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.

Facial Hair Epiphany

So, I shaved my beard this morning. It was something long coming as chewing on my own scraggle had become an unconscious pastime of mine. You know those extra long hairs at the side of the mouth? They're just nice to gnaw on now and again... but no longer. No more will I see whiskery goodness when I jut out my chin. Instead, if I'm lucky, I can see my bottom lip and often my tongue. But neither of them are well known for their hairy goodness.

     I must say that I already miss it. I feel like a kid without it, and - sure enough - several people have commented on how much younger I look. Normally this would be a swell thing as I am nearing the ripe age of thirty, but the age they usually place me at sans-scruff is closer to twelve. It's like stepping back in time. Were it not for the extra thirty pounds hanging from my bones, a picture taken today might be confused for one taken in high school... except that my t-shirts were much bigger back then and were usually tucked in to highwater jeans. Even so, I can't help but feel that my razor has given me some control over the ravages of time. Perhaps even the ability to command it entirely.

     If, in fact, this is the case, I may actually find all the time I need to accomplish my dreams instead of having to prioritize them. My novel is currently in its third revision, and I'm really starting to feel good about the direction it's heading. However, I just started work on a new independent film script, pitched it to my writing group this weekend, and we've given it the green light to produce this summer. Now, I've failed miserably at independent film production before. And this time might be even harder as I plan to keep it as second fiddle to the completion of my manuscript. But now I have something I didn't have before: a magic razor. With it, I will be able to shave away great swatches of time from... oh, I don't know... when I would normally sit and stare at my blog just in case somebody comments, or all those showers I take - do I really need to wash below my knees? It takes longer and I almost fall every time and no one ever smells down there anyway unless I'm kicking them in the face and who cares what that smells like - or I could just stop snacking as much. Have you ever noticed how hard it is to write and have a good snack at the same time? Crappy snacks, sure... I'll just steal a quick nibblet every now and again and keep working. But something good, like popcorn or those Mickey Mouse head ice cream bars from Disney World, always get your hands dirty so you can't really type until you're done.

     When next you see me, I may be completely bald and have completed five novels and a non-fiction cryptozoological study on the mating habits of elves. Not the Tolkien kind, the Keebler kind. I have a hunch they go at it like bunnies. That's why you never see the girls. They're always holed up somewhere pregnant while the youngins bring them cheeseburgers and pickles and astronaut ice cream to appease their pregnancy appetites.