Getting Old

I am now officially old. I attended my ten year high school reunion (well, technically it wasn’t mine… I was part of the class from Kindergarten through 11^th grade but graduated elsewhere) this past weekend. We took a tour of the old school grounds which had been dramatically updated, we all commented on how cute each others' kids were while secretly knowing that mine was the cutest, and we played – badly – a four inning game of softball. I spent the next day feeling like someone had stabbed me in the shoulder with a Barbie Doll foot (those things are sharp!) and cried myself to sleep after downing a bottle of tasty Percocet.

     I also helped a student navigate the waters of admission to the university at which I work last week (that sentence was overly wordy, but I didn’t want to say “my university”). Now, helping students get admitted happens all the time, but this particular student happened to be the little sister of one of my old classmates and I remember when she was born… cause I was in middle school! Talk about feeling old! Granted, I’m still more than a year away from thirty… but only by two months. When I wander the toy aisle at Target, I don’t recognize half of the cartoons the toys are based on and the ones I do recognize are making their comebacks because they’re so old that people like them again. Worst of all, I’m pretty sure my back hair is starting to gray.

     I did get to see a few of my former teachers and administrators over the last few days. One thing that I was reminded of was that there are plenty of people older than me. And a lot of those older people are pretty awesome. In fact, I’m entering the stage of life that they were in when they had such a huge impact in mine. Growing up, most all of my teachers were in their thirties and forties. They had families and bad backs and mortgages. They were falling victim to thinning hair, early signs of wrinkles, and bowel irregularity. But did they let that stop them from rocking some lectures on volcanoes or throwing out some wicked-sweet cursive homework or telling me to sit down and be quiet because nobody cares what a pterodactyl sounds like when it’s in heat? Heck no! They were classroom demi-gods! They didn’t let any of that “getting old” crap stop them, and neither will I. That graying back hair is really just a sign that I’m a silverback, and silverbacks will mess you up… with knowledge!

     What does any of this have to do with writing? Well, very little other than the fact that this weekend really made me think about that page at the beginning of every good book where the author acknowledges the fact that there are cooler people out there than him/her. I guess I’m going to have to write a lot of books in order to thank all the people that made a difference in my life. Or maybe I should just include a complete list via an Excel file with each digital copy… that’s probably more efficient.

A Day Late, An Artist Short

Sorry today’s post is a day late. I didn’t get back into town until Sunday evening after spending the weekend at the Dallas Comic Convention in Las Colinas. I had a good time, spent less money that I took with me (which is an amazing feat for me), and got some really great sketches and commissions from local artists (I’ll post them later this week). I came back completely exhausted and had to drag myself to work yesterday morning, and it wasn’t until about 10 am that I realized I was still holding a dirty diaper in my left hand and my deodorant stick in my right (which probably explained why half of me smelled like poo all day).

     I had been waiting to attend this con for months, and now that I’m back, I find that I’m still waiting. I went into the weekend hoping to make connections with an artist or two, begin haggling on a contract, and set in motion what would be the beginning of the final steps for producing my strategy board game. The game has been “ready” to move forward for a few months now, but there’s not a whole lot I can do with it without art… specifically art for the 150 cards used in the game. The board design I can handle, but my two years of art school grant me little more ability than that. And I have to say… it’s completely frustrating. I am not an artist. Every now and again I like to paint or do a bit of sketching, but it’s completely amateur stuff. Basically, I could paint you a dragon and a passerby might stop and say that they love the color and the brush strokes, but they’ll think it’s a chair or a flying monkey or Ted Nugent.

     This weekend I was supposed to meet with a couple of locals, but that apparently fell through. They’ve asked when I’ll be in town next, but it’s not a trip I’m able to make all that often. I also found it really difficult to push myself on the artists that we at the con. Most of them were incredibly busy with waitlists for sketches and upcoming projects, and the others – while great – didn’t have styles that meshed well with my world. I still plan on following up with a few of them, but who knows what will come of it.

     At this point, I think my only option might be kickstarter.com. You see, artists cost money. My “real” job in higher education doesn’t pay in money, though… it pays in happy feelings of helping other people achieve their dreams of making money. While those happy feelings are great, “they don’t put art on the card,” as my third cousin used to say (he still says it sometimes). This is certainly one of those moments when I have to decide if something is worth pushing for, and if so, push as hard as I can. So if you see me stuck beneath a pile of rubble born of broken dreams, feel free to lend a hand or a rudimentary lever of some sort.

Meet the Maewen

I am finding out that my 10 month-old daughter is very much like me. She loves sleeping, playing, and eating. She thinks really childish stuff is hilarious. She screams and cries a lot. And you can always tell when she's pooping because she makes the same face every time (eyes glaze over staring at some far off point, mouth slightly agape, neck muscles tensed, holds her breath... all just like her daddy). But all that stuff could be attributed to just about any baby. How I know my girl is like me is that she needs alone time. She likes to have some time to cool down at the end of the day; just laying in bed, not actually sleeping. If you try to interrupt her private moments, she'll smile and humor you, but will quickly roll away and pretend to sleep until you leave.

     Now, I love to hang out with my wife. We just finished re-watching all of Firefly last week and I've been making her sit through my favorite anime, Love Hina, this week. We love playing board games and we even tackled the awesome headache that is Epic Mickey together. But sometimes I just need to sit and let things percolate. I need to let my mind turn to mush as I play Heroes V or Age of Empires II. I need to let my day catch up with me so that I can sort everything out. This is especially true for me when I'm writing. I don't do too well with other people in the room when I'm writing. To a lesser extent, this is even true when I'm editing. I've tried grabbing my red pen and marking up a manuscript while I sit in bed and my wife reads a book next to me, but we invariably end up chatting about our days or about our daughter and our future or about how much we're looking forward to going back to Disney World.  Whatever it is, I just can't seem to get anything done unless I isolate myself. I've heard it said that writers do not make good spouses because they require so much undistracted time alone. I can't speak for everyone, but I know that for me it comes a large part from the fact that I am an introvert. I enjoy aloneness and the freedom to delve into the spongy corridors of my own mind.

     There are creatures there that I don't think most people would care to know about. I have no delusions that I hold within me a tarrasque, but there are at least one or two furry little creatures that I call maewen. They have big, googily eyes, short, caramel-colored fur, and tiny hands a feet. They're barely six inches tall, but their tail is nearly two feet long and ends in a fluffy little puff. It takes a lot of patience, quiet, and an awful lot of staring at nothing so that they don't think I'm staring at them, but when one ventures close I give it twizzlers and it gives me ideas for stories and we both leave better for the encounter. I've tried to get the maewen to leave their lairs in the presence of others, but they are far to skittish. A simple flash of light, a bit of music, or a ill-timed belch and they're gone, taking my ideas with them never to be seen again.

Breakfast Villainy

It's been hot today. Way too hot for the beginning of May. I think I've been watching the fan blades try to hypnotize me for the past hour. My mind is too strong though, they haven't lulled me to sleep yet. While I'm sitting here in this dark room with the blinds closed tight, I can't help but think about the Soggies. Do you remember those guys? Once upon a time, they were the arch-enemies of Cap'n Crunch. I'd rather not discuss their appearance too much, because, well, you've got Google images. Here's the thing though: they were evil. Pure, eat-your-puppy-while-they-defecate-on-your-pillow evil. Their whole reason for living was to eff up your cereal. Now, historians won't tell you this, but I'm pretty sure they're the reason I have to horse down my Fruity Pebbles before they turn to gooey little mooshes. I also have compelling evidence that they killed and subsequently replaced Martha Stewart prior to her prison days.

     Cap'n Crunch, too me, will always be defined by the Soggies. He stood up to them when lesser Cereal Guardians were too busy getting kids to chase them into dark forests for their "magic" or teaching children not to share with their best friends until you absolutely have to or stealing "tricks" off of minors. Heck, even Andre the Giant was too busy hanging out in a tree house to do anything about the Soggies. Nowadays, the Cap'n spends most of his time just makin' "it" happin', whatever it is. But he will always have my respect. He obviously won the war, because his cereal stays tooth-crackingly crunchy even if my wife makes me take out the trash in the middle of enjoying a bowl.

     Would I care about the Cap'n if it weren't for the evil of the Soggies? Probably not. Villains are important. Maybe even more important than heroes in some ways. Often, characters are defined by what they stand against. I'm finding this to be especially true for fantasy writing. The more I develop and flesh-out my antagonist, the stronger (though not necessarily more powerful) my protagonist must become. It was something I think I was desperately lacking before my latest re-write. As the evil grows, so grows the opposition. I find that the more I know my villain, the more I know the desperation/drive/desire/hope the compels and propels my other characters.

Here's Your Typewriter and Your Quantum Bands

I often try to figure out if I might have super powers. Sometimes I'll stand really still and focus a great deal of energy into the palm of my hand, hoping for some sort of flash. Occasionally I'll try to lift something that I know I shouldn't humanly be able to lift. And every once and a while I'll attempt to melt someone's brain with my mind. I have learned the hard way that this is not something I should readily admit to people. They think it's weird.

     But seriously, how else am I supposed to know when my latent powers kick in? Am I just supposed to sit here and wait and risk A) never realizing that I have powers, or B) my powers going off in an uncontrolled environment and setting an orphanage on fire? Pssh... Screw that. I'll take an occasional odd look from a passerby as I try to crush a passing vehicle into a tiny cube with an outstretched hand if it means I learn about my powers on my terms.

     I think admitting to people that you're a writer is often greeted in the same manner. When most of my friends or family ask me about my writing it's so they have an excuse to do a Stewie Griffin impersonation in an increasingly high-pitched voice while they ask me about my novel. People just don't buy it. Unless you can actually show them your super-suit and produce purple, telekinetic knives, they're not going to believe you are the spirit of a British mutant in the body of a Japanese assassin. In fact, they'll probably think you're a crazy person. And maybe they're right. Being a writer is a little bit crazy. It's definitely not normal. Most writers are so ashamed of what they dream of doing that they have to use fancier words like Author, or Novelist, or Wordsmith, or Sentence-Architect, or Page-Humper. Okay, maybe people don't actually call themselves a Sentence-Architect, but you get my point. It creates this massive gap between deciding "This is what I'm going to do with my life" and "Yeah, that's my book over there... oh yeah, and that children's book too, and those four in the adult section."

     Wouldn't it be such a wonderful world if everyone who wanted to do something could drop their day jobs and pursue their dreams starting right now? Unfortunately, deciding what you want to do with your life doesn't mean you'll have bread on the table... or on the floor... or anywhere else for that matter. It usually means you have to shoulder twice the work because that dream is worth working twice as hard for. I guess I just need to buckle down and get it done because I am a writer, and it's about time I put up or shut up.