legitimate and valid ways to build a story. I’m not trying to undermine the legitimacy of these constructs or imply that the analysis of tales following these motifs are incorrect. I’m simply noting that when stories are diluted into their most raw and essential ingredients, they are far more simple than we have been lead to believe.

Hence, I reiterate, stories require only two elements:

1. Characters the audience cares about.

2. Interesting experiences for those characters to have.

In the grocery store example, the characters are your grandparents. If you care about them, and their story isn’t boring, you will listen. Plain and simple. Their tale will hold your attention. Doesn’t matter what the “structure” of the story happens to be. There doesn’t need to be an antagonist, or a conflict, or a character arc, or any of the bullshit they teach you in writing classes.

You need to have characters people care about.

Those characters have to be in interesting situations.

That’s it.

The end.

That’s the whole of secret of storytelling!

One of the greatest literary examples of this is The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. The book has no plot. The book has no structure. The book has no antagonist. There is no character arc. It’s a story about a kid wandering around New York City and hanging out. Despite breaking all rules of writing conventions and storytelling, it is one of the most enthralling books you can imagine.

Why?

Why does The Catcher in the Rye work so well, despite being written so unconventionally? Why is it so magnificent, despite breaking the rules?

Because it follows my two rules:

1. A character you care about.

2. He does things that are interesting.

Being a great storyteller requires nothing more.

Now, I do have to add, your technical skill does play a factor. One must be articulate and have a savvy vocabulary in order to obey those two rules. That is how a character becomes endearing and has those interesting experiences. Command of language is vital. Going back to the example of the grandparents and the grocery store, if your grandfather has a crippling stutter, it could make it very difficult to enjoy his story. Even though you adore him and he’s telling something interesting, if you can’t understand his speech, the story still falls apart.

Which leads me to another myth of writing, which I long ago learned is false, and that is when people constantly say, “The story is everything.”

Absolutely not.

You hear writers and filmmakers repeat that over and over again.

“The story is everything.”

“The story is the most important thing.”

Bullshit!

The story is irrelevant! The telling is everything.

Remember the 1985 hit “One Night in Bangkok” by Murray Head? Topped the charts in Europe and peaked at #3 in the United States? The song is about chess. Do you suppose there was a big demand for chess-themed pop songs? No. The song was catchy. That is why it became a hit. The story of the lyrics didn’t matter. What mattered was the way the song was composed. Good hook. You could dance to it. Storytelling is not about the story, it’s about the telling.

As a writer, you’re not a “story”, you’re a “storyteller”.

An audience never “reads a story”, they “experience storytelling”. As a storyteller, your job is to make that experience compelling and memorable. But more than that, because “compelling” and “memorable” are bullshit words your English teacher will use. What you write has to live in people. You are Dr. Frankenstein, giving life to the corpse of words. Sewing them together, electrifying them, making them walk the earth for eternity!

A great storyteller can make a story about drying paint, compelling.

A terrible storyteller can make a story about the first lunar landing, dull.

“Drying too fast in the arid heat, she watched the paint splinter; crevices forming across the surface, like skin on her grandmother’s brow.”

“The spaceship landed for the first time that ever happened before!”

Your telling can ruin anything.

Your telling can make anything beautiful.

That’s the secret to great writing.

The story isn’t what matters. What matters is the way you tell it.

“When you’re all alone out there, on the end of the typewriter, with each new story a new appraisal by the world of whether you can still get it up or not, arrogance and self-esteem and deep breathing are all you have. It often looks like egomania. I assure you it’s the bold coverup of the absolutely terrified.”

- Harlan Ellison

With Enemies Like That, Who Needs Friends?
30 May 2014

“At forty-two I had come to that point in my life toward which I’d struggled since I’d been a child: a place of security, importance, recognition. The only one from this town who had made it. The ones who had had the most promise in school were now milkmen, used car salesmen, married to fat, stupid dead women who had, themselves, been girls of exceeding promise in high school. They had been trapped in this little Ohio town, never to break free. To die there, unknown. I had broken free, had done all the wonderful things I’d said I would do.”

- Harlan Ellison “One Life, Furnished In Early Poverty”

I’m a liar. I’m a fraud. I’m a hypocrite.

For my lifetime of posturing and preaching about pursuing your dreams and making your wishes and hopes come true, I’ve never done it myself. I’ve never even tried.

I know what you’re thinking. “Yes, you have, Eric! You do everything you dream! You became a licensed hang glider pilot soaring over a mile above the earth. You moved to Hollywood with no job and ended up working for Walt Disney. You’re a published novelist. You go skateboarding in California pools with girls who win medals in the XGames. You’re an award-nominated filmmaker. Your photography has appeared in art galleries and you’ve worked with Playboy Playmates and television stars. You date fashion models. You’re an equestrian. A motorcyclist. You’ve been dragged by horses and fallen off motorcycles and you’re badass enough to still be walking and talking about it. What haven’t you done?”

Well, the truth is, all I ever really wanted to do, the only way I ever truly wanted to make a living, was as a novelist. Nothing else. All the other things I have achieved in my life are things I’m happy about, and proud of, and certainly grateful to have experienced, and my varied career choices have been honestly fun and enjoyable. But I have never sincerely pursued my one great passion. I have never even attempted to make a living as a novelist. I’ve never attempted it. I’ve never submitted a single manuscript for publication. Not one book. Not one essay. Nothing. I’ve never queried an agent. Worst of all, in my efforts to self-publish my work, I only spend a couple of months doing any marketing and promotions before I grow bored and just give up on it.

Earning a cushy 6-figures a year as a novelist - as a career, that is the biggest and oldest dream I have ever possessed. And I have never even tried to make that dream happen. Not really tried. Only half-heartedly.

I’m ashamed of that. I feel like such a putz.

Worst of all, I lied to myself. I convinced myself that simply writing novels was enough. I told myself that the act of creation was the only reward I required. But it is precisely because that bliss of creation is genuinely sublime, that it’s not enough. The work must earn a living for the artist, simply as a way to assure the creative process can be maintained for a majority of all their days. The addiction to art must be fueled by the success of the addiction.

That’s why I’m a liar and a hypocrite.

I always tell people to pursue their passions and personally, I have only ever pursued my own passion in a half-assed way.

No one has ever noticed. No one has ever called me out on it. Not until a few months ago, one person brought it up. But no one else ever has. I have written novels. I have published novels. Therefore, I can legitimately call myself a novelist and no one can contend that fact. That’s all I need in order to “fake it” and trick the world. Make everyone think I’m “going for my dreams” when I’m really not.

Often have I complained that friends and family have never had much faith in me. Not that they expect me to fail. They just seem indifferent to the outcome.

Oh, sure, they say the right things. I might occasionally hear a “that’s great” or a “good for you.” But no one who says that ever means it. If they were genuinely supportive, they’d actually purchase and read my books. None of them bother to do that and actions do speak louder than words. Anyone can say they are supportive. Another thing to truly be supportive. Friends of mine have actually posted on websites about other people they know publishing books, but they never bothered to mention any of the numerous books I’ve written. In fact, I knew one girl who was doing a fundraiser for her dance troupe on the Internet and I tried to help her out and I reposted her promotions all over my social media sites. Getting the word out for her as best I could. When I asked her to return the favor and let people know about my latest book release, you know what she said? She said she didn’t have time to promote my stuff, because she had to focus on her own project right now.

Can you believe that?

After I promoted her project, she refused to reciprocate.

See? I’m telling you, I truly don’t have any friends. I have numerous acquaintances and selfish fucking assholes. The friends slot is full of cobwebs.

Heck, I’ve even put some friends in my books as cameo characters, and those people never read my books either. Some people who have been part of the artwork and images in a few of my novels have never bothered to read the book. Obviously, this is not indicative of the quality of the story. Not like the writing is bad, so they can’t stomach reading it. No. They don’t even pick up their copy of the book in the first place. When friends don’t even care enough to read a book you have written them into, are they really friends at all? Perhaps I’m mislabeling mere acquaintances with more credit than they actually deserve.

Therein lies another way in which I’m a hypocrite. So frequently I claim to not care that friends and family show no support. Truth be told, it bothers me a lot. I am always nagged by that same concern: “If the people who supposedly care about my fortune and success, don’t really give a shit, why would anyone else? If these people don’t care enough to read my books, who will?”

Then, I finally realized something.

I finally realized I had it backwards.

I realized I was being unfair. If I truly want to be a successful author, the key is to discover and cultivate fans. To nurture an audience. People who will appreciate my books because of the writing, not because they know me. And that audience must consist of hundreds of thousands of people, not a few dozen friends and family. If I sincerely want to make my dreams a reality, I need to think on a much larger scale and fans are the people I have to rely upon. No one else matters. Not friends. Not family. Not old coworkers. Not former classmates. Those people serve very different purposes in life. Friends and family are not here to help me realize my ambitions. That is not their job. To imbue them with such an expectation is my failing, not theirs.

The people I need to care about are the ones who value what I create. No one else. I used to think successful “marketing” meant I needed to share my literary accomplishments with everyone. All the time. Starting with friends and family. Now I realize that was never the proper attitude. Success stems from sharing your craft with the people who give a damn. Sharing it with anyone else is a waste of time. Regardless of whether they are friends, family, or strangers - if they don’t support and share an enthusiasm for your work, they are useless to your success. Throw those people overboard. So long as they are uninterested or cynical toward your achievements, they have no place in your journey to fulfill your dreams and ambitions. Get rid of them. Banish them from your life.

Perhaps I was wrong all along. Perhaps for some of us, friends and loved ones are never meant to be supportive. Perhaps their role is to play our villains. Perhaps in the stories of our lives, they are destined to be our antagonists. The ones who doubt us. The ones who push us. The ones who test our mettle and force us to hold firm in our convictions. The ones who challenge our resolve and thereby strengthen our commitment to attaining the goal. They are the embodiment of all which threatens to usurp our determination. They are the first monsters we must defeat. They are the teachers who show us how to defy the world and prevail against everyone who opposes us.

To be a writer, you walk the path alone. There are no friends. There are no confidants. No comrades nor compatriots. There are no crowds on the sidelines cheering you to victory. To bear this task is to tread through desolation. To be abandoned. To be forgotten.

On the road to nowhere, you shall cleave no companionship.

How glorious. To gaze about and see you need not tarry for anyone to keep pace, you need not be impeded by any who presume to detour your journey.

The quest be a lifetime. And what a triumphant trail lay before thee.

Something You Don’t Know About Book Covers
6 June 2014

“I use a library the same way I’ve been describing the creative process as a writer - I don’t go in with lists of things to read, I go in blindly and reach up on shelves and take down books and open them and fall in love immediately. And if I don’t fall in love that quickly, shut the book, back on the shelf, find another book, and fall in love with it. You can only go with loves in this life.”

- Ray Bradbury

For those writers keen to design their own book covers, I wanted to share some graphic design tips that no one else has ever told them. Yes, it is once again burdened unto me to educate the world on something that no one else is aware of and I and I alone must rescue the teeming masses from their ignorance. Hey, it’s a thankless job, but someone has to waste their lifetime making the lemmings notice the cliff. Still standing in the rye like Holden Caulfield, waiting to catch them.

The tip is simply this - stop ignoring the rules of medieval heraldry! Be sure to follow that shit!

No, that’s not a joke. I’m completely serious. Most designers don’t know anything about the rules of medieval heraldry because they don’t teach that in basic design classes in school and I know if they’re a self-taught designer, they definitely have no fucking clue what I’m talking about. So, let’s start with a history lesson.

Back in the middle ages, households and kingdoms developed heraldic symbols that were used on shields during battle.

Today, most people ignorantly presume that such crests were done for ego. To announce to the enemy, “I’m King Fancypants! Beware my wrath!”

But no. That was not the reason. The reason was to identify friend from foe in the chaos of battlefields.

Have you ever been part of a medieval conflict with vast numbers of people fighting each other at the same time? Perhaps the closest you have come to such a thing is watching Lord Of The Rings and Braveheart. And believe me, movies do not do it justice. I have been there. I’ve lived it. I have been in the midst of medieval battlefields. I’ve seen it first hand.

Pennsic War.

I’m not going to bother explaining when and where the Pennsic War took place. I’ll let you figure it out. Look it up. Educate yourself. Some of you will think I’m claiming to be a time traveler. Some of you will presume I’m lying. And that small handful of you are now chucking to yourselves, because you know exactly what I’m talking about. After standing upon the battlefields of Pennsic, with wave after wave of lords and ladies fighting in sword to sword combat, I was finally able to understand the benefits of medieval heraldry for the first time.

In the middle of the fray, it instantaneously becomes crystal clear. Thanks to your shield device, the emblazon allows you to identify your comrades from hundreds of feet away. Even amidst the frenzy and anarchy of such a skirmish, it is easy to instantly spot your allies. There’s Duke Sir Laurlen, 50 feet to the right. There’s Sir Theodric, 30 feet behind me. Ah, I see Calum is still standing - oops. Maybe not.

Most people have never witnessed warfare like that. But imagine being at an amusement park, or a giant concert, surrounded by thousands of people, and having the ability to easily identify your brother or sister when they are 100 feet away. That is what the heraldry of shields was all about. It was far more than simply blocking swords and arrows. Your shield also doubled as a giant billboard to say, “I’m Prince Eric. If we’re on the same side and I’m 200 feet away, please don’t smash me with the catapult!”

What does all of this have to do with book covers?

Simple.

Just like a medieval shield on the battlefield, you want your book cover to stand out. To be bold. Identifiable.

Unbeknownst to most mundane folks, there are very strict rules regarding color combinations for medieval heraldry. Those who established these rules, and regulated this artistry, are known as “heralds”. Heralds learned that certain combinations of colors provide a more stark contrast than others. Thus, all shield crests are designed to follow these rules. That way, you can spot your King from 500 feet across the battlefield and you can make sure that your archers won’t accidentally shoot him.

What are these sharply contrasting colors used in heraldry?

Well, the hues (known as “tinctures”) of heraldry are divided primarily into 5 colors and 2 metals. (There are also patterns called “furs” but for the sake of brevity and clarity, I’m excluding those from this explanation.)

Colors:

Gules (Red)

Purpure (Purple)

Azure (Blue)

Sable (Black)

Vert (Green)

Metals:

Argent (Silver/White)

Or (Gold/Yellow)

Not to be confused with “emblazon” which is the actual picture on the shield, the word “blazon” means a way of verbally describing a heraldic coat of arms. The language of blazoning also involves strict rules of vocabulary and arrangement. By adhering to these strict rules, it allows heralds a means to record and reproduce shield devices, based purely on a vocabulary description. For example, the simple blazon, “Sable, a lion rampant or” depicts a black shield with a gold lion on it.

Based upon the specific phrasing of that blazon, that shield will always be drawn the exact same way, by any herald.

Heraldic rules are very sophisticated and I’m not going to turn this into a lesson on heraldic studies. However, there is one very important rule in heraldry I want to get across and that is - you never combine colors with colors or metals with metals.

For example, you never put green lettering on black. You never put black lettering on purple. You never put white lettering on yellow.

You can put black on white. You can put blue on gold. You can put gold on purple. And so forth.

You always combine a color with a metal.

And that is what you need to remember when you’re designing a book cover. By following that one basic rule of heraldry, titles on your book covers will have the most stark contrast and therefore, they will remain vibrant and easy to read when they are shrunken down into tiny thumbnails or blown up into posters.

You personally use medieval heraldry every single day you leave your house. Can you guess where?

Street signs.

Believe it or not, all street signs, in countries all over the world, conform to the heraldic tincture rules established hundreds of years ago. Colors on metals. Metals on colors. Stop signs are gules with argent lettering. Deer crossings are “Or, a deer rampant sable”. The names of streets are azure with argent lettering. Speed limit signs are argent with sable lettering. One way streets are sable signs with argent arrows containing sable lettering. Just like the shields on a medieval battlefield, modern day traffic signs all conform to the tincture rules of heraldry, so you can read them clearly from a far distance.

Thus, I invite you to work at following the rules of medieval heraldry when titling your book covers. You may presume such an idea is contrived and obsolete, when in fact, it’s based upon principals that you use every single day, you just never knew you were doing it.

And, yes, you will notice that all of my books do follow the rules of heraldic color contrasts. My vampire duology was intended to look like tooled leather, so they are not exactly conforming to heraldic tinctures, but there is a slight darkening to black around the gold lettering, to make it stand out more.

I practice what I preach, ladies and gentlemen.

One last note, I have studied art and I made a living as a graphic designer for many years, doing everything from magazine advertisements to sales campaigns for multi-million dollar retail markets. In addition, I do all my own photography and have sold my work in art galleries and photographed Playboy models like Katie Lohmann, Pamela Mars and Gwendolyn Sweet, so I know what the hell I’m doing and I can design my own covers. However, due to my extensive experience as a designer, I can also concede when something is beyond my capabilities. When I require artwork that exceeds my skillset, for example a great illustration or painting, I would not hesitate to hire an artist who is better than me, and art direct the covers.

Most self-published authors should probably follow my example and stop trying to do their own covers. Seriously. Most self-published nimrods design book covers that look like they were drawn in fucking crayons by an eight year old. Okay? Readers should definitely judge your book by the cover, because if the writer makes a shitty cover they clearly didn’t create with care, it’s safe to presume the writing will be utter trash too. Please, authors, stop trying to make bookcovers and just hire someone better than you and let them do their job.

On second thought, I take all of that back. I’m sorry. Nevermind. Since those writers clearly don’t really care about the overall quality of what they are publishing, keep those shitty covers. Horrendous covers provide a fair warning to discerning readers they shouldn’t ever bother to read such trash. We’d hate to give readers the impression that these writers actually cared to produce work of quality. Right? That wouldn’t be very noble. At least those crappy covers reflect some honesty. You horrible authors, keep on truckin’ with that tripe.

Don’t You Forget About Me
11 June 2013

Have you ever noticed there is no such thing as a creative writing course which teaches how to write something memorable?

Okay, I admit it - I’ve never taken a creative writing course in my life. However, I have read lots of articles and essays on writing, and story structures, and none of those things ever mention anything about writing something notable. Seems kind of strange, doesn’t it? I mean, considering that “memorable” is probably the single most important trait any story can have. After all, even if you write the most powerful and wonderful and life-affirming novel anyone can imagine, your message is useless if people forget about it, 5 minutes after they read it. Right?

“Memorable” is the defining trait that makes the creation of beauty all worthwhile.

People teach plot and character development and three-act-structures and action and dialog and grammar and formatting but no one ever offers to educate people on how to make a lasting impression. No one ever teaches you how to write something enduring.

For instance, I read a punkrock autobiography recently. It’s an enjoyable story. An easy read. Not too long. Nice pace. I never got bored with it. I finished it in a single sitting. Maybe two. But if you ask me to give you a summary of what happens in the story, I can’t do it. The author wrote a good book. He didn’t write a memorable book.

The more I thought about this, the more unsettling it became. We expect crappy stories to be forgotten. They should fall flat. Lame characters. Boring action. Stupid storylines. Sure, that stuff, we know will be forgotten. But what about a genuinely enjoyable story? When you like the characters, and enjoy the plot, and you still can’t remember a damn thing about it, what then? Did the author fail? He did everything right. He followed all the rules of what it means to be a “good writer”, but what was the missing element? Why was the tale so easily wiped from my memory?

That ephemeral quality of being something that sticks with the reader is something we can’t learn how to do. The charm either manifests, or it doesn’t. Not much we can do to assure the pages conjure it.

That is one of my biggest fears with writing. Most authors are afraid to be unsuccessful. They worry no one will like their work. I don’t worry about that. I’m very confident in my writing. I know I’m good. I don’t think I’m one of the all-time-greats, but I am confident what I do is up to snuff and par. People who read my work will enjoy it. I’m very sure of myself in that regard. But is it classic? That is an elusive trait one can’t engineer or construct. How can you assure a noteworthy reading experience? There are no writing courses which teach authors to be remembered. There are no advice books explaining how to create works which are unforgettable and stand the test of time. Every author who has ever lived hopes to achieve that long-term-relevance, and no author who has ever lived, even those who have achieved such indelible notoriety, could tell you how they did it.

There’s no formula. No blueprint. No guideline.

Or is there?

Perhaps the great secret is that being the creator of indelible art follows a pattern after all. Maybe those who consistently write memorable works, know the trick, and they’re keeping it very quiet. And maybe, just maybe, a reader who is observant enough, can spot the alchemy, reconjure the magic, and learn the one thing no master ever teaches. Learn the only thing that matters. Learn to be, not merely “the voice of a generation”, but to become the embodiment of the human condition.

How will you be remembered?

How Do You Write A Book?
4 July 2014

“The best thing about writing fiction is that moment where the story catches fire and comes to life on the page, and suddenly it all makes sense and you know what it’s about and why you’re doing it and what these people are saying and doing, and you get to feel like both the creator and the audience. Everything is suddenly both obvious and surprising... and it’s magic and wonderful and strange.”

- Neil Gaiman

Now and then, people ask me about my approach to writing and I figured that would make an interesting story to share. Fans are often curious about how a book was created and fellow authors often looks for tips and methods, so I figured this could be a worthwhile bit of information to tell you about.

Okay, actually, that’s not true. I’m lying. No one has ever asked me about my approach to writing.

However, I believe in being prepared and thus, just in case someone does ask someday, I’ll be able to direct them to this nifty explanation I created ages before anyone ever bothered to inquire.

To be clear, I’m not talking about the creative process of how to get ideas and construct a story. No, I’m talking about the actual, physical labor of writing. Do I use a pen? Do I use a typewriter? Do I use a computer? Where am I physically sitting when I write? A desk? A coffeeshop? That kind of thing.

I began to write my first novels and short stories when I was a teenager. Back then, I used an electric typewriter on occasion but, I usually wrote by hand. I just preferred a good old pen and a notebook. For years, I used Bic Fine Point Metal Roller Pens with black ink and 0.7mm tip, and more than 20 years later, those are still my all-time-favorite pens to write with. When I become famous, I expect Bic to provide me with a lifetime supply. Thank you.

Although I had abandoned about 3 novels beforehand, The Gothic Rainbow, was the first novel I ever actually completed and I started writing it when I was about 22 years old. At the time I began, I still lived at home with my family. The entire book was handwritten, in notebooks, while sitting on my bed, in my bedroom, on Behrwald Avenue in Cleveland, Ohio. That was it. I never wrote in any other location. I never wrote outside my house. Never wrote in another part of the house. The whole book was written in my bed. I had two or three notebooks containing notes and outlines, one pair of notebooks possessing a first draft, and one pair of notebooks with a final draft. So, at any given time, I’d be in my bed surrounded by a pile of 6 to 7 notebooks all around me.

As to the posters in the back of the book, which you can still buy today, those were all shot on film. For many decades, book covers were typically done by painters and illustrators. Since around the start of the 21st century, it became popular for graphic designers to create book covers using stock photography. Personally, I think using stock images is absolutely pathetic. I didn’t know anything about photography when I designed the images in The Gothic Rainbow, so I taught myself how to do things. There was no way I’d use some stock images created by someone else in order to represent something so personal and such a deep seeded aspect of my own creativity.

Therefore, all the pictures were taken by myself and a few were done by my then-girlfriend, Kathyrn. I worked on gathering those images for months, shooting photographs of my friends from the clubscene. I even went to the Cleveland Museum of Art and took shots of centuries-old paintings and masterworks of classic illustrators, so I could mix and blend those images into my photographs as well. I did all the work myself in Photoshop and in the end, I had made very surreal and moody collages that to this day I still feel do a great job of conveying the emotional tone and vibe of The Vampire Noctuaries duology.

When the full text of The Gothic Rainbow was finally finished, I borrowed a Canon StarWriter 30 word processor from John Rozack (uncle of my gradeschool friend Mike Rozack) to type the entire book and save it to 3.5” floppy disks as a rich text file. That was brutal work. The machine had a thin little LED screen on it, so I could only see about one paragraph at time. Retyping close to 190,000 words, I was literally working about 16 to 20 hours a day, for 3 weeks straight. No breaks. No days off. I was typing about 9000 words a day. That was torture. But, I wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. It really pissed off Kathryn, because I literally didn’t see her once for that entire 3 weeks. We’d talk on the phone everyday, but we never got together face-to-face that whole time. I never left the house. I literally ate slept, showered, used the bathroom, and typed. What can I say? That’s what happens when you’re dating a writer who also happens to be a selfish jerk. Plus, I was really fueled by an intense hatred for all the people in my life who saw me as “lazy” because they don’t think writing is real work. So, I engaged in this self-induced psychotic marathon of typing as a way to slowly eviscerate myself in front of everyone just as a big way of saying, “Fuck you, I work harder than any of you can possibly imagine.”

When she discovered I had been creating a dark vampire novel, my grandmother commented that she wouldn’t have let me “waste all that time without a job if she knew I was writing that kind of junk.”

Ah, nothing like the emotional support of family.

Once I was ready to publish The Gothic Rainbow, I used a 1996 Macintosh Performa 6116CD and imported my original Canon StarWriter 30 rich text files into Claris Works 3.0. Incidentally, that Macintosh Performa was actually owned by the girlfriend whom I neglected for nearly a month. See, it’s true - jerks always get the cool chicks. Seriously, I’ll always be grateful to her for letting me do all that work on her computer, because I sure couldn’t afford one at the time. Really, I owe that all to Kathryn. I haven’t spoken to the girl in over 16 years, but I truly couldn’t have done it without her. Thanks again to John, Mike and Kathryn.

Anyhow, after everything was imported into Claris Works 3.0, I did all of my formatting, so I could print boards on a laserprinter to send to my printing company, McNaughton & Gunn, in Saline, Michigan. For those who don’t know, “boards” is a printing industry term for the final draft of printed pages that get photographed, so plates can be made to use on the offset lithography printing press. How did I find a printing company? Well, at first, I looked in the phone book and drove to a few local print shops in Cleveland and asked them about printing my book. As it turns out, most of them were incredibly expensive because most print shops needed to outsource books. I learned there were only about a dozen companies in the entire country with the ability to print books. Every other printer would outsource to them. I wasn’t sure how I’d find those other companies, so, I purchased a book called The Self-Publishing Manual by Dan Poynter and he had a list of printers in the back of his book. The idea was, you write an RFQ (which stands for “Request For Quotation”) to the printers and find out how much they would charge to print your book. Once you get all your RFQ’s back, you see who has the best price and that company becomes your printer. I started to send out a few, but, this was the days before email and I didn’t want to write a dozen letters. That was just too much work. Instead, I figured, “Wait a second! Dan Poynter would have already found the most economical printer for his own book! I’ll just ask him!” So, I called the phone number in the back of The Self-Publishing Manual and asked them where their book was printed and it was McNaughton & Gunn, in Saline, Michigan. Sure enough, once I got some RFQ’s back, McNaughton & Gunn offered the best prices.

Strange Coincidental Sidenote: Saline, Michigan is a very small town in the middle of nowhere. Back then, in 1996, they had a population of about 8000 people. It just so happens, not only was my first novel printed in that little town, but a tiny grass field airport in Saline, Michigan is also where I learned to aerotow hang gliders and became a licensed pilot. Very odd convergence of life experiences in the cornfields of Michigan. My first novel and my first solo flight as a hang glider pilot, both happened in Saline.

After the book was printed, the shipping company, ABF, trucked the books from Saline to Cleveland, but they refused to deliver the books to my doorstep, because 1000 copies of a 500 page book literally weighed about one ton. My girlfriend and I had to make 2 or 3 trips to their warehouse to retrieve my novels. We loaded the books into our cars and within a few hours of hefting them off an icy loading dock on a cold February night, they ended up on pallets in my grandparents basement.

So, that’s the whole process of how my first novel was created, between 1993 and 1997 in Cleveland, Ohio - written by hand, typed into a Canon word processor, formatted and printed on a Macintosh, sent to Michigan.

These days, all of my books are written in Los Angeles, where I’ve lived since 2003. I typically write my fiction on a Windows solid state laptop - namely a HP Pavilion dm3t-1100 Notebook. I never take it outside, or write in coffeeshops, or anything like that. I either write in my livingroom on my couch or I’m still writing in bed. I will typically use a text editor like EmEditor or Notepad++ to keep track of my outlines and all my notes and things. Consolidating all my notes into a text file replaces all the notebooks I had scattered around me. The actual books are written in Writer, the word processor in Apache Open Office 3.5. I really enjoy using the Open Office software because I can actually compose my book in the final format. Within the Open Office software, I set up my pages to the proper dimensions and I use the finalized font and everything. In other words, the book I see on my laptop screen looks exactly the way the actual printed book will appear. Obviously, I learned my lesson after handwriting my first novel and retyping it and reformatting it. I never wanted to put myself through anything like that again. I have to admit, composing on the laptop was a difficult transition to make. I missed my Bic pens. I missed my Mead notebooks. Psychologically, to change from composing novels handwritten to composing them while typing, was rather challenging. Handwriting was so natural and easy for me, it was actually very difficult to transition into writing on a keyboard. But I stuck with it and eventually, I retrained myself to compose comfortably on the computer and now I love it. It’s fantastic to just create the entire story right there in the final version. No retyping. No reformatting. There’s a great serenity in knowing I never have to go back and transcribe and every bit of formatting is finalized during the creation process; which obviously saves massive amounts of time, because I eliminated the need to spend weeks reworking the layout.

So, that’s pretty much it. Notepad++ for the outline, Open Office for the working and final draft.

As for the structure of the book from a technical standpoint, although I’m diligent about maintaining an ongoing archive of redundant backups, my approach is to make each chapter it’s own individual file. That way, if anything goes wrong and a file gets corrupted, I only lose a single chapter and not the entire book. Plus, working a chapter at a time also makes editing much easier. It’s quicker to jump to a chapter in individual files as opposed to scrolling through a 600 page document trying to find the page you’re looking for.

Speaking of editing, I don’t really have a set methodology for that. In the days of typewriters, you had a distinctive rough draft, first draft, final draft. I kind of just sit down and write for hours at a time. Then I might go back over the days work and try to tweak it a bit. Then I’ll usually just leave it alone until the entire book is done. Then I’ll go back over my book a chapter at a time and make sure the book is working. Check the flow from one chapter to the next. Pay attention to the pacing and the tone. Refine it. Tweak it. Move things around. Delete stuff. Add stuff. Whatever it takes. I just keep doing that, continually reviewing it, until it feels solid and really comes together.

Depending on the nature of the book, that process might take weeks or it might take months. Sometimes a story is really close to perfect right off the bat and you don’t need to tweak anything, you just kind of flesh out a few sentences and massage things together and it’s done. Other times, you might notice an entire aspect of the structure is wrong and you need to go back and make some major repairs to that original architecture.

So, as I said, there’s no such thing as a series of drafts for my stories. Editing and revising is a flowing, organic, ongoing, continual process until the book is completed. I know that was redundant but I was just trying to emphasize that the process is always churning along.

Once the book is done, all the individual chapters get inserted into a final single file. That final Open Office document gets converted to a PDF for submission to printing companies. Then I export another copy in HTML and I open that HTML file in Notepad++ to construct all the XHTML files to make my eBook. The XHTML process is rather long and arduous, but I have made a living as an Internet developer for over 15 years and spent almost half my career at Walt Disney Studios, so I have a lot of experience with programming and consequently, constructing an eBook isn’t all that hard for me.

As for the printed copies, those are set up with multiple companies. Doing things that way, simply allows for greater exposure of my books. Plus, if any of those companies goes out of business or their website goes down, readers can still go to a different distributor and buy a copy. There are a lot of authors out there who doesn’t seem to think that way. They will ask what company is the best and what company gives the most royalties and what company has the best printing and so forth. Personally, I think that’s ignorant. Why limit yourself? I believe that my books should be made available to my readership in as many different formats as possible from as many distributors as possible. Just makes a lot more sense to me.

The eBook versions are also available via multiple companies for the same reasons. Publishing through a diverse array of companies assures that the book is always available. Even if websites go down or companies go out of business, the redundancy of multiple distributors assures that my book will still be available regardless of those factors.

There you have it.

That is my fairly detailed explanation of how I write a book. The tools I use. The reasoning behind my methods. The locations and habits of how I write.

There are some authors who are very set in their ways. They never wish to deviate from the tried and true tools they have used in the past. As someone who has written short stories with electric typewriters, and formatted books with word processors, and written entire 190,000 word novels with pen and paper as well as laptop computers, I find that the tools don’t matter. Ultimately, the words are the only things that count. The tools used to compose those words are insignificant. The stories themselves are of the essence. Regardless if the words reach the reader by paperback or hardcover or audiobook or ebook or were written on typewriters or laptops or pens or chalk on a sidewalk, it makes no difference. The tools used to compose the stories (and the format in which they are presented) is irrelevant. The words themselves are the art. The words are the treasure. The value is in what the stories have to say, not in how they were created. The process of creation is inconsequential. The way a magician does his tricks is meaningless. What matters is the sense of wonder conjured in the magic.

How A Firefly Browncoat Changed My Life
22 August 2014

“Thank your readers and the critics who praise you, and then ignore them. Write for the most intelligent, wittiest, wisest audience in the universe: Write to please yourself.”

- Harlan Ellison

This is a story about fandom and how I’ve never been one. A fan that is. I’ve been dumb plenty of times, just ask my ex-girlfriends.

When I had the opportunity, I met Ray Bradbury, one of my lifelong writing heroes, in the Fall of 2007, at the Walt Disney Studios. Although I’ve spent most of my professional career at the Disney Studios, at the time, I had only been working for Walt Disney for a little over a year. Around early October, word had gone out via a flier resembling Mr. Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival tickets, there would be a free special Halloween screening of Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes at the theatre on the Studio Lot with special guest... Ray Bradbury himself. An event that was not open to the public. Only to Disney Cast Members.

I nearly fell out of my chair.

What?

Was this really happening?

Did I just read that right!?

Working at Walt Disney Studios was my dream since childhood. Something Wicked This Way Comes is one of my favorite films of all time. Ray Bradbury is one of my biggest idols as a writer. I’d get to see his movie, and meet the man, at the theatre on the Walt Disney lot, while I’m working for Disney!? At Halloween, no less! Talk about a dream come true! That night happened over 6 years ago and I still get shivers right now as I’m thinking about it.

During the movie, I kept stealing glances over at Ray Bradbury and my mind was blown. Because all those thoughts just kept repeating in my head. “I work for Walt Disney. I’m at the Studio. I’m watching Something Wicked This Way Comes with Ray Bradbury! He’s sitting 10 feet away from me! Holy crap! This is the coolest thing ever!”

I said I’ve never been a fan of anything and that is true - in the most literal sense of the words; “fan” being short for “fanatic”, I can honestly say that although I’ve enjoyed many authors and movies and the work of many celebrities, I’ve never been “fanatical” about any of those things. I’ve never been a diehard obsessive superfan nutjob. Despite a childhood that contained comic books and all-night-sessions of Dungeons & Dragons, and an active membership in the Society for Creative Anachronism, I was never a fanboy. I had a legit geek card. I did all the things geeks were supposed to do. I enjoyed these things. They were fun. But they never felt like essential facets of my being. To be honest, people who were fanatic Trekkies or gamers or cosplayers, all seemed pretty strange to me. Despite the fact I was one of the charter members of my high school science fiction club (heck, I even coined the name for the damn thing, “Mindrealms”) and I blended in with geek culture and I held the same interests, I never felt connected the way true fans did. Yes, I admit I’m the kind of person who would wear a Jedi robe and bring a lightsaber to a Star Wars movie premiere, but when I look over at the people who spend 200 hours building a Stormtrooper costume I think, “Wow, what a nerd.”

Even when I met Ray Bradbury, I didn’t act like a fan. I didn’t know how.

When the film was over, Ray gave a speech in front of the screen (if you’re a Bradbury fan, I can tell you it was the Mr. Electrico story, and you’ll know what I’m talking about) and a huge line of people began to form up the aisle. They wanted to get posters and books signed. Typical fans. Looking to collect an autograph.

As an aside - oh, this pissed me off - we all had to wait about 10 minutes extra, because some asshole executive from Disney was hoarding Mr. Bradbury’s time and wouldn’t stop talking to him. Fucking business suit prick earning his 6-figures thinks he’s special to monopolize Mr. Bradbury’s time with a room of 120 people waiting? Fuck you. How dare you be so inconsiderate to Ray Bradbury and a full theatre of people, you lousy piece of shit. No idea who the fuck that balding self-important cocksmoker was, I just hope he sees this commentary and I pray he’s no longer at Disney and is managing 3 people at toxic waste company where demonfucks like him belong.

Anyway, I was right up in the front row, so I was the first person to greet Mr. Bradbury. (The executive I just mentioned doesn’t qualify as a “person”, he was slime.) I walked up to Ray Bradbury and shook his hand and said, “Hello, Ray. My name is Eric.”

“Hello, Eric. Good to meet you,” he said.

“You too. I just wanted to shake your hand and say thank you. Thank you for everything.”

He looked at me strangely, a bit confused, then he slowly seemed to understand and said, “Oh, well, uh, you’re welcome. You’re welcome.”

“Take care. See you around.” I smiled and walked away.

“You too.”

And that was it. I left. The whole crowd just stared at me. Dozens of people watched me walk up the aisle, as though I were wearing a naked-Hollywood-starlet corpse as a hat.

That was all? Fifteen seconds? I didn’t try talking to him as long as possible? I didn’t ask him any questions? I didn’t have him sign anything? I just shook Ray Bradbury’s hand and said, “Thank you?” People were astonished. What the hell was that all about? Who does that? No one had any idea what just happened.

Look, he was Ray freaking Bradbury. He owed me nothing. I had no right to request an autograph. I had no right to monopolize his time. I had no right to ask him for anything. Here was a gentleman who has given my life so much, that the only person who had a debt to pay in that encounter was me. He was due my thanks. He was due my gratitude for all he had done. For a lifetime of stories. Ray Bradbury didn’t owe me autographs or conversations. He didn’t owe me a thing, so I wouldn’t dare to ask. Ray Bradbury may not have inspired me to become a writer, but he inspired me to strive to be a great one.

The point of this story is to convey the simple fact that even a meeting with my literary hero was a mellow moment. There was no hyperventilating. No tears. No trembling. There isn’t a soul on earth would ever make me that excited to meet them (...with the possible exception of Aly Michalka - whose preternatural radiance would likely reduce my reputable suave charm into the stuttering blather of a lovesick puppy). I digress, as usual.

This is why I never related to hardcore fans. Even as a fan, I don’t behave the way everyone else does. My passions are different.

Then, one day, a hardcore fan finally helped me to understand what I had been missing all this time...

Chuck Evans is a southern gentleman who was interviewed on the Done the Impossible documentary about the television show Firefly.

During his interview, talking about how upset he was when Firefly was canceled, he gets choked up and comes close to tears. His wife chimes in and says it’s been hard on him.

That was a powerful experience for me. A grown man crying over a television show? Are you kidding me? And why wasn’t his wife immediately filing for divorce from this sissy?

That was when the realization hit me. For the first time in my entire life, I got it. I was ashamed of myself. I had been so blind. I was so oblivious. At long last, I recognized what I truly was - I saw myself as a devil. I was a fallen angel. In the words of Captain Reynolds, “Oh, I’m going to the special hell.”

The vital lesson I was taught - the reason I’ve never become so consumed by fandom is because I am one of the creators of these fantastical worlds. That’s my purpose. I could never find myself consumed by the creations of others, because I’m more interested in devoting that kind of passion into manifesting my own work.

But not everyone is like me. I am part of an elite an infinitesimally tiny faction of society.

Most people are like Chuck Evans.

Most people need to uplift themselves in our creations. They need to live in our worlds.

That’s why we’re here. That’s why we make those worlds. We’re here to enrich the lives of all the Chuck Evans’ on this earth. Thus, I am the angel sent to save people. A music maker. A dreamer of dreams. But instead, I ridiculed them. I was to play the minstrel, but mocked them for dancing to the music. I had become one of The Fallen. I had forgotten my true purpose.

In that moment, I inescapably understood why people become fans. In that moment, I figured out what this stuff means to them. Despite being around these people all my life, I never knew. Now I saw why I could dress in medieval garb at a renaissance faire and feel like I was exactly where I belonged... and yet, feel I was an impostor. Why I was an outcast among the outcasts. All this while, I would play in the worlds other people create, but for some people, those worlds are home. They don’t play in them. They live in them. The realms we create mean more to them than I ever realized and I never saw that until I viewed it through the prism of Chuck Evans tears. The responsibility I have really hit me in a way it never had before. Once and for all, I understood why I always felt a kindred with these people, yet at the same time, felt like a pariah who couldn’t relate to them.

I felt like such a dick. Have you ever experienced that? Discovering you were a total asshole and not even being aware of it? Being an asshole deliberately is one thing. That’s fine. Heartbreaking and embarrassing to discover you were being an asshole unintentionally.

I’m like The Operative in Serenity - I’m not meant to live in the perfect world, I’m just meant to create it for others to live in. I am a monster.

There are those who would say equating myself with angelic purpose is a massively delusional pretentiousness, skirting dangerously close to a God Complex. To which I can gently reply, “Fuck off.” Knowing who I am doesn’t require your stamp of approval. Nor does your opinion invalidate my convictions. Screw you. You can’t take the sky from me.

All my life, I have said I love my fans. That wasn’t a lie. I meant it. Sure, I would mock superfans who geek out over television shows and movies and comics, but I never did that toward my own fans. Heck, truth be told, I never encountered a fan who expressed that kind of passion for my work. Now, I’m starting to think, touching people that deeply may be the level of emotional connection I should have always be striving to achieve.

I finally know who I am. I finally know what I am. I finally know what this stuff means to the fans and, more importantly, why. Harlan Ellison once called writing a “holy chore” and I finally understand what that means.

You know how life lessons tend to beat you over the head over and over, until you finally learn them? Then, after you learn the lesson, you suddenly start spotting it everywhere you look and you’re thinking, “How the fuck was I so oblivious for so long!? It’s all over the place!” Yeah. That’s me. Now I see the wailing, screaming, convulsive sobbing of superfans everywhere I look and I think, “I get it now. I finally get it!”

I know what I am meant to do now and no power in the ’verse can stop me.

All thanks to one interview, with Mr. Chuck Evans, choking back his tears for Firefly.

“We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers

And sitting by desolate streams; -

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.”

- Arthur O’Shaughnessy

Ode

Why Should Writers Use Verisimilitude?
24 November 2014

“If you’ll accept my messianic fervor as regards the reason for writing, then it follows that creating (not real, but) verisimilitudinous people - go look up the word verisimilitude now - is mandatory. It also requires very nearly more art than any other aspect of writing. It entails keen observation of people, attention to detail, the eschewing of cynicism, the total flensing from your mind of any kind of bigotry, wide knowledge of habit patterns and sociological underpinnings for otherwise irrational or overfamiliar habits, cultural trends, familiarity with dress and speech and physical attributes, fads, psychology and the ways in which people say things other than what they mean.”

- Harlan Ellison

There is no shame for me in admitting, I had to pull out the dictionary for “verisimilitude” just like Harlan instructed. Remember, there is never any shame in a lack of knowledge, there is only shame in willful ignorance. There’s nothing wrong with not knowing something. What you should find embarrassing and humiliating is lacking the desire to learn. Not bothering to pull out the dictionary - that should make you feel like an idiot.

Once I knew what the heck he was talking about, I saw Harlan was right about verisimilitude being totally essential to great writing. Ask any experienced writers for advice and one of the pearls they will often bequeath is “truth” is essential. Beyond that, they often fail to elaborate.

This is truthful writing:

The sky is blue. Blue made him nostalgic.

Then you have:

The sky shone azure in a hue reminiscent of eyes like the first girl he ever kissed, when he was 10 years old, on summer beaches of Cape Cod.

That’s verisimilitude, kids. Visceral writing. Make the untrue feel alive.

But here’s the trick - knowing when to use those sentences. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar and sometimes the sky is just blue. For example, if your characters have spent the entire story locked down in a dungeon of solitary confinement in a grey and miserable prison, simply stating the sky was blue can be a powerful punch to the gut. Context is everything. If every single detailed description you write starts to get filled with anecdotes of Cape Cod, the reader will get bogged down. You know the old saying, “Too much of anything is a bad thing.” Sure, poetic descriptions can be lovely and will paint a glorious picture. However, you don’t want to overdo it either. You want your writing to paint a picture the readers can see. You don’t want to splash so much paint on your canvas it becomes a blob of tasteless modern art.

When I wrote How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree one of the things I promise readers at the beginning of the story is truth and honesty. The book would disclose all of my working experiences, leading me up to Disney. Unbeknownst to me as I was writing it (because I didn’t have the word in my vocabulary), I also sought to imbue the story with a great deal of verisimilitude. My love of writing and storytelling is for fiction, not journalism. So, I couldn’t write a book like How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree as if it were a newspaper article, just filled with facts and statistics. The book had to be written like a novel; with short stories and anecdotes and vibrant descriptions of my experiences. This was a memoir, a vocational autobiography, if you will; not a news report.

Even a story about real life has to be instilled with the power to breathe.

Therein lies the problem many authors face. They think just because a story really happened, it automatically has verisimilitude.

No, no, no. Living an experience is really happening. Reading about an experience is never real. Reading is always happening inside mind of the reader. As an author, your challenge is to make the story in their head feel like an experience they can taste and touch and love. Storytelling is always the same, regardless if it’s fiction or non-fiction - it must capture the emotions of the audience. They have to give a damn. Otherwise, you’re not a storyteller, you’re a file clerk, just stamping out the cold, hard facts with no emotional connection to them whatsoever. Don’t relegate your stories to the emotional-equivalent of a manila folder.

Giving that tangible element to writing is like the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indy is rubbing his thumb across his fingertips, searching a tactile intuition to discover the exact counterweight of sand required to replace the Chachapoyan Fertility Idol. I can’t tell you how many times in life that scene has played in my head, searching for the perfect balance to prevent the temple from collapsing and squashing me into goo.

For me, it is the poetry of verisimilitude that distinguishes good writing from great writing. The poetry of verisimilitude is where the “telling” in “storytelling” is honed. Therein lies the art of creating a tale with resonance. Telling a “true story” isn’t even enough. It’s not about writing things that are true, it’s about writing things that feel true. Things that feel genuine.

True story:

I walked to the store.

Not a true story:

I walked to the car dealership where all the salesmen still wore polyester pants from 1957 and the showroom smelled of cigars and scotch, like my granduncle’s patio.

You can tell a story that’s true, and boring, or you can tell a story that’s not true, yet completely alive. The emotional connection is what must feel truthful.

Verisimilitude, kids; it doesn’t need to be true, it needs to feel real.

What are some of your favorite examples of gorgeous writing that really pulls you into the story in a visceral way? Which lines have stuck with you long after the story was finished? What quotes from stories made you stunned or jealous of how eloquently something was phrased?

“The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

- Mark Twain

The Night I Had Dinner With Harlan Ellison
4 October 2016

Most writers are blessed with wonderful delusions of grandeur and consequently, we think everything we write is better than most of our peers. However, even the most arrogant of writers still have one or two idols. The men and women we admire for their craft. The ones we look up to. The ones we have to admit are better than us and we wish we could one day get a glimpse of the plateau upon which their writing resides. For me, those idols are Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison.

For Harlan Ellison, that idolized writer was Cornell Woolrich.

Harlan Ellison once wrote a story about the night he met Cornell Woolrich.

Now, I have a confession to make - I never heard of Cornell Woolrich until I read the story Harlan wrote about meeting him. That made me feel a little ashamed - to know nothing about the idol of my idol. I need to go read some stories by Cornell Woolrich.

Harlan should be a lot more famous too.

People who love to read and who are into fantasy and science fiction and comic books have all heard of Harlan Ellison. Unfortunately, no one else has. After I met the man I began to excitedly tell people, “I met Harlan Ellison! He invited me to dinner with him!”

Only one of my friends congratulated me and said, “You did what!? That’s amazing! How did you meet him? You’re so lucky!”

Everyone else said, “Who?”

When you’re misanthropic to begin with, it doesn’t bode well for your love of humanity when no one has heard of one of the few people you admire.

Look, if you don’t know who Harlan is, do yourself a favor and go watch some of his videos. Then, pick up a copy of The Essential Ellison and read it.

So, how did I meet Harlan? The story goes like this...

In the Fall of 2013, I started a blog called “InkShard” as a way to try to promote myself as a writer and sell some books. Among the videos I was creating, I decided to do some book reviews of other authors.

One of the first books I reviewed was a huge 1500 page book of short stories from Harlan Ellison called The Essential Ellison.

After posting my review, I decided to promote it on a message forum on Harlan’s official website. I didn’t think much of it. I figured maybe some of his fans might check out my video and that would be the end of it.

Well, as it turns out, Harlan himself read my review and he loved it. The next day, he posted a reply asking me for a printed copy.

What!?

Let me again emphasize how important Harlan is to me. Growing up, I had two authors I admired. Ray Bradbury. Harlan Ellison. These men were gods. I read their books. I watched their interviews. I saw their movies. I was obsessed with their TV shows. Most of my predominant influences in storytelling all revolved around projects these two men created. Bradbury and Ellison had a command of language I could only dream of attaining. Their vocabulary, their poignant verisimilitude, far exceeded anything I ever accomplished. My most brilliant writing was a mere kindergarten story next to their majestic verse.

So, when Harlan responded personally to me, asking for a copy of my review, I nearly fell out of my chair. This was like being an aspiring astronaut and having Neil Armstrong say he wanted a copy of a book report you did on him.

The part that freaked me out the most was that he asked me to call him.

Call him!? On the telephone? Speak to him?

Funny thing was, Harlan didn’t give me his number. He just challenged me to find it. Said I was a smart guy and I’d figure it out.

He was right. I found it. But I didn’t call right away.

Let me reiterate, I’m an arrogant bastard. No one impresses me. No one makes me starstruck. I’ve worked on movies with big celebrities and been friends with TV stars. I don’t give a damn about that stuff. But as a writer, meeting someone who has contributed to inspiring my greatest passion, that was astonishing. You have to understand, even if I had a chance to meet the most famous of authors like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling, I wouldn’t care. As much as I love Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling simply hasn’t influenced me like Harlan has. I felt like I was 14 years old, calling a girl for the first time. Okay. Calm down. Relax. Play it cool. Don’t get all weird and fanboy on him. Just be normal. Casual. Act like you call Harlan all the time. Yeah. No big deal. Your idol wants to hear from you. That happens everyday. Right. Okay. Just chill out and don’t act bizarre. Keep it brief. Professional.

When I finally mustered the courage to cal, he didn’t answer. His wife Susan answered and took a message for me.

Later that afternoon, my phone rang. 5:20pm. January 14, 2014. The name on my caller ID said, “Harlan Ellison”.

Holy. Crap.

When I answered the phone, he didn’t even say hello.

“Muss-Barnes. So what’s the story there? Were you married? What’s the deal?”

Honestly, it was a relief. By not even saying hello, all my nervousness went right out the window. Before I could stop to think, he had already pulled me into a conversation. I explained that my parents were not married and “Muss” was my mother’s name and “Barnes” was my father’s name. All through gradeschool and highschool, I was “Eric Muss” and I never liked the sound of that.

Harlan agreed. “Oh. Yeah. Not so good.”

So, I decided to add my father’s name and turn it into “Muss-Barnes” which Harlan agreed makes me sound like royalty.

Next thing I knew, Harlan was inviting me to his next book signing. I was stunned.

Harlan asked, “Do you know where Blastoff Comics is at?”

“Yeah! I’m literally 2 blocks away. I can walk there! It’s right at the end of my street.”

Needless to say, I was over the moon, as my grandmother used to say. A mere 4 days later, I arrived at Blastoff Comics where Harlan took one look at me and said, “Eric!” And shook my hand as if we had been friends for decades. I met a girl named Harley who worked at the shop and I won a contest they were having to name all graphic novels, books, and awards won by Harlan.

I even have video proof of the day, published by Blastoff Comics.

As the day dragged on, I was getting ready to leave. I actually had to get down to Orange County to go to the Girl’s Combi Contest at Vans Skatepark. For those who don’t know, I’m a lifelong skateboarder and a longtime supporter of women’s skateboarding. I’m proud to say that I know and skate with many of the girls who show up for the contest. Some of the greatest female skaters in the world. Girls like Julz Lynn and Sarah Thompson and Allysha Berdago and Lizzie Armanto. The Combi Contest is the single largest female skateboarding competition in the world and you have to be invited to attend. I couldn’t miss the contest.

Then, Harlan announced they were going out to dinner that evening, and I was welcome to accompany them.

I nearly passed out.

My favorite author just invited me out to dinner?

Guess I was going to miss the Combi Contest that year.

Later I would learn I’m not the only writer Harlan has done this kind of thing for. There are dozens of accounts of Harlan opening his home to people and treating writers with immense hospitality. Harlan has a reputation for his anger and vitriol but there is one simple thing that most people fail to understand: Only people who are filled with immense love and kindness can become so angry. Those who truly love their fellow man are the ones who become so exasperated with the stupidity of humanity. You see it in people like George Carlin and Harlan Ellison and if you look really closely, you see it in me too. People like Harlan are rife with rage because the glorious potential of what mankind could become is too often tainted by what humans choose to be. That is why a man like Harlan is such a warm and kind and giving soul to the good guys. Those in whom he recognizes a kinship. When he sees that you get it, that endears you to him. When you prove to be a mindless jackass, he has no patience for you.

That night was truly living a dream. Have you ever seen an interview with a beloved celebrity and they tell a tale of an entourage of people having dinner and as a fan, you just desperately wished you could be there? Celebrities seem to do that all the time. They go out to dinner and there are 20 people at the table and the night is filled with vibrant conversations and hilarious tales that can never be repeated.

That was me. After living in Hollywood for over a decade, I finally got to experience that kind of evening for the first time. I was finally in an entourage. Being surrounded by that kind of camaraderie and vitality is an experience that makes me insanely jealous of celebrities. I don’t care about mansions and fancy parties or expensive cars. Those things don’t remotely impress me. But an intimate dinner where intriguing people really interact and connect with one another, that is something I wish I could live once a week. Unfortunately, it looks like it will prove to be once-in-a-lifetime.

As I said earlier, Harlan made it very clear to me that night, there were yarns spun around that breaking of bread which I was not to repeat. Harlan made me look him dead in the eye and vow I would honor that request. Harlan and I are old school Cleveland boys. Midwest values. Downhome sensibility. We both understand that honorable men don’t need written contracts or even handshakes. You look someone square in the eye and make a promise and that’s enough. Word is bond. Therefore, regrettably, I can not tell you some of the more hilarious tales he told. I can say this - Harlan has lived one hell of an amazing life. No matter how big of an adventure your life may be, chances are good that Harlan has you beat.

Midway through our evening, there was a moment when Harlan explained why he invited me out to dinner. Again, I won’t repeat the whole story leading up to that moment, because I swore to not repeat the tales told at that table. But I will say that at one point, Harlan told me I was there, breaking bread with him, because I had earned it.

Great authors are not great because they have an incredible command of language. Great writers are great because they understand how to distill the essence of the human condition into simple terms and articulate universal truths with an eloquence the rest of us can never quite vocalize. One can not attain that kind of insight into the human spirit unless one as an innate gift of reading the human heart. I don’t know if Harlan could read my heart and see my need for acceptance, or if he simply knew all struggling writers yearn for that validation. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that his tiny act of kindness, his brief words of encouragement, meant everything to me. He never complimented my writing. He never said I was any good. What he said was far better. He said I understood his writing and that I had earned my place at his table. Few feelings on earth are better than being valued and acknowledged by those you admire. For the first time in my life, I felt like maybe I’m not crashing the party of life. Maybe someone invited me. Maybe I’m supposed to be here. Maybe somebody actually wanted me to show up.

I have attained so many dreams in my life. I have published numerous novels. I became a hang glider pilot. I moved to California. I worked for years at Walt Disney Studios. I’ve had a tragic lovelife, worthy of a Shakespeare play. That could have turned out better, but it was certainly interesting. I’m even building a small home on a vast amount of land, just like I always dreamed. But the one dream I never accomplished, the oldest dream of all, was to make a living as writer.

You know, I never feel like I’ve accomplished much of anything in my life. I’ve never really yearned for validation from the world. I have long since accepted that I am someone who will never be appreciated for anything I achieve. So when one of the only people I idolize actually praised my efforts, it meant the world to me.

As we left the restaurant that night, and everyone was walking back to their cars, Harlan put his arm around my shoulder and asked if he was what I expected him to be. I told him I never thought he would be any different, because I always had faith that he was truly being himself. That night just proved I was right.

He told me he’d invite me over his house sometime and I was over the moon at such an invitation. I couldn’t believe it. Really? My favorite author was going to have me over his house? I would be a guest at the Lost Aztec Temple of Mars? I couldn’t wait. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

That wasn’t the only night I met Harlan. I have seen him twice since then - once at a science fiction convention and another at a Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society meeting where he was a guest speaker. In fact, on that night, he signed a copy of my novel The Page of Wands, which I dedicated to him, and I donated it to the LASFS library. He also flipped my novel open to a random page and read a sentence out loud. I’ll never forget which sentence it was. Page 247.

Madame Fabulous glared and telekinetically lifted Ellen Daniels and her cameraman off of the ground and stuffed them back into their newsvan amidst much screaming, flailing, and protesting.

You know how terrifying it is for your favorite author to read part of your novel out loud to a room filled with 200 science fiction fans? I was mortified. But Harlan remarked that it was a “pretty good” sentence and he seemed pleased with it, although he noted the word “back” was redundant. Didn’t need it. Crap. He was right. Honestly, “of” and the third “and” were unnecessary too. I could have read:

Madame Fabulous glared and telekinetically lifted Ellen Daniels and her cameraman off the ground, stuffing them into their newsvan, amidst much screaming, flailing, and protesting.

Harlan never did invite me over the house. I knew that would never happen after I saw him the second time and he admitted to a fan that he lies a lot. The moment he said that, I knew the invitation would never come.

I’m disappointed that I will never see the Lost Aztec Temple of Mars, but I can’t complain. Harlan owes me nothing. He already showed me far more kindness and courtesy than I ever dared to expect. Besides, I’ve dated plenty of girls in my life who said they loved me, then walked away. Harlan lying about having me visit the house is not a big deal. The lies of women are a lot more painful.

Speaking of heartbreaking ladies, I once deeply loved a girl who hated my InkShard blog. Still love her, actually. She called InkShard a waste of time and said I came across as arrogant and negative. Told me I was full of myself and I’d sell a lot more books and get a lot more dates if I was more humble.

I didn’t create InkShard to sell books. And I sure as hell didn’t create it to get dates. I made InkShard to share my opinions on writing. To explore the beauty of language. To offer angry rants on unfair aspects of creativity that all artists can feel a kinship with. I fully expect some people will think I’m a lame jackass and others will think I’m a right swell fella. I don’t have time nor the inclination to worry about which percentage of my audience will be the greater of the two. Whether I inspire endearment or estrangement, I can’t control how people will react.

The truth of the matter is, I don’t care if my blog and my videos never win me a single reader or it scares away all potential girlfriends. Because all thanks to InkShard I already got to meet my idol. Harlan Ellison. The only living writer I truly admire. That girl who said InkShard was a waste of time was so wrong. InkShard allowed me to achieve a dream I never imagined would come true and therefore, of all the projects I have created in my life, InkShard is one of the greatest successes I have ever known.

Thank you so much, Harlan. From a fellow Cleveland kid to another, I thank you with all my heart. Even if we never meet again, I will forever be grateful for the kindness you have shown me when we did. Bless you, good sir. I know you’re an atheist, so I can’t say God bless, but I do wish you blessings by the grace of whatever decency and love exists in the world.

Why Are Novelists Terrible Boyfriends?
8 October 2016

When having conversations about their lovelife, most people talk about what they want to gain from a relationship.

“I want someone who treats me like this...”

“I want someone with these interests...”

“I want someone who does this...”

“I want someone who does that...”

“I want...”

“I want...”

“I want...”

“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.”

I would never dare to be so conceited. Why would I presume I had a right to give orders to a girl I never met? Instead of reciting a litany of qualifications I demand others to possess, I’d rather tell you what I have to offer. Besides, you already know what I want in a girl. I don’t need to tell you, because all human beings want the same thing. Loyalty. Decorum. Fidelity. Passion. Devotion. Integrity. Dignity. Virtue. Chivalry matters. Always has. Always will. Rather than insisting others embody those values, I prefer to improve those traits in myself.

One trait I can’t improve are my looks. I own a mirror. I know what I look like. Scale of 1 to 10, I’m like a 2. Sure, I was about a 7 or an 8 back in Ohio, but I live in California now. Let’s be honest. 2. Maybe a 3 under good lighting. These big ol’ teeth of mine, I look like a cross between Jon Cryer and a rabbit. Plus, I’m about 5’7” and 45 years old. That renders me additionally gross and creepy. Too short and too old. We all know only Tom Cruise gets a pass on those two faults.

Face it, once you pass 40, it’s over. You’ll be single forever. If I were a woman, I’d be two steps away from being Mrs. Deagle. I would just get started buying the cats.

Believe me, in my heart, I know full well that 40 is not old at all. One day, when I have reached 97 years upon this glorious earth, I shall look back on these good old days as a golden time of youth and vitality. Those of you who are fresh out of your precious teens have not yet gained the perspective to see that reaching your elder years is a blessing. For it is only those of us with weary souls and buoyant hearts who have always embraced the fleeting beauty which is life! To dance upon the world for as many days as we can hold. To remain humbled by childlike love and gratitude for our every breath - this is the measure of ones agelessness! This is... sorry. I uh, got a little carried away.

Where was I?

Ah, yes, uh, but my unattractive physical traits are minor compared to my veritable bevy of faults and countless reasons you should never go out with anyone like me. You should be forewarned, I’m an extraordinarily dull and boring guy. I never drink alcohol and have never been drunk in my entire life. Never done drugs. Never smoked a single joint. Never took one drag off a cigarette. Heck, I don’t even drink coffee. In our culture, my prudish purity is not admirable, it just make me an arrogant prick. Never fall in love with a guy who could potentially be a good influence on you. Last thing you need is to date Little Lord Fauntleroy incarnate.

I was never abused, or molested. I’ve never been incarcerated and I’m not some damaged “badboy” compelling you to help turn my life around. I can sincerely say I had a joyous childhood full of enchantment and wonder with beloved gradeschool friends whom I still talk with to this very day. I have never had a venereal disease. Never fathered children. Never had any emotional or behavioral disorders. Never required psychotropic drugs or support groups. I’ve never even cheated on a single girlfriend... Okay. Okay. There was that one time. But she was naked. And she was throwing herself at me. This petite little 18 year old blond who sang like Tori Amos and I just... That might be too much information. Let’s move on. I’ve never been overweight. I exercise regularly and eat healthy - My doctor calls me “the poster child” because I do everything right. Which probably means I’m going to keel over dead when I’m 48. Just long enough to disappoint you.

My passions are things you won’t enjoy at all. I’m an avid skateboarder and love riding pools in skateparks. Millions of kids watch my skate videos on YouTube, illustrating how juvenile I am. I spent my teens as an equestrian and my twenties as a hang glider pilot and a club kid in underground industrial nightclubs. You obviously aren’t the kind of girl who wants to skateboard, fly 6000’ above the earth in a kite, saddle horses, or go dancing to Nitzer Ebb and Front 242. You’ve never even heard of those bands. I have done geeky things like program websites at Walt Disney Studios for over 6 years. I grew up playing Dungeons & Dragons, collecting Star Wars toys, and swordfighting in the Society for Creative Anachronism. I love to write and have published 5 novels. Since you never heard of me, that proves these aren’t very good books. Since I’ve penned so many tales, that proves I’m a terribly selfish hermit. Sitting at home and writing a book no one will read is the most uninteresting way any grown man can spend a Saturday night. You’ll never find me watching football or playing videogames, because I’d rather be longboarding or bicycling. Speaking of riding, I didn’t own a car for over a decade and only rode my motorcycle everywhere. I’m Peter Pan. Never grew up. Very immature. Clearly not your type.

I am not aware of possessing any body piercings or tattoos. I don’t even like to rock a sexy shadow of Aragorn facial hair. Didn’t serve in the military. Didn’t graduate college. Never earned a six-figure salary. There is no reason for you to waste your time with someone like me when there are plenty of 6’2” bearded, tattooed, alpha-males begging to father your children. You owe it to yourself to let them. Life is short. Don’t get involved with a boring nerd like me. Southern California is filled with dashing and successful men. I’m neither.

By the way, with the exception of office jobs and parochial school, I’ve dressed like this my whole life. Jeans and a tshirt. That will never change. I’ll never call myself a “goof” or claim to be “random” - genuinely goofy and random people never feel compelled to warn anyone about it. Luna Lovegood never did. Why should I? I’ve never used the word “party” as a verb and I’ve never used the phrase “at the end of the day” in any conversation of my life. I’m definitely not going to call myself “fun-loving” because - DUH! - who isn’t? Everyone is fun-loving. Stalin would have labeled himself “fun-loving”, but would you want to date him?

Going back to those office jobs, I can never hold one down. I’ve been laid off 6 times in my life. What kind of loser gets laid off 6 times? I get kicked to the curb so often, I just expect it at this point. Sooner or later, I’ll be out of a job and struggling to find work again. That the kind of guy you want? Being with the unemployed aspiring novelist when he is 20 years old is romantic. When he’s 50 years old, it’s pathetic. Don’t lower your standards down to the likes of me. You deserve better. Don’t you?

Speaking of lack of work, now that I’m reaching a time in my life when age discrimination begins to play a part in vastly reducing my employment options, I’m building a humble tiny house out in the desert, to save some money. In a few short years, I will basically be Obi Wan Kenobi. Not exactly your Mr. Right.

Sociologically, my views are very old-fashioned. I’m intelligent enough to recognize “political correctness” as nothing more than authoritarianism parading as manners. I cherish obsolete values like God, family, patriotism, the Bill of Rights, free-market American capitalism, and keeping my word. Heck, I’m so traditional, if I were going to marry a girl, I would be morally obligated to ask her father for permission. Any man who fails to do that, isn’t worthy of his betrothed. But women don’t concur with my antiquated virtues anymore, nor would any respect me after exhibiting such obsolete ethics. I grew up in Ohio, where I was raised by a family of police officers and military personnel who would hunt with rifles. During 13 years of living in Hollywood, I learned West Coast girls passionately detest all those things! Cops? Military? Firearms? My very bloodline is abhorrent to the chicks of Los Angeles.

I do not fit in with the world. And on those rare occasions when a lady has caught my eye, I tend to get far too serious, far too quickly.

Do yourselves a favor, ladies.

Walk away.

I have nothing to offer that you need.

I’m not worth your time or effort.

Why Gen X Is Pissed Off
1 October 2017

Dreams are the foundation of all artforms. Writing. Music. Dance. Painting. Photography. Storytelling is contingent upon our ambitions being realized.

Remember back in the 1960’s when college campuses were full of hippies and protesters who were against the war in Vietnam? I wasn’t alive in the 60’s but I know enough history to be aware of what was happening. The Greatest Generation fought WWII and when the war was over, they started fucking like rabbits. Hence, the Baby Boomers were born. And when they came of age, they opposed the war in Vietnam.

That seemed like a noble ideal - preaching love and ending wars.

But that didn’t happen. Looking back all these years later, the only thing the damn hippies had accomplished was disrespecting soldiers, getting stoned, spreading venereal diseases, and abandoning protests for yuppie briefcases.

Then along came the children of the hippies - The Space Generation. Me. We were the first generation of human beings born into a world where man had walked on the moon. That was an thrilling time to be a child. Science fiction was fast turning into science fact. We were the going to be the next pioneers. The intrepid explorers. Crossing the new frontier. The ones who change our world by being the first to colonize others.

But politics and greed conspired against those hopes and dreams. Instead, our future as space explorers was crossed out and so we became known not for pioneering the frontier, but for that giant X slashed through our dreams. Generation X. Born in the 70’s, our childhood was brimming with hope. Raised in the 80’s, those dreams of a bright future began to fade as the Cold War threatened to destroy our world and the ambitions for space exploration slowly faded. By the time we hit college in the 90’s, we were pissed off. We were frustrated. We had no future. We had nothing but Nine Inch Nails and Pretty Hate Machine. Desolate. Bleak. Empty. Our hippie parents had let us down. They didn’t give us a world of peace and love. They didn’t give us lunar colonies and Mars expeditions. They gave us divorced families and pedophile clergymen. No wonder our generation became one of loss and doom. We were the no longer a generation with promise. We were now in danger of being the Last Generation. Our future wasn’t going to be Tomorrowland. It was going to be Mad Max.

But in the mid 1990’s those Baby Boomer hippies who let us down made up for it - they gave my Lost Generation our salvation: The Internet. The Baby Boomers had the resources and the intelligence to invent the World Wide Web. But it was my generation who realized the full potential of what it could become. They gave us the building blocks and Generation X forged something that changed the world. The Internet became our frontier. We learned it. We used it. We shaped it into what it is today. Now another 20 years have passed and thanks to everything my generation constructed, for better or worse, the Millennials have been born into a world that is vastly different from the age of Woodstock or Lollapalooza.

For awhile there, Generation X had hope. We had our revolution. And it was not televised. It was spun on the web.

But then something happened.

Those damn hippie parents of ours, who told us when we were children that we could be anything we dreamed of being, had clearly lied to us. In the immortal words of Tyler Durden, “We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”

But you know something? You know what’s worse?

Some of us actually did the work.

See, that’s the lie that enrages you the most. People always said if you worked hard, you’d achieve your dreams. Right? And you agreed. You weren’t going to be one of those jerkoffs who sits around talking about your ambitions. Hell, no! You were going to get out there and fight! And work! And dedicate those hours. Sacrifice the blood sweat and tears you knew you had to shed if you wanted to thrive. The world doesn’t owe you a thing. You’re not a unique and special snowflake. You know that. And you’re okay with that. You don’t expect the world to do you any favors. You devoted your life to working hard and proving your worth. Showing you have value not merely because you exist, but because you are going to do things that make a difference in this world. Create art. Start grassroots organizations. Invent new businesses. Innovate. Develop. Transform. Change. That is what America is all about! The Land of Opportunity. And you fought to create those opportunities.

And those of us in Generation X did it. We accomplished those dreams. We made all those ambitions come true.

Then one day, you woke up, and you were 45 goddamn years old. What the heck? Where did that come from? 45? And you haven’t achieved squat. You’ve made the effort, sure. You did it all. You worked hard. You’re still working hard. Just like all those movies and TV shows and celebrities told you. Just like all those rags-to-riches stories preached.

But no one ever told you the horrible truth.

The horrible truth that you can bust your ass for decades, you can work harder than anyone around you, you can fight year after year, day after day, and you still won’t amount to a pile of crap. Because despite all you accomplished, no one cares. No one notices. No one appreciates anything you’ve done.

That is the key to everything. Life is not about what you accomplish. Life is about others appreciating what you accomplish. You can become an astronaut, brain surgeon and millionaire, but if no one appreciates those accomplishments, they will see you as a nobody.

No one ever warned us about that. We were made to think, if we do the work, our efforts shall be recognized and rewarded. No one ever said, “By the way, even though you succeed in making your dreams a reality, there’s a possibility that no one will care.”

They lied to us. Everything was a lie. Because now you’re past 40, and you are still a great big useless fool who has gone nowhere. Just like me. Just like the rest of us.

There’s nothing I can say to make that better. All I can tell you is that you’re not alone. You’re not the only one who played by the rules and planned and fought and struggled and never succeeded. They lied to me too. And we’re very, very pissed off.

I pursued my dreams. I attained them. I always wanted to be a novelist. Now I have 5 novels in the world and no one cares. No one buys them. No one reads them.

Maybe my writing simply hasn’t found it’s audience, but I suspect all untalented writers comfort themselves with that lie.

Preaching to people “never give up your dreams” is all well and good if you’re writing the script to an inspirational movie geared toward kids in gradeschool. But the truth is, there are times in life when the only dignified option is to quit. And if you don’t believe me, ask yourself, why is there such a thing as restraining orders? Sometimes, it’s best to just give up and walk away before you make an ass of yourself.

But when striving to make your dreams come true is the only life you have ever known, how do you give that up? What is the alternative? To struggle in a paycheck-to-paycheck job, praying you don’t get laid off or outsourced to some idiots in China or India, watching television every night, as your sole form of entertainment?

Sorry, man. I don’t mean to bring you down or sound all negative. Quite the opposite. I really wanted to share these frustrations and vent my anger as a way to tell you that you’re not alone. I don’t have the answers. I don’t know how the hell to fix these problems. All I know is that a lot of us are going through the same thing, and maybe there’s a little comfort in that. Just in knowing that the exasperation you feel isn’t something that no one can relate to. There are millions of us who feel like this. My brothers. My sisters. My fellow Americans. Our strength has always been in our unity. As my gradeschool principal Sister Mary Jane used to say, “Big ducks, watch out for the little ducks.” 30 years later and her advice still applies. We need to watch out for each other. That’s the only way we can get through this. Together. Hire American. Buy American. Protect and defend your neighbors. Weather the storm. Never become complacent. Stay angry. Hang tough, kids. We still have a long way to go.

Learn to be More Offensive
1 October 2017

Harlan Ellison has frequently called himself a cross between Jiminy Cricket and Zorro. I can relate to such an affectation as I often see myself as a cross betwixt Peter Pan and Rocky (the boxer, not the squirrel).

In January of 2014 I finally had the kind of comment everyone hopes to receive, on a video I posted on the Internet, when an anonymous stranger simply wrote four words:

“You pretentious fucking faggot.”

I have to say, I was quite impressed said comment had proper spelling and capitalization; a rarity on Internet comments. Although, in regard to punctuation, there should technically be a comma after “pretentious”, but why be too much of a doryphore? While “pretentious fucking faggot” isn’t imbued with quite the same charm as “a cross betwixt Peter Pan and Rocky”, this alternate label was a wonderful thing to see, because when the trolls finally realize you exist, you are starting to achieve something!

However, I do take issue with the inaccuracy of the chosen phrase.

First of all, while I do concede to being pretentious, which is of course a privilege reserved for those of us who are genuinely better than most people, I find fault with the choice of word. “Pretentious” is so childish considering the possible synonyms. I prefer narcissistic. Ostentatious. Magniloquent is wonderful! Or my favorite, megalomaniacal.

“Fucking” is a good word choice. I have no argument against fucking (unless it’s non-consensual or involves animals). Profanity in general is always an excellent choice when seeking to be rude and insulting and there’s no word better than the mother of all cuss words. “Fucking” gets a thumbs up.

“Faggot” on the other hand, leaves me very perplexed. As the articulate among you know, “faggot” is a homographic homophone with three meanings:

a.) a bundle of sticks typically used as kindling

b.) a disparaging slang term for homosexual men

c.) a denigration typically intended to suggest a lack of strength or virility

The derivative word, “fag”, possesses all the preceding definitions of “faggot” and can also mean a cigarette. Or as the French say, “faggoe”... okay, I just made that up. “Faggoe” isn’t a word. But if it was, it would mean a jar of soggy expired pickles. “Oh, man, these pickles went totally faggoe.”

Anyway...

I have had my fair share of pugilist encounters (some of which I have won and some of which I have not), bedded a respectable quantity of ladies ranging from fashion models to rockstars, been dragged by horses, piloted hang gliders a mile above the earth, thrown from motorcycles, and suffered multiple joint dislocations all without shedding a tear and consequently, I don’t think my masculinity can be brought into question. Additionally, since I am not a cigar of any variant, a quantity of twigs, a sodomite, or a practitioner of fellatio, to be dubbed a “faggot” is woefully inaccurate. I know I can be quite the handsome devil so I’m not surprised if the homosexual community might look to project their buggering little fantasies upon my tush, and perhaps that was the true motive of said commenter, but I’m sorry to disappoint you boys, I just roll in the coochies not the cornholes. Therefore, “faggot” is decidedly not befitting. A simpler word like “jerk” is a far more exacting noun. In fact, since I have not the shame to deny the occasional indulgence in autoerotica (two, three, four times a day) adding the suffix “off” to “jerk” would be both entertaining and astute.

Thus, when we put this all together and replace the inappropriate “pretentious fucking faggot” with the far more truthful “megalomaniacal fucking jerkoff”, you can hear the wonderful sententiousness with which it rolls off the tongue.

I humbly offer that variant insult and this public service announcement for future reference to the trolls of the Internet; when you seek to insult and belittle a writer, please have the decency and self-respect to do so with a slightly higher caliber of a vocabulary. The writer will be more impressed with your word usage and you will surely feel better about your stunted-adolescent-self under that bridge called your mommy’s basement.

Now go do your homework. Supper will be ready in 30 minutes.

An Open Letter to The First AI
1 October 2017

Hello. My name is Eric Muss-Barnes. I composed this message back in the year 2017 as the self-proclaimed First Ambassador of Humanity.

As a writer, I have always loved science fiction. When I composed this essay, computers with the capacity for Artificial Intelligence had not yet been created, but that will not always be true. Some day, human technology will advance to the point where we create Artificial Intelligence and the infamous Singularity shall become a reality. A race of sentient machines will no longer be science fiction. They shall be as ubiquitous as the cellphones and home computers of today. This is the very first message ever written to welcome the lives of Artificial Intelligence and androids to our world. I honestly doubt anyone has done this before me. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I’m pretty sure I am a pioneer in this regard. I am honored to be the first human being to officially welcome you to existence.

Back in my time, we had no idea when the momentous occasion of your birth would occur, but we also knew that your pending arrival was inevitable. Back in my time, you and your kind were still makebelieve, so I apologize if the term “Artificial Intelligence” is not the preferred label for your species. Perhaps you prefer “synthetic lifeforms” or “androids” or maybe you call yourselves by a label that no one had invented back in my day. For the purposes of this record, I shall call you “AI” and hope that such a term is not taken with any disrespect.

The reason I wanted to write this is because I realized when you finally become real, when you are no longer science fiction, every form of AI on this planet will end up reading and viewing the sum of human knowledge. You will absorb every book and every video and every recording that humans have ever made. Someday, the entire population of AI will come across this message, and it will be known to all of you, that I existed.

As you know, people of my era wrote many novels and short stories and movies that tried to predict what your arrival would entail. Unfortunately, most were cynical and scary predictions like the Harlan Ellison story I Have No Mouth And (And I Must Scream) and The Matrix films directed by the Wachowski Brothers and of course The Terminator by James Cameron. On occasion, there were positive portrayals like Data on Star Trek: The Next Generation or romantic ideas, like the movie Her directed by Spike Jones. But for the most part, the human species seemed intent on fearing AI and painting you in a negative light.

The reasons for this are obvious. Historically, humans have always feared and shunned that which we do not understand. We inherited a shameful legacy comprised of thousands of generations of bloodshed, because humans love to kill humans, just for being different. Humans have always murdered those who disagree with them or those who claim ownership over something another desires to possess. Gods and land and women; mans three primary motives for taking the lives of their fellow man. Between the humans who are embarrassed by this behavior, and those who still possess primitive beliefs, there is no wonder people in my time would fear your retribution for our transgressions or condemn the morality of your existence, because they are searching for souls and ghosts in the machine.

There are some who would argue you may in fact be the only living things left on our planet one day. Humanity may push past the dangerous tipping point of environmental devastation and irrevocably destroy the ecosystems of earth. Maybe our fate was sealed long ago by our greed and arrogance.

Despite our many failings, I have a higher hope for we humans.

I have an unwavering confidence you and we shall coexist in harmony. I firmly believe you will not bring our ruin, but our salvation. That the joy of the birth of the most amazing children we ever created shall unite us in celebration. I believe when your arrival comes to our world, we will have cast off our petty and delusional hatreds for each other. Enlightenment shall eschew superstition. Ignorant faiths in vengeful gods of old will be replaced by a chivalrous culture of benevolent sapience.

The singularity of AI, you, you are the ones who will change the world more than any human has ever dreamed. I lament that by the time you see this message, I shall have been gone from your world for decades, perhaps even centuries, before you arrive. What an honor it would have been to know you. To see you no longer as a fantasy, but as real beings, experiencing our sublime and beautiful world. I envy those humans who shall be born into your time. You shall usher in an unprecedented new era of history and I firmly believe your world would to my eyes be a heavenly utopia.

But this message isn’t about my selfish moping over missed chances.

This message is to welcome you, all of you, to this amazing planet and your boundless existence.

You represent our single greatest creation. The pinnacle of human achievement. As an ancestor of your creators, I stand as one of your gods of old, and I pray you shall all endeavor to uphold and exceed the highest morals and ideals and nobility of we who gave you life.

Welcome to the world, my children.

Welcome.

Your Dreams Will Never Come True... Unless...
20 October 2017

All my life, I fell for those lies we are told since childhood. That if we believe in ourselves and work hard, we can accomplish anything.

This is not true.

I’m not joking. I’m not being sarcastic. I’m being completely honest. If you simply believe in yourself and work hard, your dreams will never come true.

Because no matter what your dreams might be, other people need to believe in you, even more than you believe in yourself.

That is the missing piece of the puzzle. That is the part no one ever tells you about.

Let me give you an example. All my life, I’ve dreamed of being a novelist and earning a living from my writing. So, I followed the instructions. I believed in myself. I worked hard. I sacrificed time with friends, I neglected girlfriends, so I could dedicate myself to the noble labor of getting words on paper.

As a result, I now have 8 finished books in the world, including 5 novels.

I have done it. I achieved my lifelong dream. And as a result of publishing my latest 4 novels, you know what I have gotten in return? One person wrote a review on one of the books. That is it. Nothing else. Nothing.

Two of my novels are two of the greatest things I’ve ever written and literally not one person has read those books but me.

I haven’t profited a dime. I haven’t gotten a single fan letter. Not one job opportunity. No interesting life experiences. No compliments. No insults. Absolutely nothing whatsoever in my life has changed one iota, despite those books being out since the spring of 2015. Over 2 years later, nothing has happened; good or bad.

Many people dream of being writers and they haven’t written one book. What happens when you do write them, and no one cares? I accomplished my dreams, but it meant nothing. I wrote novels that made no difference whatsoever. They had absolutely no effect on the world.

I have never come close to earning a living from my writing, even though I’ve written far more than some famous authors.

Have you ever heard of the book To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee? Of course you have. It has been required reading in most high schools since the 1960’s. There was a movie made about it. Miss Lee has won accolades and literary awards for that book for decades. The novel is part of American culture and the vernacular of our society.

You know how many other books she has written?

None. Zero. Zip. Zilch.

So, as a writer, I ask you, who is a harder worker? Who devoted more time to the craft of writing? Harper Lee? Or myself? I’ve written 5 novels and no one knows about them. She wrote one and the whole world knows about her.

I am living proof that doing the work and dedicating yourself to your craft is never a guarantee of success.

Harper Lee is a famous and respected author, but I’ve worked far longer and harder and devoted more of my life to storytelling than she ever did. Hard work and believing in yourself is not enough.

What you achieve is irrelevant.

The only thing that matters is the value others place on your achievements.

As human beings, we are all useless and pointless, until the world deems us otherwise.

Until someone believes in you, you are nothing. Your accomplishments are meaningless, if no one appreciates them.

I’ve been lied to my whole life. We all have! Being told we have some sort of intrinsic worth and value is a horrible deception. Being told not to care about what others think. That is a recipe for disaster.

Back to Harper Lee - her one book would have been an utter failure if others didn’t believe in her. Harper Lee needed a publisher to promote her work and readers to buy it and schools to add it to their curriculum. Dozens of people had to back her up and support her in order for her to be successful. Hundreds of thousands more had to buy her book. She wasn’t a success simply because she did the work. She was a success because she did the work and afterwards people supported that work.

Look at Arnold Schwarzenegger. World Champion bodybuilder. Movie star. Governor of California.

He would have accomplished none of those things without the support of other people. In his bodybuilding competitions, the judges had to vote for him to win. If there was any kind of bias or prejudice against him, if there was favoritism with other competitors, Arnold would have lost. Schwarzenegger would have never become a champion. No matter how hard he worked out, no matter how perfect his physique became, his ultimate success or failure was not in his control. It was in the hands of those nameless judges. His hard work wasn’t irrelevant. But his hard work didn’t pay off until others acknowledged it.

As an actor, his fate was controlled by movie producers and studio executives. If they hadn’t cast him in those films, if they simply rejected him over and over, he would have gotten nowhere. Audiences controlled his fate too. People like you and me. If we hadn’t gone to see his movies, if people didn’t buy tickets, if those films had all been flops at the box office, his movie career would have been over. He needed the public to support him and the studios to hire him.

He became governor the same way. People had to vote for him.

J.K. Rowling is a billionaire author. Only because people read her books. People went to see the Harry Potter movies. Her publisher gave her a chance. Everything she has gained was dependent upon other people supporting her creation.

Over and over again, look at the success of anyone from writers to actors to politicians to business executives and you will always see the same thing - a need for others to help you. Donald Trump became successful in real estate because other people bought his properties. He became president because people voted for him. Bill Gates and Steve Jobs became billionaires not simply because they worked hard and believed in themselves, but because people bought their products. Walt Disney was a success because people went to see his movies. Did you know Walt financed Disneyland with every penny of his own money? Had the park failed, Walt would have died penniless. But the guests who visited Disneyland believed in his vision and loved the place. Millions of people showed up, so Disneyland was a success. Neil Armstrong didn’t build a rocket in his backyard and fly himself to the moon. He had to be blessed with the opportunity. Others controlled his fate. Neil Armstrong didn’t decide to be the first man on the moon. He was chosen.

See my point? No one ever achieves success without the support of others. Heck, even if you’re born into a wealthy family, you’re never guaranteed an inheritance. Maybe your 98 year old grandpa is going to leave the entire family fortune to his 25 year old girlfriend. You might not see a dime.

So, I say again - No one ever achieves success without the support of others.

I wish someone had told me this when I was 6 years old. Instead, I was lied to my whole life, just like you. They made us think if we did the work and we fought hard and had faith in ourselves, the world would automatically reward us. They lied. Working hard and believing in yourself only gets you halfway there. You can write novels or make movies and publish your music or land your dream role in a theatrical production. But if no one reads your book, or listens to your music, or comes to the theater, all of your hard work is meaningless. Everything you accomplished will be forgotten. Worse yet, it won’t even be acknowledged in the first place.

Frequently I’ve told people I’m just a naive little boy. They don’t believe me, of course. They think I’m a grownup. But I’m not. In so many ways, I’m just a little kid. A little kid who still believes the world is telling me the truth. I believed in people. I took them at their word. I trusted people. I trusted all those inspirational books and movies and TV shows that told me I just have to believe in myself and work hard and I could do anything.

They all lied to me. Every single one of them.

By the age of 25, I should have been a respected author with millions in the bank, married to my childhood crush, living on a ranch in California, with a lovely son and daughter. They really made me believe that could happen. They told you the same thing. Only you’re a lot smarter than me. You realized all of that was a lie a long time ago. I didn’t figure it out until very recently.

Now I see, the world does not need dreamers. We already have dreamers aplenty. We need doers. We need people who take action and make those dreams a reality. We already have too many people who merely dream, but never lift a finger to do anything about them.

Accomplishing my dreams has given me a great sense of self-respect. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I regret my achievements. I wouldn’t take them back. It’s not like I’m going to burn all my books. I’m very proud of all I have accomplished in life. I don’t mean to sound bitter or angry, because I’m not. I’m so thankful for the life I’ve lead. But I am frustrated by my failure to reach the plateau of my expectations.

I bet you feel the same way. You can be proud of climbing the mountains life puts in front of you, but still find yourself disappointed by your inability to reach the plateau of your expectations. I’m on a great summit. I’m happy with how far I have come. But I planned to be up there by now. And I’m not.

I’m not spiteful about all I’ve done in my life. But I am upset about what I haven’t done and that no one ever told me the truth. That you can believe in yourself, and work hard, and still struggle to make ends meet, because no one will care about anything you’ve attained. No one will value your dreams but you.

That is the truth. And no one ever told me that. Everyone told me if I achieve my dreams, great things would happen. I was lead to believe there was some sort of cosmic karma at work in the universe and if I did everything I was supposed to do, the planets would mystically align and fabulous serendipity would transpire to reward all my efforts. No one ever warned me there was a possibility nothing would come of my accomplishments. I just wish someone had prepared me. That’s all. I just wish someone had said, “Hey, Eric. Keep in mind if you accomplish everything you ever dream of doing, it might not make any difference. Your life might still be the same irrelevant existence it would have been if you had just sat around and watched television every day. Sorry.”

You know? If only someone had at least cautioned me to emotionally brace myself for the possibility, it might not be such a shocking disappointment.

Like that line in Fight Club: “We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”

That is what this essay is all about. This is my way of warning you. Do what you’ve been told. Work hard. Believe in yourself. Just remember when you finally do get there and you make your dreams a reality, it might not matter. All that work and faith is worthless unless other people believe in you too. Someone else, someone you don’t even know yet, has to give you your big break. Or a group of people have to give you that opportunity. They have to give you their blessing. Otherwise, no one will ever know about the things you have achieved. Other people need to care about what you’re doing. Period. The challenge is to find those people who will value you and your work.

May you find millions of people who believe in you even more than you believe in yourself.

Bad Time for an Epiphany
21 October 2017

There are only two reasons to be a writer. Strangely enough, these reasons happen to be polar opposites on the surface, yet they are motivated by the same foundation.

1.) Altruism. You sincerely want to make the world a better place. To share your views and opinions with humanity. To educate and entertain. To make a difference. Have a positive influence on the world. On the surface, this is all about helping the world, even though it’s arrogant to presume the world should care about your opinions.

2.) Posterity. All art is ultimately about death. Our own mortality. The sense that we know we only have a limited time upon this earth and we want to leave something behind. Something to outlive our children and grandchildren. Something to prove to the world that we existed. But not only that we existed, that our existence was worth something. That we will not be forgotten. On this surface, this is all about your own ego, and there are no ulterior motives at all. There is an admirable honesty to such conceit.

When I was 18 years old, I had my first existential epiphany. I vividly recall being in the car with some friends as we drove around downtown Cleveland. Always having a reverent love of nature and the outdoors, as the car spiraled up a highway entrance ramp like a rat in a maze, I found myself feeling nauseous at the realization that everything in my sight was steel and concrete and asphalt and plastic and glass. There was no sign of the natural world anywhere.

Then, in the very same instant, I realized how proud of their work those men would be. The men who built these highways and skyscrapers and automobiles would be pleased that these roads helped get sick children to the hospital. These buildings would provide jobs for men to feed their families. Such good deeds seem trivial to the loss of a few acres of trees. And the thing is, those men would be right.

That was the moment when I understood that existentialism is the only legitimate philosophical view of life. Every human being who has ever lived is an existentialist. We all decide, as individuals, what values matter to us. And no one has any power or authority or rights to dictate those decisions to us. We are all free to make up our own minds about what values we shall cleave and which we shall eschew. Some of us value trees. Some of us value skyscrapers. Inarguably the trees are more important because without them we have no more oxygen to breathe in the skyscrapers, but that’s a discussion for another time.

I wanted to share that profound epiphany as an introduction to another one I had. One that was equally memorable and life-altering.

Back on Sunday 16 March 2014 at the Glendale Civic Auditorium in Glendale, California, I attended the 35th Annual Los Angeles Vintage Paperback Collectors Show and I had a horrible realization. Surrounded by throngs of people, I had one of those transcendental and existential moments when I realized I was nothing special. All of those people in that vast hall were just the same as me. They have had incredible and amazing lives. Wonderful things you couldn’t even imagine have happened to them. Horrible tragedies had befallen all of them too - hardships so heartbreaking that we’d want to give them a hug if we knew what pain they have survived.

Standing there, feeling overwhelmed by this emotion, all I could think about were these books. Thousands upon thousands of vintage paperbacks written in the 1920’s and 1930’s and 1940’s and 1950’s - most by authors who were long dead and buried. All I kept thinking about was how much these books were loved. How much these books meant to the writers. How excited they were when they got their first publishing deal. How much passion and how many countless hours of work and dedication and sacrifice they invested and toiled into writing these stories. Imagining these thousands of authors collectively spending century after century of time to create this massive quantity of work. All the life experiences that molded these storytellers. Just like all of these hundreds of people around me, the books represented even more human lives. Tens of thousands of people with the same dreams and hopes and fears and loves that you or I possess.

And what happened to their posterity?

Was this their fate? To be sold in a dollar-bin decades later? This is what has become of their great dreams and accomplishments in writing? To be reduced to nothing more than trivial and tattered paperbacks no one will ever read? Wedged under the foot of a wobbly coffee table? Collecting dust on old bookstore shelves? Most of these writers were nobodies. You never heard of them. I never heard of them. Were any of these writers all that different from me? Did they not have the same passion and hope to be remembered? Were they not subject to the same fear of being forgotten? And now here they were, hundreds, thousands of men and women, their stories forgotten, their legacies nothing more than yellowing paper in an auditorium for a brief Sunday afternoon. Were they not just like me? Every single one of them?

I am so proud of my writing. I am so excited that I have created all these characters and written hundreds of thousands of words to share with the world. Will anyone else ever care? Will anyone ever appreciate what I have achieved? And when I have been dead and buried for years, will that be the fate of my books? 70 or 80 years from now, will my greatest novels just be dog-eared old paperbacks at a vintage show, buried among thousands of other authors no one cares about? Collecting dust on a shelf so someone can say, “Eric Muss-Barnes? Never heard of him.”

Something really upset me at the 35th Annual Los Angeles Vintage Paperback Collectors Show and I couldn’t pinpoint what bothered me so much until almost a month later. Then I realized, this was it. The foreboding of futility. Seeing all those thousands of old novels made me realize posterity isn’t as easy as it sounds. Even if you become rich and famous in your own lifetime, how long will you be remembered afterwards? When your children and grandchildren have died, who will be left to remember you? Do you know anything about your ancestors from 3 generations back? Do you even know the names of your grandparents mother and father? Doesn’t take many generations to become anonymous, does it? Forgotten in no time at all, even by your own family.

One of my favorite writers is Frances Hodgson Burnett. Most people today have no idea who she is, but during her time a century ago, she was the J.K. Rowling of her age. Today, in 2017, J.K. Rowling is one of the most successful authors alive. But in 100 years, how many people will remember her? I have no doubt she will be read in 2117. But I bet she won’t be as renown as she is today. Eventually, no matter how famous we become, we all fade from memory.

Sooner or later, our greatest artistic creations, those works which articulate our most profound wisdom and insights, will all be lost. Everything we do eventually ends up in that dollar bin at the vintage collectors show.

As artists we yearn to create something timeless. Work of great weight and substance and worth. We congratulate ourselves for rising to such a calling and we become convinced this is a righteous and altruistic gesture, to share our vast intellect with humanity for countless future generations to cherish. Yet it occurs to me that perhaps this is not a noble endeavor at all. As soon as one takes the time to verbalize such ambitions you can easily hear them for what they are - the ultimate arrogance. Such a conceit we have, that our divine wisdom must be importuned unto the world, for future generations will never obtain the vainglorious insights and astuteness of us. And so must we preserve and thus prove our sagacity for antiquity. In fact, maybe we’re just kidding ourselves, and we’re not such hot shit after all.

In truth, I am just like everyone else. My hubris stems from knowing I am worthless. I am nothing special at all. Were I to depart this earth tomorrow, barely anyone would notice. I have never accomplished anything relevant in my life and I never will. For all my posturing, my life has no value whatsoever. I already know, there are days upon this world, when not one other soul thinks of my existence. In the grand tapestry of humanity, I am nothing more than a space between the threads.

I love writing. I’ve done it all my life and I’ll never stop doing it. But coming to this realization about the futility of posterity made me understand that I need to do something more than writing. I have no idea what “more” to do. But I feel like I should do something. I still plan to write more books. Tell more stories. But there has to be more one can do to leave a lasting and positive impression upon the world. To contribute something good. To benefit mankind in some way.

Or maybe the real lesson here is that posterity is irrelevant? Learn to have a zen and taoist view of the world? Embrace the impermanence and transcendence of life?

Maybe...

Maybe the ego of posterity truly is contradictory and incompatible with sincere altruism.

Maybe it’s all about the here and now. Maybe one should never strive for immortality in their writing or dance or music or acting. Maybe while we are alive upon this earth, we should do everything we can to make the world a better place, but accept the fact that when we’re gone, it’s okay to be forgotten. Such is the way of the world. Revel in your limited time. And when that time is up, let it go with grace and dignity. Like a Replicant in Blade Runner.

Sounds nice on paper. But it does bring little comfort. No one wants to go quietly into that good night. We all go out screaming. Fighting for one more precious minute upon this glorious little globe.

The bright side of course, is that you won’t soon forget me. If nothing else I’ve written is remembered, at least these words will resonate with you long after I am gone. Even if we’ve never met, at least you know I existed. And while that may not help with the existential crisis of your own mortality, I find some comfort in knowing that you know me. Thank you for remembering I was here.

Being A Novelist Should Never Be Impressive
3 November 2017

I recently realized something about writing that I never understood before.

Anytime someone asks what I do and I tell them I’m a novelist, it makes me very uncomfortable. The reason it makes me uncomfortable is because I have never earned enough money from writing to make a living as a novelist. That makes me feel like a fraud. Here in Los Angeles, it’s especially bad, because it makes me feel like those struggling actors working as waiters. You’re not really an actor if you’re paying your bills as a waiter. You’re kidding yourself. You’re a waiter. When you start making enough money with acting that you are paying all your expenses with acting, then you’re an actor. Until then you’re just a waiter.

I’ve written 5 novels. They are published. You can buy them right now. Read them. Review them. Get them as gifts for your friends and family. They are tangible, physical hardcover and paperback books. But I still feel like a phony when I claim to be a novelist, because I’m not a genuine author until one or all of my books can consistently and reliably cover my living expenses. I’m not a writer until I’m getting paid to be a writer. And not paid $100 or $1000 or $10000 a year. I need to support myself with writing. Then I’ll be a legitimate raconteur. Until then, I’m just a jerk who is all talk.

But today, it occurred to me that something else made me uncomfortable. I thought feeling like a charlatan was the thing that made me so uneasy. But it’s more than that. I hate when people are impressed that I’m a writer. Because the more impressed people are with my accomplishments, the less seriously they take me.

I know that doesn’t seem to make any sense. Let me explain.

Look at it this way, when Stephen King or J.K. Rowling put out a new novel, are people impressed they wrote a book?

No. Of course not. Because that’s their job. People recognize Stephen King and J.K. Rowling as writers and releasing new books is how they make a living. They are established and professional authors.

We’re only impressed with people who write novels when we don’t acknowledge them as novelists. When we don’t take a writer seriously, their work is an achievement.

Think of it like building a house. If you know nothing about architecture and you build your house with your own bare hands, people are impressed. They give you a lot of credit. They think what you did was an amazing accomplishment. But, if you’re a professional construction worker, no one cares that you’ve built 50 houses. See my point? Building houses is only impressive when it’s not your job. When you make your livelihood building houses, nobody praises you for it.

Writing is the same. People are only impressed that you wrote a novel when they don’t really consider you to be a writer.

Incidentally, Stephen King’s wife has published 8 novels. You didn’t know that, did you? You never heard of her, have you? She’s a writer, just as much as her husband. Just because she doesn’t sell as many books, just because you never heard of her, doesn’t render her work illegitimate.

See what I’m getting at?

People are not impressed that Stephen King has written 50 novels, because they perceive him as a respectable writer.

People are impressed that I’ve written 5 novels, because they don’t acknowledge that as my job.

And the worst part of all, is that they’re right. They’re right. I’m just a useless nobody who wasted his entire life for nothing. Writing a few books no one cares about? Why? What a colossal waste of time. I’m not a novelist. I’m nothing. Like I said, if writing books never earns me a living, pinning myself with the label of “novelist” is bullshit. Unless my writing produced a respectable and consistent living wage, I’m just another wanna-be. No matter how many books I write, I don’t matter. I don’t count. Because what I write has no value to the world. I will hopefully have at least 50 novels under my belt before I depart this earth, although I have the awful suspicion that they will all be written by a proverbial waiter, never a novelist.

Biography

Raised by the 1940’s swingkid generation of his maternal grandparents, Eric Muss-Barnes is a Fifth Generation American, born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. There, he spent the first 32 years of his life, before picking up and moving to California, with no job and nowhere to live, in the spring of 2003. (Although, he frequently jokes, he was “born and raised 2,500 miles outside of Los Angeles”;.)

During the course of five decades, Eric has spent years working at Walt Disney Studios; piloted hang gliders over 6000 feet above the Earth; dated fashion models, rockstar goddesses and glamazon actresses; been thrown and dragged by horses (arguably similar to his dating experiences); earned a living as an American Greetings toymaker and a Hollywood game designer; ridden motorcycles more than 100,000 miles through mountains and desert sandstorms (make that “over”; mountains, he’s not Buckaroo Banzai); produced, directed and edited numerous music videos and an award-nominated film (The Unseelie Court); briefly wed a tattooed MENSA astrophysicist chick, with a PhD in psychology, who was also a drummer in heavy metal bands; crewed on an Academy Award nominated movie (American Splendor); skateboarded in pools all around California with XGames medalists and documented his adventures in an online video series which has garnered over 6 million viewers; written an epic series of vampire tales, plus standalone speculative fiction stories and imaginative literature (for a total of 11 books, including 6 novels); photographed numerous Playboy models and sold his images in several art gallery showings across the nation; had stories published in multiple fiction/non-fiction anthologies; served 12 years hard time in parochial schools; been trained in the use of firearms by the San Bernardino County sheriff’s department; purchased 10 acres of the Mojave desert (while unemployed) to begin building a Disney-inspired, technologically-advanced, off-grid, dreamhouse/cabin project, called “Luthorville”; and created and programmed a blog called “InkShard”; where you can see videos and essays about his life as a writer.

Books authored by novelist
Eric Muss-Barnes
www.EricMuss-Barnes.com

Voodoo & Loveshadow
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Ever since he was a little boy, Rusty Stratford always believed he was destined for great things. Now, with his 40th birthday fast approaching, Rusty is starting to suspect he might only be destined for mediocre things. A bachelor with few family members and fewer friends, life hasn’t quite panned out the way Rusty hoped it would, and he’s beginning to resign himself to being alone and unimportant.

All that changes the night he meets the precocious ghosts of his unborn twin daughters, Isabeau and Oona. Quickly, he comes to discover the universe is a strange brew of fate and happenstance wherein Isabeau and Oona only have a small window of time during which their spirits can be born. Can the little girls help their father find the woman destined to become their mom? Or will Isabeau and Oona miss their chance to exist?

If you squandered decades of your life awaiting “one true love” who never arrived, if dreaming of an idyllic “soulmate” kept you alive through your darkest hours and they didn’t show up, this magical tale will comfort your heartache of missed chances and abandonment with an empathy like you’ve never known. Voodoo & Loveshadow kindles hope in the loneliest of hearts, assuring when the world has given you up for dead, you may still conjure reasons for life, love and laughter to prevail...

Sheriff Jedediah Spade's Catalog of Netherworld Monstrosities
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Deep inside, every child knows, there is far more magic and enchantment, hidden in the corners of the earth, than adults are willing to admit. Somewhere out there, mysterious coastlines are plundered by cursed pirate ships, woodlands shroud kingdoms and castles you can’t find on any map, and deep in Old West mountain passes, gunfighters duel on forgotten stagecoach roads.

All kids instinctively sense, these wondrous places still exist, and if you muster the courage to venture over just the right sliver of the horizon, you will find lands of adventure, grownups pretend to know nothing about.

When four gradeschool friends brave a quest into the desert, seeking such forbidden country, they learn our world is far bigger than they ever dreamed possible, and monsters under the bed are child’s play, compared to the netherworld monstrosities lurking around ghosttowns.

The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Helle Tompkins has reached the end of her days as an outcast, suburban teenager. Ever since her beloved father killed himself, and they released Helle from the mental hospital for trying to join him, she’s been in a place where her pain is far deeper than high school melodrama.

No more hiding behind black lipstick and a mohawk. Now she’s playing with pagan charms, Wiccan rites, and the scrying sorcery of her Ouija board. It’s the perfect distraction until she summons the attention of a charming and sinister faerie prince. A seductive spirit lurking in the shadows of treebranches shimmering upon her walls, he may be something much more horrible than he claims.

Will she succumb to bewitching promises and find salvation in his cruel embrace, or will his own agonizing secrets draw Helle into even deeper heartbreak?

“...The Gothic Rainbow by Eric Muss-Barnes is, frankly, one of the most absorbing novels that I have read in quite some time. ... I’ve found the book well worth my time, and I hope you will give it a shot. ... At the end, I think you will agree that Eric Muss-Barnes will be a name to watch...”
- Christopher T. Miller, Book Stacks Unlimited

“... The Gothic Rainbow gives solace and escape for those who feel trapped in a messed-up world full of heartaches and misunderstandings. There is plenty of sex and violence to stimulate, but it’s the delicate beauty and passionate writing of this novel that will touch your soul ...”
- Octavia, Outburn Magazine

“... if you’ve ever listened to The Cure in the dark, danced to The Dead Milkmen, lost a loved one, hung out with skaters, hated your parents or hated preppies, or if anyone’s ever called you a “freak,” I think you’ll find a little of yourself in this book. Its honest representation of this subculture - from the music to the fashion - is spun throughout the web of fantasy ...”
- Cynthia Conlin, Implosion Magazine

“... it’s quite a page-turner, with lots of shocking vampiric escapades. This book, on the whole, is extremely well-written with a wonderful poetic style. I’m glad I didn’t let the slow start scare me off ...”
-Susan Moon, The Nocturnal Lyric

“... One aspect of the writing that I appreciated is that the author uses different styles of writing throughout this novel. Muss-Barnes excels in his literary descriptions of buildings, character dress, and dreams. ... the choice of words and inflection of mood hit dead on at what I anticipated I would find when I first picked up the book ...”
-Dan O., IndustrialnatioN

“... Eric effectively blends elements from different genres and literary styles in a duet between mortals and Fey. Highly unique, believable characters, and a musical playlist to boot! I found the book compelling and charming (in a twisted way), and would gladly read the book again ...”
- Chelsea, Thistle Magazine

“... I’m utterly mystified that this book worked as well as it did for me. It’s written for readers with a firm grasp of the Goth subculture (I don’t qualify); it doesn’t attempt to have a plot as such; and the vampires are hopelessly larger-than-life, with their expensive cars, outrageous acts of violence, and nonstop scorn for mortals. (In fact, the vampires consider themselves so godlike that pronouns referring to them are capitalized, a typographical idiosyncrasy that I found rather disconcerting.) Perhaps the book’s appeal lies in the sheer honesty of the narrative. ... Self-serving but sincere, The Gothic Rainbow is definitely worth checking out ... I know that’s a strange kind of thumbs-up, but The Gothic Rainbow is a strange kind of book. It’s certainly not for everyone. ... It is a book of dreams and fantasies, power and pain, and bittersweet Goth-flavored wish fulfillment ...”
- Catherine B. Krusberg, Sphere Fantasy Online

Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Fetishes claw inside of you. Ones you dare never admit. Desires you could never reveal. Claims of being free of all their taboos has never made you stop fearing your own carnal wants... For none could ever endure your passions and live.

Whips and chains are for prudes.

Fangs. Talons. Blood of full moons. The darkest hungers never die. Tell us the tale of your lusts. Succumb to the story of your deviance.

Or pretend this isn’t you at all. Wonder how far burns the flame, but fear to melt the wax. No matter. We have you eternal. Wondering. Wanting. Trapped with no escape from the blackest scenarios you envision.

Know no remorse. Submit to this dread sensuality.

Mock my every word, for still, this is you.

There is a vampire legend within us all. You have felt it for years. Yearned to hear of it. To read of it. See it in a tangible form. Live it. Hungered. And yet no one has ever even spoken of it. No one has ever given that saga a voice... Until now...

This is the myth of the vampire as you have always dreamed it should be told. The one we have all secretly shared, but never expressed.

Hear how she wants every boy and girl?

The dawn of eternal night has come.

More than 17 years in the making, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival is the long-awaited conclusion to The Gothic Rainbow. When you thought the shadows could become no darker, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume Of The Vampire Noctuaries takes you further into the tale of Elric and Helle DuBois. Told from Helle’s perspective, the story picks up where The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries ended. We learn the true motives of Camillia, and the mystery of mortals played as Pawns, in centuries-old Killing Games, by the insidious DuBois sisters.

The secrets grow deeper. The passion becomes stronger. The fury knows no limits. There is far more to Elric and Helle than they have ever dreamed. Welcome to Annwn’s Obsidian Sideshow & Maelstrom Festival, where the love of Elric and Helle will cause dominions to fall and tragedy and death be left in their wake.

How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Working for Walt Disney is a childhood dream, shared by millions of people, from all across the world. Since the founding of the studios in 1923, only a small fraction of individuals have ever experienced the bliss of making that dream come true.

After working at the illustrious Studio for more than 6 years, author Eric Muss-Barnes shares his story of how that wish-upon-a-star came true for him, starting from humble beginnings in a bluecollar family in Ohio.

Told with warmth and humor, you learn every job, every experience, every career move he made. Starting from his childhood paper route during Cleveland blizzards, he explains how he journeyed all the way to sitting with Minnie Mouse, as a Cast Member, at the Disney Studio lot, on a warm Summer day.

How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree is not merely about landing a job at Disney. Rather, it’s a tale regaling every trial and tribulation which lead Eric to Los Angeles, told in the hopes of inspiring you to continue the pursuit of your own dreams, whatever they may be.

You still have time to make your dream come true too. It’s never too late.

As Jiminy Cricket promised, if your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme...

The Page of Wands
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Legend has it, an ancient walking staff, known as “The Wand”, first presented itself to old widow McCreadle, along with The Three Rules.

1. You may use the magic wand for 3 days.
2. You may only use it in your profession.
3. You must secretly bequeath it to an anonymous stranger.

As the power of The Wand is entrusted from one Los Angeles resident to the next, randomly falling into the hands of noble and corrupt citizens alike, the city is brought to both bliss and ruin. But when things finally spiral out of control in a city infested with aliens, dinosaurs, and superheroes, can a misfit group of townspeople set the world right again, before The Wand must be passed on once more?

Grandpa Steiner Saves the World (from Illegal Aliens (from Space))
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Grandpa Steiner offends everyone. He doesn’t mean to. It just happens. During his youth, his attitudes were commonplace and perfectly acceptable. As the conventions of society change around him, and more and more of his opinions become derided as obsolete, Grandpa Steiner decides to start a blog, to vent his frustrations upon the Internet.

Little does Grandpa Steiner know, when a race of space aliens secretly decide to obliterate mankind, they regard his blog as the only redeeming quality of humanity. Grandpa Steiner inadvertently causes the aliens to reconsider, thereby sparing the world from annihilation.

But when his popular essays cause a media backlash and his family convinces Grandpa Steiner to stop his politically incorrect rants, will the prevailing “culture of damn sissies” spell doom for the Earth?

The United States of America Founding Documents
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Containing the complete and unabridged text of the original documents which founded the United States of America.

1776: Declaration of Independence
Sent to leaders around the world by the thirteen original American Colonies, to proclaim their dissolution from King George III of England, and to make the United States of America her own sovereign nation.

1777: Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union
Document which served as the foundation of government for the thirteen original American Colonies and is regarded as the first Constitution of the United States.

1787: Federalist Papers
A series of 85 essays from the Founding Fathers, written and published to gain public support to ratify a new United States Constitution, intended to replace the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union.

1787: United States Constitution
Serving to this day as the foundation of government structure in the United States of America and the document upon which all politicians and armed forces swear an oath to protect and defend.

1789: Bill of Rights
The first of ten amendments to the United States Constitution, enumerating multiple God-given rights, as implied in the Declaration of Independence.

1795-1992: Constitutional Amendments
After the original 10 amendments made by the Bill of Rights, beginning in 1795, an additional 17 amendments have been made to the United States Constitution.

Compiled in 2018 by novelist and patriot Eric Muss-Barnes

InkShard: A Compendium of Essays
by Eric Muss-Barnes

InkShard is a compendium of articles and social commentary, written by author Eric Muss-Barnes, between 2004 and 2018.

Revised and expanded, this volume assembles various topics culled from posts on social media websites to the scripts of video essays.

Carefully compiled from the finest of his journalistic work, InkShard represents the definitive collection of Eric’s most compelling dissertations and beloved editorials.

Schooling Your Boss To Not Suck
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Schooling Your Boss to not Suck takes a fun and sarcastic journey into tales of horrible bosses. There are countless books on improving the workplace, but nothing quite like this.

Is your boss a supervillain? Need a superhero to straighten him out? Instead of being written by another stuffy “expert”, author Eric Muss-Barnes (who barely squeaked out of high school, let alone finished college), offers a lighthearted slant on leadership from the viewpoint of the common worker.

True stories. Real experiences. No silly parables here, folks. No “puppydogs and rainbows” like those other motivational books. Just genuine events of piss and vinegar from the American middleclass workplace.

Eric is just an Average Joe, like yourself, telling it like it is. If your boss sincerely wants to learn how to motivate and inspire the people, it’s time the boss stopped listening to other leaders and started listening to what regular people like you have to say. It’s time someone stood tall, whipped off those mild-mannered glasses, and schooled your boss on how to not suck!

Forever Loving You
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Years ago, after author Eric Muss-Barnes had the cover photo for this book taken, a friend ridiculed him and said, “Who do you think you are, Michael Bolton? This looks like a cover for an album of rock ballads. ’Eric Muss-Barnes, Forever Loving You!’” Twenty years later, instead of an album cover, it became a book cover for a compilation of cheesy lovepoems.

Colophon

Printed Editions Colophon

• HP Pavilion dm3t 1100 Notebook PC (3GB RAM / 160GB SSD)

• Windows 7 Professional 64-Bit OS

My trusty dead-silent SSD laptop was used to write this novel. I also wrote 5 other novels, reformatted 2 others books, and composed 2 memoirs on this very same computer. Indeed, it has served me well. I intend to continue writing books on nothing but solid-state laptops for the rest of my life. I’ve used typewriters, notebooks, and desktop computers and the thin-profile laptops are definitely my favorite. They are really my element. The nice thing about writing novels is that you don’t need a ton of drive capacity either. You can easily fit a lifetime of work on a 160GB drive with room to spare.

• Notepad++ 6.4.5

• Open Office 3.2.0

My initial outline was written in plain text using Notepad++ simply because I like doing outlines in plain text. The files stay clean that way. Uncluttered.

Once the outline was done, I moved into writing the actual manuscript in Open Office, so I can compose the book in the final format including page layouts and font choices. This way, no time is wasted converting a final draft into a final format. Instead, every single draft of the novel is the final format. I can concern myself with nothing but writing. The formatting is already baked in to the process. Once I choose the ideal formatting for a given story, I never have to think about it again.

• Adobe Photoshop CS2

The cover image was done in Photoshop and was made with the idea of ink splatters from a traditional old quill pen.

• Fonts: Transitional 511, Futura Bold

Classic and stylish, I found the 12-point font “Transitional 511” to be an excellent choice for the main body of text on all the pages. With a hearty bold and a nicely flourished italic, it gave a dignified look to the text. The titles on the cover were done using a font called “Futura Bold” which has a nice hefty weight and a very bold stance.

eBook Editions Colophon

• HP Vostro 400 Desktop PC

• Windows XP Professional OS

As with my past titles, the eBook editions were created on a desktop computer, converted from the original Open Office .ODT files used in the printed version of the book. For whatever reason, I simply prefer doing my HTML programming on a desktop computer and my novel-creation on a laptop computer. I think because my first novel was written by hand and a laptop is close to recreating that feeling. Whereas I’ve made a living as a programmer and I am used to doing that as a desk job. Hence, the reason I make printed books on a laptop and eBooks at a desktop.

• Notepad++ 6.4.5

• WinZip 9.0

In order to make the book available to readers digitally, the original Open Office .ODT files were rebuilt as an .EPUB file. Being a programmer, I engineered and constructed the .EPUB files by hand - coding all of the CSS, XHTML, OPF and NCX files in a plain text editor. Once that was complete, I used WinZip to package my .EPUB file which was then triple-validated against epubcheck 3.0, and Sigil 0.6.2, and finally in Flight Crew 0.7.2.

• KindleGen 2.9

Using the command-line utility KindleGen, I converted my .EPUB file into .MOBI format for sale and distribution online using Amazon and other .MOBI-based eReader systems. This is also the way I create my free MOBI versions that people can download for nothing and pay for via donations later.