What I've Learned in 1 Year of Blogging

Well, it's been a year. Normally, when events like this pop up, your traditional blogger will do one of those give-away things, where you sign up your email, follow me on twitter, facebook fan page me, and I will enter you into a drawing to win a Kindle Fire or something equally appealing.

You can't have my Boba clock, Italian
guitar keychain, or computer.  But Instant
Lunch is a possible prize.  

I, though, am not your average blogger.  While I'd love to reward my faithful readers, the only thing I can offer is some old Ikea furniture, the bathtub/shower enclosure I pulled out of my bathroom two years ago, or some cheese. (Really, we have lots of cheese right now).

I'll try not to be cheesy. I do appreciate your readership. I need it.

I signed up for this blog thing a year ago in hopes of getting my novel published. I read a number of other "influential" bloggers who said, "start a blog. Get 30,000 views a month, get 8,000 or so twitter followers, have a Klout score in the 70s, become a hipster, overthrow Kim Jun Il's tyrannical government, get the NSA out of our bedroom, and we might publish your novel."

I tried, and I failed. At all of it, and now I'm on the NSA watch list.  (I think they thought my prison music video was real).


From what I've read, I do have some nice numbers: I got almost 90,000 page views for the first year;  I've had something like 15,000 unique visitors; and two of my blogs have been viewed by over a thousand different people. That seems good, but still nowhere near "where I'm supposed to be."

Well, okay. But I'm proud of the fact that I sweated out over 100 articles in this year. I purposely don't write fluff articles (besides this one) about my day at the beach or my nacho recipes, (even though those type blogs do better than mine) because I can't do that. To me, writing is something that allows me to show my depth, not just be a slightly sarcastic, sports junky, weirdo.  If Shrek was an onion, than I am a 7 layer Mexican bean dip--some days I'm just cheesy, other days I'm like a complex guacamole.  I prefer it that way. I think most people are complex, they just have different ways of portraying it.  (Like throwing remotes at the television during sports events shows my passionate side).

I've learned some things about blogging along the way. I'm going to make really huge logic leaps based on my little bit of evidence and knowledge of this year of blogging.

Teacher comments:  Just keeping it real. 

• Guys don't read. I'd venture to say that 75% of my traffic is women. With a house full of girls, and a reader base filled with them, I should just start taking estrogen pills. 
• Nobody likes to read about sports. These blogs never do well. The difference between fanboys (like Star Wars or Ironman) and sports fans, is that fanboys actually practice intelligence. They do research and know their stuff, whereas sports fans rely wholly on emotion (see my remote comment above). No sports fan wants honest coverage of his/her team. We want propaganda.  
• Honesty goes a long way.  Personal stories (especially at my expense) do well. 
• Humor is hard to predict. I try to be funny. It's hard to put out a blog every three days and be truly funny, so it's hit and miss. I have a diverse readership, so to some, Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor is funny (I don't think so), and to others, Dr. Martin Clunes from Doc Martin on PBS is comedy perfected. I try to write comedy somewhere in the middle (while keeping it mostly clean). This is a hard act to perform without getting heckled.   
• Controversy doesn't equate readership. Most people just don't care about issues. They'd rather have a really good nacho recipe.  
• Politics hasn't earned me any readers, but faith based topics have.  Maybe people do like being preached at, as long as it isn't preaching what political party you or I should be affiliated with?  
• Titles and pictures bring in audiences. A great title and a corresponding photo does more than anything else to draw random (curious) readers. Even my own friends and family will not read my blog, when not prompted with an image based link. We, as a nation, are easily distracted. 
• Comments are the most encouraging thing readers can do. I know it's hard to log in, or you have a thing about being "anonymous" on the "grid." But truth is, just like in school, the comments on papers are what makes good writers. While B+'s were nice, it was the comments the teacher scribbled that made my day. Likewise, impacting someone enough for them to leave a comment is what keeps me doing this. And no, the NSA will not make the IRS audit you for commenting on my blog.  
• No publishers are looking. I was duped. I started this with the intent of getting a book deal. Nobody in publishing cares. Their world is so chaotic right now, that unless I write the next Gangnam Style video, they aren't interested. Self publishing is the direction almost everyone is going now, and some are even making money at it (or at least better percentages).  
• I like writing. Even if I'm only okay at this, and the average visitor only spends 1.8 minutes on my site (not long enough to even look at the pictures), I still have points to make and jokes to butcher.  

Other blogs to check out (as I appreciate their efforts and writing): The Cat Lady, The Moral, Julie's Musings, Yeah, I'm a Nerd, Plumbliners, Thin Spaces, Elena Dillon, and to all my friends and family still sharing or still commenting after a whole year (yeah, there are still a few), I love you guys.

Oh, and if you become a follower of mine on any social media, I'll let you choose from a fine selection of slightly past pull-date cheeses. Now there's incentive.

No More Continues: A Book Excerpt

My wife is traveling in Italy and Greece with students for the next two weeks and I'm at home with my two daughters, so get ready for some really weird, delusional posts.

This is an excerpt from my second book: it is still rough, so let me know if you see things that could be straightened out, edited, or rearranged.  

--------

The room was nearing 90 degrees for the third straight day, but it didn’t matter, Victor was used to the stagnant, acrid air by now.  The garage door was no longer operational, as his father Bert had converted the room into an apartment; albeit; he had left certain aspects of the transformation adjustable and temporary for the make-shift placement of his only son Victor.  That was six years ago. 

As it is, the only breathing the large room does now is through an attic fan, 16 feet up, rusted inoperable with time; gently breathing in and out through its idle blades at its leisure.  The cool July breezes would barely travel three feet through the small space before forgetting that cold should dissipate downward, instead opting for suicide at the first realization of its new dwelling. 

Many objects had committed suicide in this room.  Fleas, dust mites, dendrites, cockroaches, a few mice, legions of spermatozoon, and various varieties of bacterium, yet, despite the widespread loss of life dwelled a living, and surprisingly healthy being named Victor Mort. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Victor was struggling to stay asleep.  Deep in the recesses of his brain, he knew he had already missed his 12:30 p.m. deadline to join the Central European server playing a Call of Duty: Mi5 tournament.  He knew that there were probably 100 different players actively playing in it still, but Victor, or VctrSnipeAK47, wasn’t going to join in even if he could rustle up the energy to wake up.  Barely anyone in Europe would challenge him, and even the idea of embarrassingly annihilating Czechs and Italians with a crappy SPAS-12 shotgun wouldn’t improve his fame, and would probably damage his 5/1 kill to death ratio. 

Most of Europe would probably log off once they saw his VctrSnipeAK47 screen-name attempt to sign into the game queue.  Most gamers figured he had some sort of mod; a modified controller that allowed him to shot without aiming, some called it aimbot, newbs simply called it cheating.  But Victor wasn’t cheating.  He was just good; or rather experienced.  He had logged 47 days worth of play in the game in the five months since it was released.  And this was just one of seven active games Victor was perfecting. 

The Xbox 360 was probably the most mainstream of any of his platforms, followed by a seldom-played PlayStation 3; he hadn’t touched it since God of Gears 4 was released in November.  He grew tired of it in December. 

His main hobby, and the majority of his room was made up of four different 30” computer monitors, all linked in tandem so that he had a near 360 degree view of whatever room, or world, or universe that his software took place in.  He was always upgrading his PC so it would be at or near the top of the gaming pinnacle performance.  Parts, wires, screws, hard drives and components that had grown obsolete or burned up in reentry to reality laid carelessly on what used to be his living room coffee table.  His room could easily be subject to a police raid, as usually, at least two or three state or federal laws were being broken, although nothing past a misdemeanor status.  The violations could range from illegal downloading of copyrighted material to possession of trace amounts of controlled substances. 

Victor, despite his tech savvy connections and petty lawlessness, was not a hacker.  He experimented with it a little three years ago after he was frustrated by a clan of Japanese gamers who continued to school him at a popular game.  Victor was sure they were Modding, so he called a friend, Erik, who worked for the leading antivirus software company and together they hatched a worm based on the MyDoom virus, but one that could be shared on an entire network, so that anyone playing off that server would get infected.  Victor used an old computer, and routed through a myriad of IP addresses so that the whole operation looked like it was born in Baltimore, Maryland, over 3000 miles away from Victor’s garagment.  The virus didn’t work as planned, but it did its job of creating chaos and destroying that elite clan.  The next day, Erik was fielding phone calls from all over Japan, helping eradicate his own creation.  Evidently, the virus had reached some of the leading game designers of the industry who were frantic that their home computers, with vital R&D materials were being compromised.    

That fiasco cost Victor his game account, his back-up computer, his IT friend, and hours of lost sleep. He still felt paranoia at times for his role in resurrecting a zombie virus that still gives antivirus programs fits today, and hoped that no law enforcement agency was still searching for the root source.   

It would be easy for historians and biographers to look back into the life of Victor Mort and decide that this was the moment when Victor would crawl away from society and hide inside the shell that was his room.  But life, even in uninhabitable places like a Victor’s room, is much more complex than history majors or bad journalists give it credit for.  Even Victor didn’t know the exact causes to why he rarely stepped foot from his room.   Plenty of talented people hole up and have creative moments.  But more often recluses become insular and try to perfect something that is only beautiful to themselves.  Brian Wilson never wrote a song as beautiful as In My Room, even though ten years later he did actually lock himself into his room; J.D. Salinger never published anything after 1963, even though he continued to write for the last 47 years of his life; And Axl Rose neither brought democracy to China, nor a decent album to listen to, when he waited 14 years to deliver a new Guns N’ Roses album.   

Likewise, few would ever appreciate the kind of artist Victor Mort had become.  Innately talented were his instincts, reflexes, eye hand coordination, concentration, his dedication to his craft, his studying of the maps and weapons and skills of various characters with the dedication of the best generals to ever wage war on mankind.  It was a glorious sight, to see Victor’s CGI first person character in camo, warlock gear, futuristic garb, space suit, or whatever the game designers had established as dress, running through the visually stunning landscapes created on equally powerful computers by other skilled artists, casually, slyly, expertly dismantling the other teams game-plan, dispatching lives like a pest exterminator.  It was so cinematic, that every so often, game developers and producers would let Victor test their game platforms before they were released to the general public.  They would record his devastation of their gamebot characters and use it as a promo demo of the gameplay. 

Sometimes these demonstrations created controversy in the online world, as the lowest intelligence lifeforms on earth, YouTube commenters, would say that there was no way these demos were played by a real human being.  These same commenters, avid gamers with no educational sense, also claimed the holocaust never happened, cats the highest form of entertainment, and that Barak Obama was probably brothers with Osama bin Laden on other video clips.  These commenters were also recluses from mankind.  Not because of choice, they had been alienated because of their stupidity, pushed away to the side of society which had given up on disciplining their impulsivity, correcting their illogical delusions, and educating their wrong-thinking brains.  So now they sit in basements or attics or garages or state hospitals or correctional facilities and use their free time to spread their insanity like an internet virus through grammatically abhorrent and intelligence free posts on forums and blogs and any website with a comment section. They take pleasure in the anonymity of the internet.  They have no Facebook friends, as nobody who could put a picture or a name with the diatribes of these knuckledraggers would ever want to associate with them ever again. 

Unfortunately for Victor, it was these Cro-Magnon men who had made him a legend in the virtual world.  Their posts about his exploits, skills, techniques, potential ways he cheated, all turned Victor’s various screen-names into lore.   Victor had grown tired of these noobs; unskilled unintelligent gamers, and no longer enjoyed sneaking up and knifing them, or getting a headshot with a close quarters weapon just for the sake of the complete disadvantage it gave him.  Like an NBA player playing with his right arm behind his back against a middle school baller, it still was really no contest.  So once Victor mastered the controls and options of whatever game he was playing, he preferred to play in only closed server, invitation only matches against the best players in the world. 

Today’s match against players in Central Europe would’ve been a good teaser for tomorrow’s matchup against the English clan playing COD: Mi5.  Because the game used British secret service as its inspiration, it inspired every bored Arsenal FC hooligan, every Ian Fleming fanboy, every Guy Richie want-to-be to spend every weekend mastering the game to again prove the superiority of the British Empire.  The best had screen names with a clan name of –Bond or -007 or –Jaws, even

-pssyglre.   The best player Victor had ever played had the name WayneRooney#MU, and even though his clan stunk, that guy played Victor head to head as hard as his soccer famed namesake played for the British National Team. 

The room stunk.  Even Victor was aware of it, even in his semi-sleep state. He needed to take a shower.  Mentally, he had found a way to phase out the high temperatures, the stagnant air, the slow decay of microwaved food, but his own stink was bearable for only so long.  It could be forgiven in the midst of a tournament or timed level.  Rarely would the arms rise above the relaxed state, holding the controller or keyboard or contraption in the reclined position.  His body, however, still found the room unlivable.  Its glands expelled what little protein rich water was available through the pores (for Victor was often dehydrated), which rapidly invited bacteria, who loved to feast on the briny solution in dark unpleasant areas.  Animals are attracted to this smell, and even some humans believe that their mate’s chemical smell, or pheromones may have played a distinctive part in their pairing up.  But Victor’s smell was the leading cause of the suicidal tendencies in his room; no animal or mate would ever find it appealing, yet bacteria thrived on it. 

Suicides, Scandals, and Sex: Can the Church Handle Real Issues?

Earlier this week, Rick Warren, one of the most influential Evangelical Christian leaders alive today, received the worst news possible: His son was dead. By his own hands.

As the news broke to his disbelieving followers, the internet message boards became filled with condolences and empathetic prayers. Nobody wins with suicide. It's the curse that keeps on stealing. To make the unthinkable worse, the theistic elitists and atheistic sewer dwellers creeped out of their hellholes to cast accusations and damnations towards the Warren family. Classy.

As if the war for souls is going to be won over the corpse of an imbalanced boy.

Why is it so hard for the world, those saved and those secular, to understand the humanity of a tragedy?  The death of a prominent Christian leader's son is not a victory for atheism, nor is it evidence that Warren was not walking the straight and narrow...his son simply lost a battle with himself.

What spiritual warfare feels like.  

There is no guarantee as a Christian that by giving your life over to a faith or a calling, that God will pave your roads in gold, and make your existence easy.  Growing up with a minister for a father, I can attest that the opposite is more likely to be true.  Only those who've ever invested a life in a ministry can tell you that for all the glory of God being seen, there is also a nasty flip-side called "spiritual warfare" that takes its toll on bodies, minds, marriages, finances, friendships, children, etc.  I'm sure Mr. Warren had experienced differing levels of spiritual conflict before this week.  I'm not sure anyone should have to endure what he's experiencing right now. I hope he takes a long break. I hope he screams at God.  I hope he wails, and seeks answers from God, and surrounds himself with loved ones who will not judge.

But what do I know? I've never experienced pain on that scale.  I have no idea what he needs physically or spiritually; but I know he doesn't need Monday morning quarterbacks questioning his motives or gleefully pronouncing his failure.

But that's one of the problems with churches and Christianity today: dealing with issues like suicide that were once easier swept under the rug.

The second of my Christian Outlet Bookstore
appropriate Historical Romances.  

I was on the phone this week with a prominent Christian publishing company, and the representative on the other side was praising the first chapter of my novel.  "This is exactly what the book market, not just Christian publishing, needs right now..." After twenty minutes on the phone I felt she was ready to bypass the normal protocols and offer me a contract right then and there.

But then we got into the nitty-gritty. She started telling me about their editorial standards. That there are certain "taboo" subjects that no matter the writing quality, the ultimate outcome, the message;  if certain words or certain "acts" are mentioned, they reject the project immediately (or demand heavy edits).

I mentioned that one of the characters in my novel has "relations" with his long time girlfriend...a decision that nearly destroys both characters and is essential to the plot.

"Oh...that changes everything; yeah, they probably...no, they wouldn't publish it. No pre-marital sex is allowed in our books."

Really?  I mean, I know the importance of purity and the sanctity of intimacy, but isn't premarital sex nearly as rampant between believers as it is with non-believers?  Isn't there divorce and infidelity and sexual dysfunction and sexual addiction and drug addiction and mental instability and suicide and immorality and a myriad of other "problems" happening to Christians, all the while churches are  turning a blind eye towards these issues?

Because "ignoring" reality; ignoring the fallenness of this world; ignoring human nature and sin, and pretending that everything is hunky dory is obviously working so well for church numbers and believer's souls in this day and age.

 So RIP Matthew Warren.  Hopefully you find the peace that you didn't find in this world.  And to Rick Warren: we don't need any statements. Grieve in peace, and don't feel the need to respond to critics.

One of these days, Christians, desperate to speak relevancy to a hurting world, will reject the mass marketing system of watered down Christianese, and start to say something REAL to the world again.

8 Writing Habit Problems That I Need to Address

Webster's Dictionary defines a habit as:  an acquired mode of behavior...NO. I'm not going to finish the definition, because as an educator, I'm sick of articles/essays/etc. that start with a bland intro and go south from there.

But just because the above writing problem is not my own, it doesn't mean that I am innocent of any other writing ails. No, I have plenty of bad habits, and I fall prey to them (8--to be exact) quite often. Although "I'm baby steppin', I'm doin' the work, I'm not a slacker!"  

8. Overusing commas. I love 'em. I don't like short sentences. I love to let my mind wander off into the insane depths of my subconscious, yet mindful not to lose my way, I often employ lots of commas to keep me company along the journey. I've read almost the entire Hemingway cannon, you'd think I'd learn to keep my sentences compact and strong (like his build), but instead, I end up Faulkner-izing my sentences. I just have to remind myself not to become Henry James (whom I consider almost unreadable for his long-winded, comma laden, complex sentences).

7. Contractions. No, I'm not pregnant (big boned, yes), rather, I believe in brevity. (But you just said you loved long complex sentences--that seems like a contradiction) {I'm talking about contractions right now, not contradictions, please keep up internal audience dissenter}. For those playing the Plumbeddown contraction drinking game, you should've had 11 drinks already. That's right. I haven't even written 400 words and now we're at 14 contractions, and they're getting closer together. This baby's coming whether you're ready or not. If this was a formal blog; if I was trying to impress a potential employer or fellow English teacher with my uppity prose, I would not attempt contractions. But until I get PAID for this blog, it will remain INFORMAL--just like how I prefer to dress--without a tie.

6. Style guide confusion. I started as a journalism major, which means I usually harken back to the the AP style guide. But I later decided to become a history major, which made me switch to the Chicago style. Then I became an English minor, so back to the high school MLA style, finishing with my masters in Education (which uses the APA). Needless to say, when citing, I've almost given up. Notice there is no citation for the What About Bob? quote from above. Some quotes are so familiar, like "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning," I feel they no longer need citation.

I will say, converting to internet HTML language is probably the toughest transition. I still hit the space bar twice after every sentence (computee no likee). And no indent for a new paragraph? It feels dirty.

5. Pauses and Interjections. When to use a hyphen, a semicolon (which some people won't touch), an ellipses, or parentheses always puts me in a quandary. I've learned the rules, and still get confused. Some of my grammatically superior friends probably feel a sense of pride when I use one wrong. I'm glad I have given them a purpose in life.

4. Passive Voice. I see it too.  I just used it in number 7 (still think it looks better the way I wrote it then switching to "I'm glad I gave them a purpose"). I had an English teacher basically scream it, "NEVER, EVER, EVER, USE PASSIVE VOICE." Well, Mr. Bumstead, I have to say, you were right. It usually looks and reads ugly. Yet there are times, I not only use it, I prefer it. Call me passively aggressive, or overly verbose, but I just have to use passive voice. 

3. Mixed Metaphors. Writing to your target audience is like lovemaking, it's better when both parties understand what's going on. I realize that was a simile, but I was metaphorically trying to say something deeper. Maybe I'm digging myself into a hole. I'm in too deep to start over now. Wait, those were idioms. What is this paragraph about again? I seem to have mixed my own metaphors up. I hope this paragraph was better for you than it was for me.

2. Starting sentences with AND or BUT.  If you want another good drinking game, go back and count how many sentences I start with either of these conjunctions. I know, even my teachers harped on this grammatical law in the 80s & 90s. But they didn't write (they drank: probably because of my writing). And I think and or but works more often than not. It's my party and I can conjunction however I want to.  Sometimes I feel like I get to these junctions in my writing, and I have to place the perfectly right functional conjunction.  (Wasn't that a weak way of linking a Schoolhouse Rock video?). Plus, there are only so many howevers, therefores, and moreovers, that a person can take unless they own a monocle and a tobacco pipe. Those Masterpiece Theatre people love moreovers.

1. Generic Singular Pronoun Misuse. Guilty, like capitol offense guilty. I hate adding "he or she" to the end of sentence when I don't know the gender. It's awkward and looks silly to me. I usually try to rewrite a sentence when confronted with this problem, but it's often unavoidable. Example: "Whoever is responsible for writing "Mr. Plumb is a fruit" on this desk, I want them to grab a bottle of cleaner and clean it right now!" Of course, "them" implies that there is more than one guilty party. I should've said him or her. Only, as a teacher, I know it's not a girl who wrote it. Well, 98% sure. Anyway, we need a new pronoun. Some have suggested "they." DUMB. I vote for my word: OMAN. Half man, half woman. Gender neutral. Plus, the country of Oman never comes up in daily conversation in the U.S., so it really isn't rivaling an existing word. Example: "If anyone wants extra credit, oman should refute Bobby who thinks I'll look like Mr. Prune in three years."

So, you've read my blogs. What else do I need to work on? Maybe using quotation marks around words that don't need them (like air quotes)? Should I invent a sarcasm font?

What are your writing hang-ups or pet peeves?  

Fluff Reading vs Hard Literature: Find a Balance

Too many concepts for me to understand this novel.  

Do you ever meet those people who read ALL THE TIME, and yet you've never heard of a single title they are reading? As if they've somehow tapped into the completely irrelevant book club, where every book is fluffy cupcake fun, and the most difficult theme in those books is having an overbearing aging parent or a bad case of inner thigh razor burn?

I call it the reality television of book reading.  Technically, yes, you are reading. But nothing that makes you think. It's purely escapism.

Great, fine. We all need escapism. We all need entertainment, and fun, and a feel good moment before we shut the side lamp off, and hit instantaneous sleep from the exhaustion of living in a constantly demanding world. Perhaps this fluff reading is actually good for us on some psychological level.

Even I get confused and have to reread
hard literature 

Yet, I can't help thinking, with all those great reading skills you've been perfecting; why not pick out a classic story every once in a while, and read it while also doing some online analysis of the themes/motifs /symbolism/etc. and see if it does something more for your brain.

Some people (not in education) seem to think that learning is done once you've graduated from whatever level of schooling you needed.  From then on, it's purely on-the-job experience that makes us more well-rounded. Need information?  There's a youtube video that will explain it all, or a wikipedia link that will give you all the answer you need.

Which is information, but it isn't thinking.  Wikipedia doesn't make you think.

A few days ago, I was talking to my science fiction class about string theory.  I realized while talking about it, I only understood the theory on the most basic level.  I decided to do some quick research before the next class.  So I googled it.  I read layers and layers of encyclopedic type information, and still had no better understanding of the complexity that is particle physics than if I made it up myself.  It was information, but not the kind that made me think. I put it on my to-read list: more quantum physics by non-professor types.

I realized I was missing Michael Crichton, one of the rare science fiction writers who wrote fluffy novels with hard facts in a way that the lay-person could understand it.  Jurassic Park did wonders to my understanding of DNA and genetic manipulation. While you could hardly call Crichton a master of the English language, he did research the heck out of whatever subject he was writing about, and present it back to the reader in easy to understand language, while also making the reader think about the morality or ethics of the science.  Sadly, he didn't get the credit he should've when he died, because he wrote a book called State of Fear, where he tried to debunk global warming, and the elitists turned on him.

And people are always turning on authors. "Oh, I don't read Twain because he uses racist language..." Really?  You missed his commentary and satire? "Oh, I hate Fitzgerald, because he glorifies rich beautiful people..." Look closer my friend, you're wrong. "Sherman Alexie's stories are only about Native Americans..." You couldn't find yourself in even one of his stories?

How many times did I watch parentless kids do the same thing
at Sears? Enough that I stopped caring when they got hurt. 

I think the reason we turn on so many "classic" authors, is because their works represent WORK. As in, it takes longer to read, has hard passages, and leaves a lot to the reader to conclude themselves. It makes us think. And thinking, used to make us better conversationalists. We could talk about issues in interesting ways, and cite literature or studies that backed our ideas and opinions, and now we post memes with 13 word captions to make our opinions for us.

And we say we read, but really we are reading pop culture porn. Fluffy words attached to worthless paper, that have no significance and don't represent reality.  The equivalent of saying, "I'm going to exercise today," and turning on the computer and making your SIM exercise instead.

I don't mean to be condescending. I read at least six or seven books a year with no intellectual merit, just as I sometimes watch Ax Men on TV. I need it to balance myself. Yet I also need a little McEwen or McCarthy or Steinbeck or Munro or Alexie, as well as Game of Thrones and Downton Abbey on television, to make me think on a deeper level a few times a week.

Read and then watch Life of Pi.  I'm still
thinking about all the layers of the story.  

Am I the only one who watches Pawn Stars and secretly hopes that Rick will finally tire of Chumlee's stupidity, and say something so profound and intellectually stimulating that Chumlee's brain will literally be blown, thus removing his character from the show, so that we can learn something about antiques once again?

What are you reading or watching (or even  writing about) that is making you think, question, or investigate?  I'd love to know.

Why Don't My Friends Support My Stuff?

Was that a vague enough title?  It was intentional, as I mean to say a few different things with this post. My good friend called me an a$$ today and hung up on me, and it hurt my feelings.  (I didn't even know I had feelings anymore).  Anyways, I was about ready to get defensive and yell all these nasty things I didn't mean, before I realized I was/am an a$$.

I think, metaphorically, that I've spewed venom on a few friends.
I should've done a "friendship," instead of a "fatality."  

You see, I was joking, or rather lampooning his place of business, a retail store.  Those of you who don't follow my blog, my last six entries have been about my eight years of retail experience...most of which left me with a sulfuric taste in my mouth.   I guess some of the brimstone of my past infected my words towards his place of work, and he got offended.  I've always tried to tell him, and others, that you are bigger than what you do for a living, but then I remembered how I sometimes feel:  That nobody gives a hoot in hell about what I'm trying to do either.

We, as Americans do a piss poor job of supporting each other.  Through break-ups, through crisis, through pain, even through triumphs, it's hard to get out there and throw unfettered support to our loved ones.  Because we are busy.  Because we are tired.  Because it's not our thing.  Because somebody else could do a better job helping them in that field.

It's exhausting coming home and raising a zebra and
watching Parks and Recreation.  I just don't have time
to check out your promotional things, as I don't have
a DVR or a good zebra trainer I can rely on! 

And those are all stupid excuses.  We all suck.  I'll start with myself.  Or rather how I've felt when I don't get that support.

I wonder why of all my close friends, it is only the fringe group, people I rarely interact with in real life, who are really supportive of my attempts at getting published?  I know a lot of other artists who feel the same way.  I have support of many people, don't get me wrong.  I'm grateful for the comments, the likes, the links, the positive words said on our rare encounters:  it keeps me motivated.  But I also wonder why some of the people I love the most haven't said anything?

1.  Do they not know how much I need their feedback?
2.  Do they honestly think I suck, (as I've thought a few times about other people's talents) and don't have the heart to tell me?
3.  If they think I'm good, do they think that eventually the talent scouts will find me, and so their efforts aren't important.  (again, I've felt this way about many talented people, who never got paid).
4.  Are they tired of my endless self-promotion, and want me to just be Chris, the guy they once knew who wasn't asking for favors?
5.  Are they just too busy trying to get by to actually try to help someone else out?
6.  Is my writing just not their thing?  (Why are so many intelligent men so abhorrent to reading?).

I can always fall back on my creepy "Shinning" face and
Angry Birds Star Wars career.  I am currently #1291,
better than 99.98% of the world.  That is rare talent, folks. 

These are just a few of my thoughts when I'm having a pity party.  I don't feel this way very often.  In fact, I hate the fact that I have to promote myself to people.  Audiences, though, don't just show up.  I wish they did.  I wish I knew the exact person to showcase my skills in front of to get it noticed so that I didn't have to constantly berate my friends with announcements that I'm still trying to climb the ladder.  I'm sure it's annoying.  In fact, I know it's annoying, because it was once bothersome to me, when other people have asked me to support their thing.

I have the blessing/curse of knowing a number of enormously talented people.  My family alone could write/sing/act/direct/play/paint-construct the set of a Broadway worthy play or start an arts oriented school. You might think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. They're all that good.  Between my sisters, mother, father, brother (and bros-in-laws) and wife are thousands of awards for talents and gifts.

And I've done a horrible job supporting them in theirs.  Sure, I attended a concert or two.  Yet I balked at the full price of a CD, or commissioned a painting at "family prices."  I didn't have time to attend the huge orchestral symphony that my brother-in-law wrote and directed at the University of Oregon for his graduation ceremony.  How many people get that opportunity?  And my sisters are so good at singing and playing instruments, but instead of praising them endlessly, I've said things like, "well it's good, but I'm kind of tired of ukuleles and female vocalists."  I'm serious.  What kind of a jerk says things like this? A guy who thought numbers 1-6 from above.  I thought that my family and/or friends were so good at their thing that they didn't need the support of another audience member.

Susan Boyle: A rare talent over looks winner.  

But that's exactly what they needed.  Numbers.  We all need numbers.  We all need people who will jump on our bandwagons and support us until we get noticed or get fired or exhausted or humiliated or totally beat.  And if that happens, we need to be there to say uplifting things, instead of the lampooning or saying overly critical crap I learned to do in college towards anything art-worthy.  Why have we allowed no talent face-models to get all the glory in this world, when our neighbor or brother or classmate is immensely more skilled or worthy?  Simple:  they (the beautiful people) have numbers and the person you know doesn't.  Their numbers are better audience members, and throw their money unquestioning at stupid merchandise, while you sit back and say, "yeah, but this still needs a little more refining...maybe in a few years when it's all polished up, I'll buy a CD, or book, or artwork, or use your services, etc."

I'd rather have no audience than that background guy as
a fan.  I hope he doesn't represent how I've been as a
supporter of other's works.  

So before you start being an A$$ towards someone, like I have been guilty of too many times to remember, maybe we all should sit back and think, "if I was in their shoes, what would they want their friends to say or do." It would probably be, "can you just be supportive; life's hard enough without you guys mocking my life choices."

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Before you accuse me of trying to milk guilt- ridden complements, please know that this was not the intention of this piece.  I'm a big boy.  I'm wrong often. I might be deluding myself with how good I think I am. I'd rather hear that critique, then keep attempting to do something I'm only kind of good at.  We all need a little Simon Cowell criticism at times.  Some of us, though, like myself, need to act a little more like Paula Abdul (without the drunkenness), and start really saying and doing nice things for other people.  Even if their thing, isn't my thing, they still need my support.

Quit Supersizing Our Stories and Characters: A Plea For Normalcy

"Oh, I could totally turn this character into
 a 2000 page trilogy," -Nerds everywhere.

The American story, whether it is a movie, a book, a play, or a television series is nearing the point of irrelevancy.  It's almost as if the people growing up playing Magic the Gathering and Pokemon cards have become the storytellers of this era.  And I don't know if that's more an indictment on us as an audience, or the state of writing, but I'm getting tired of it.

It's always supernatural plots, and alien abductions, and vampire love interests, and sadomastic sex scenes, and pagan rituals, and mind-blowing plot twists.  It's all a little extreme.  Our national pastime used to be baseball. If that wasn't violent enough, one could always go to a boxing match.   But now, we like extreme outdoor sports and ultimate warrior fights where broken bones and blood are as common as swearing in the stands.  It's not just that we as a nation are growing more diverse, that's obvious, it's that we are growing in extremes as to what is entertaining.

Leo DiCaprio as Gatsby and Tobey Maguire
as Nick?  Not this time Hollywood.  

And that is sad for the story.  The Great Gatsby, one of my all time favorite novels, is getting ready for its 5th rendition in front of a cinema audience, and I can already say, even though it will probably win an Oscar or two, is that it will be a commercial failure.  Why?  Because it's too normal.  If you think about the plot: a poor guy goes off to war, comes home and realizes his girl is married to an ultra rich guy, goes out and gets himself filthy rich, impresses people until girl finally notices him, steals girl away, a tragedy happens, followed by misdirected vengeance...it isn't a simple plot.  But it has the allusion of normal.  And Americans are not fans of normal.

We want our characters super-sized.  We want them to have special powers, or gifts and talents so beyond what is normal, that we would call them exceptional.  We want them to be overly heroic, and patriotic, and selfless, and good looking, and freakishly strange in a delightful manner. We want our heroes to act cool like James Bond, be quirky like Fox Maulder, look like Channing Tatum, and be as unconsciously dangerous as Jason Bourne.  In short, we want everything about our heroes to be unbelievable. We want these heroes to face innumerable forces of horrible evil.  We want that evil to be slightly likable, but so appalling that it must be exterminated.  Again, unbelievable.

Of the top 30 grossing movies last year, only one could be considered a normal plot;  The Help.  Some might consider The Hangover 2, or Bridesmaids, or Just Go With It, as normal plots, but I would argue those are all farcical caricatures of idealized scenarios. Basically, those are daydreamed fantasies of unhappy people.  And Adam Sandler is so past normalcy, both in plot points and acting acumen, that his movies now irritate me.  It was cute and funny when you were twenty, Adam, but reenacting Billy Madison into every movie as a mid-forty-year-old is possibly a form of mental illness.

Of the other 26 movies, we have five superhero stories, another two have vampires, two have aliens, Harry Potter the child wizard, a drunken mystical pirate, ghosts, Tom Cruise as a super spy, and in illustrated form, a talking: cat, bird, Smurf, car, panda, chipmunk, and whatever Rango was supposed to be.  This is our entertainment.

Somebody green lit this
movie?  Are we as
audiences, this dumb?  

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with bizarre and fantastical.  Heck, I grew up on Disney movies. I love the magic of imagination, and talking animals. But when is it too much. What about reality?

Are we so sick of reality, that we have to watch bizarre versions of it on television, and hope it doesn't rear its ugly head in a book or film?  Are we unable to look at characters that resemble our own family and friends and think about plots that could actually happen and how we would respond?  Is the role of entertainment only to get us outside our own existence and forget about our miserable experiences?  No.  Shouldn't art imitate life?  I love Batman, but I will never don a pointed hat and seek out criminals in the streets.  Is he a damaged human being, like we all are?  Of course.  But can any of us who have lost a parent due to an act of violence, like Bruce Wayne did, go out and become a vigilante?  Of course not.

#38 for gross revenue in 2011 was this
gem.  Real, interesting characters,
dealing with real life issues.  Of course,
it was a novel before it was a movie.  

So I'm wondering what we are learning by all these fantastical stories and horrific plots?  That we still fear scary things, like in Paranormal Activity 14?  When students ask what my book is about, I always lie and say it's called "Normal Activity."  It just follows a guy around as he goes to work for two weeks and nothing happens.  I don't know why I tell them this story, probably because I have some unconscious motive to stymie any excitement around my unpublished book, or because it's hard to tell them the real plot.  That it's partially autobiographical.  That it covers three years of my life and experiences, and how real, but sad events, nearly destroyed me as a person, and did destroy the life of someone I cared about deeply back then.  Real life stuff.  Stuff we don't like talking about.  Stuff that brings up emotions, and is identifiable, and hard to deal with.  Real life is hard to deal with, and yet there is no examples of people acting rationally or irrationally to learn from in entertainment form.  Which is why it's hard to open up to a student and be real, when I'm supposed to be this bastion of professionalism. Additionally, I don't want them to say, "it sounds boring, aren't there any paraplegic satyrs or naked warlocks or bloodthirsty fairy unicorns in it?"  NO! No there's not!  Believe it or not, some stories are about real people responding to real situations in the midst of difficult circumstances, and those decisions define who we are, and where we're going!

And it's hard to jot down in a three paragraph query letter in a way that will blow an agent or publisher away.  I'm not a writing virgin: I know about hooks, teases, and wetting the appetite of a reader.  But when you have less than a page to interest a potential buyer, and you say your book is about real characters who respond to ugly situations that define who they are, about the rise and fall of humanity through humor, emotions, and basic spirituality, well, I can see why they reject it.  Yes, it captures the reality of life, in all its glorious and sickening moments, but is that something we want to read about?  A few agents have said they love the writing and the storytelling, but how do you market the "normalcy of real life?"  It would be a tough sell, they say.  Maybe I should just add a zombie-alien and an amish-pilgrim-ghost to get it exciting.  But this is not how I want to sell out.

Sad.  Sad that we have no market for real characters and normal plots.  Sad that today's youth will not see versions of itself and reality recreated on screen or in novels to learn from.  Sad that our heroes wear masks and seduce women in droves and have arsenals of weapons, but little to no actual character.   Sad that characters like Jay Gatsby, or Scout Finch, or Bob Newhart, or anyone from Little House on the Praire, would be classified as too safe and boring for audiences today.

Maybe I'm just weird.  Maybe the fact that I connect to characters like George from Of Mice and Men, or Jayne Eyre, or Fraiser Crane on television, characters who for lack of better terms, are fairly basic, is a sign that I'm too normal and boring.  But I think there is real depth in their normalcy, a depth that readers and viewers connect to.  And maybe as readers, viewers, and appreciators of art, we need to refocus on what a real character is, and get away from this fantastical fairy-topia of imagination and realize that real heroes look like you and me, they just happen to make the right decisions at the most difficult times. I think that's something we all can strive for and achieve, and something we can all respect in a character in a book or on TV.

(Book Excerpt) If You Could Change One Day From Your Past...

You liked it.  Even with
Jim Belushi, right?

Similar to James Belushi, I too, have a baseball memory that I would like to redo.  I took a five pitch walk in the ninth inning in a deciding Little League game for first place.  Both batters after me struck out (which they commonly did).  I feel responsible for not even attempting a swing.  Like Mr. Destiny, I felt I could've changed fate with one wave of the bat.  Instead we got third place, my only lifetime trophy.

But this failed opportunity dwarfs in comparison to the one situation that I was an active participant in that haunts me to this day.   A day I failed at being a human.

The following is an excerpt from my first novel; and a true story (except that in real life inanimate objects don't speak out loud).  This story takes place in the fourth chapter, but the only pertinent background information for this mini-story is that I was out for an early morning jog. (Yes I can run, even with my weight issues).
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Okay, maybe not this worn out.  

Turning the corner onto a narrow side street my ankle went left as my body went right, compliments of a morning shower’s residue on the mossy street lane.  I careened to the ground, more bruised by my own stupidity than by the impact of gravel into my palm.  I re-laced my worn $35.00 Nikes and hinged my ankle up and down to see if it was sprained.  It was fine. 

“You fat slobbering idiot,” the road roared in laughter.  “Look around, your neighbors just saw you for what you are, an uncoordinated unworthy lout.”  

Just another day in Mr. Wood's Art class.  

I looked around.  A few young grade-schoolers looked at me from a fenced gate, more concerned with my well-being than with adding insults to my injury.  “When does it hit us then,” I thought, “is it third grade or fifth or seventh that we crumble to the societal demands of cruelty.”  

My own moral degradation hit a low point in eighth grade.  We were in art class; the teacher Mr. Wood wasn’t the brightest of fellows, and his dog and father had both passed away that year—details our class reminded him of, cruelly, unsympathetically, almost daily.  Our class was unrelenting in its inventive mischievousness.  We punctured all the oil painting pints with a compass point, letting them bleed rainbow colors on the floor below.  We broke other classes clay sculptures after they cured in the kiln, leaving only fragmented mugs and armless figurines and ashtrays that wouldn’t hold ash (why did they teach us how to make ash trays anyway?).

In this devilish class was a very annoying girl, a “well-actually” girl.  The kind that would raise their hand and say, “well actually, Mr. Wood, the correct way to hold your watercolor brush is technically…”  She would butt in on conversations, was way too book smart for her own good, and she had the misfortune of sitting next to a group of  my impish friends.  We developed a mutual      

Oh, I'm sorry, the correct punctuation is "Well Actually"
not "Well Alex-tually," like you vindictively said.  That's
going to cost you $1000 and a spot in Final Jeopardy.

hatred of her dissimilitude, and stooping to a brief moment of pure unadulterated cruelty,  someone created a secret classroom club devoted to her mockery.  I designed a patch.  It was called the 4F-Club.  As for what it meant, it was merely a sophomoric acronym, each of the four ‘F's were descriptive adjectives of her persona.  One stood for “fat,” one for “four-eyed,” one was a harsh expletive, and one was a slang term for sexual preference (even though I didn’t know then what that word meant).  In fact we knew nothing about her.  I don’t even remember her actual name.  I cringe when I think of our callousness (understand that this was truly group mentality, and in middle school, group mentality is to cling to the lowest common denominator). 

One day, this poor pathetic girl, this girl who never did anything wrong but not learn social conformity skills early enough, saw me creating another patch.  At this point maybe 13 kids in the class were wearing the badges of dishonor.  I felt apart of something when another classmate I barely knew would ask me to craft them a new patch.  Like I was some grand scoutmaster. 

She looked me straight in the eye, and asked, “What are these badges, and why is everybody wearing them?” 

I looked up, instantly my quick wits were coming up with some stupid anecdote, some harmless lie as to not face this confrontation, but another student named Joey simply peered right back at her and deadpanned, “It’s a club devoted to you, or rather the hatred of you.  It stands for the ‘fat, four-eyed…”  I was astonished at Joey’s sadistic honesty; and I was dumbfounded. After an awkward moment I 

Even hipsters can't make these glasses look good.  

caught her soul staring back at me through 1/8” thick cheap lenses: there was no distortion through the convex glass.  We killed her.  I saw her die right there in front of me.  She looked at me, and said without saying, “I…I…I can’t believe you would do this…I can’t believe you would spend so much time…to make a fool of me.”  Then without saying a word, and before the beginning of what must have been hours of tears in the bathroom, she turned and walked out of the classroom. 

I wonder how long she looked at me.  Was it 5 seconds, a tenth of a second; was it a single frame of film in a movie?  I don’t know, but it is ironed on my retina.  I killed her.  I was a part of her death.  Maybe she got over it that day, maybe later that year, or maybe never.  All I know is that look.  The look of someone who just lost everything.  Job must have had this look after Satan took everything.  Maybe parents of kidnapped children.  Perhaps only one in a million people might experience this emotion, and I caused it.  I probably put this girl through years of therapy, and I can’t even remember her fricken name.  I wanted to apologize to her.  I wanted to go cry with her.  I wanted to shred up my patches; I wanted God to smite me.  But I just stood there while Joey laughed.  I don’t think I moved the rest of the period.  She didn’t return to school for a few days.  When she did, she was sullen and robotic.  She looked drugged, and unhuman.  I tried to go up to her, to say sorry, or something, but how does one approach someone they emotionally raped?  How do I apologize for slapping her soul?  I didn’t have words strong enough to break through the walls she had already constructed.  

Bullies are rarely this recognizable.  It's often words
much stronger than "Ha Ha" that truly damage souls.  

The fall of man is often portrayed through moral excess, debauchery like a Roman orgy, but all one must do is spend a day in a middle school (public or private, religious or secular) and watch the true results of original sin.  That is the one event I want over in life.  For years I prayed for forgiveness for me, and later when I truly understood empathy, I cried and prayed for her.  Prayed for healing for her.  Prayed she could move on.  I didn’t need forgiveness; I needed to know she was okay.  But shortly thereafter we moved to a different state.  This was in 1993, the internet was still in diapers, and even if I wanted to know her name, I wouldn’t be able to find it.  I forgot my friends and enemies at old schools, but I don’t forget her face.  I don’t know her name, but I know her face, and I watched her die.  God, I hope she is still alive. 

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Comment below about how you were bullied--or a time when you failed to step up to somebody being treated unfairly.  Or let me know what you think of my book excerpt (the book isn't all this heavy, just this little part).   Or you can get all high and mighty, and share how you stood up to bullying and are considered a hero to a select group of people.