The Blotter Blog

If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. - Barry Lopez, "Crow and Weasel"

2010-05-03T10:30:00.000-07:00

I have a story to tell you.

When I was six years old, I asked for a typewriter for my birthday.

It was actually a word processor, but before the times of Windows 97 and netbooks it was the best thing since a pen and paper, and it even had a little screen and a tiny harddrive where it would save your files for a short period of time.

I remember walking in the living room one day and commanding my mother to write out as I dictated my current story idea to her. And that story was a Star Trek: The Next Generation fan-fiction. Mind, it was surely terrible, but I loved nothing more than sitting with my mother, chattering about a show we had in common and adored, as I pulled out the freshly printed pages and penciled in illustrations that helped bring that story to life. My story.

Storytelling is instinctual, and it runs deep to the core of being human, and it's a constant that has adjusted itself to our very basic evolution. If anything, it has actively effected our evolution. Between writing epic tomes that strike deep at the very nature of our existence or simply recounting that funny thing your cousin did when she was drunk at last year's family reunion, there is not a single person in a single country in a single village over the length of this vast world who has not, in one way or another, told a story.

Yet, in the time of big-name publishing houses and multi-million dollar book sales and vicious battles over the nature of copyright, this simple aspect of human existence has instead evolved into something that must be owned. It must be marked, it must be labeled, it must be sold and it must be made completely known that this precious book is one in a million, and it must be placed on a pedestal above all other stories because it is just that special.

That being said, let's get back to fanfiction.

As someone who was (obviously) writing fanfiction before I could even understand what copyright law was, it's difficult for me to grasp the absolute abhorrence many writers have for this phenomena. We write our books, we put them on the market, we say to people, "Come with me; I have a story to tell you, I have a world to show you. Let me take you on an adventure, and let me make you laugh, cry, love and hate every moment of it. Let me into your heart and soul and we can share this moment, just you and I."

And people do. They buy books; they laugh, they cry, they beg for more when the story has ended to soon. And then some of them take what they have in their hearts and begin to tell their own stories. Whether or not they do it well is irrelevant, because what matters is that they loved it. "Speak not of a man who loved wisely," Shakespeare once wrote, "but too well."

Is fanfiction wise? Probably not. From my experience, it's one heck of time waster. But some would say the same about facebook, and twitter, and a million other things humans in the modern age do to bide away their time. But it is something, ultimately, that is born from love. Once you have drawn someone so deeply into an experience as writers hope to draw our readers, we then expect them to never imagine experiences of their own. And as writers, who are we to say in what manner they wish to experience these stories, when we, ourselves, draw from our own experiences and from other stories to make what we then sell?

Don't get me wrong - there is a fine line between fanfiction as a hobby and those who plagiarize, and common sense generally dictates to the hundreds upon hundreds of fans that what they are doing is for fun, not profit. But see, us writers are lucky. We get to do what we love, and we get to do it every day. And then we forget that there are those out there who don't - people who get up every morning to go work somewhere they hate with people they can't stand, because they need to pay the bills. And when they come home, they want to escape into a world that they love, even if it's not one they've necessarily created. And they've chosen our worlds to escape to.

Why is that so offensive to writers, when it should be an honour?

One day, I would love to visit Paris. And one day I will take a picture of the Eiffel Tower, and I have no intention of asking the man who built it if I can do so. And then I will show people that picture, and the story I will tell will be about my experience. It will be my adventure, even if I wasn't the one who created the world and the centerpiece in which it takes place.

At the heart of it all, isn't that all fanfiction is? Good or bad, deep or shallow, it is nothing but a photograph of the reader's experience. And I have seen photographs that are much more haunting than the subject of it alone would be, and I am glad whomever created the subject did not take the time to moan about copyright.

But I think, most of all, what people have forgotten is what I remember from being that six year-old writing a Star Trek story; adults are just kids all grown up. And we love to play. We love to pretend. We love to wrap ourselves into a world not of our making because, let's face it, sometimes this world really doesn't cut it. And if your story is special enough to enchant the child-soul of its readers to the point that they want to live in it a little while, then you have succeeded in your goal. Don't worry about them doing it right or doing it justice, because they know it's still your story. They just want the chance to experience it with you; they want the fleeting moment of calling a tiny aspect of your story their own. They want to feel that they were, however artificially or however small, a part of it.

I have a story to tell you. And when I'm done, I want you to know a little part of that story will always belong to you, too.

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler."

2010-03-08T21:47:00.000-08:00

This previous summer I found myself begrudgingly laid up in bed, with something slightly worse than the flu but not quite as bad as the plague, for almost a week. During that time, I realized the shallow merits of sitting alone, in my room, stuffing my face with an endless amount of chicken soup and watching what was likely to the cheesiest, culty-ist, most dangerously delightful television series about vampires that my best friend could dredge up in her impressive DVD collection.

Between sporadic and seemingly endless visits to urgent care, I allowed myself to reflect on the strange reaction my psyche had to such a television show. I was enraptured in season 2, disc 4, an overflowing trashcan of tissues on one side of the bed and a cooling pot of ginger tea on the other, when I began to wonder why I could never be lucky enough to bag a dangerous and sultry blood-sucker-turned-hero and find the true love to end all loves. I got to the point when I could no longer rid myself of the gaze of those sinister-yet-somehow-plagued-with-eternal-innocence eyes of my television hero, and I eased my aching spirit by stuffing my face with more freeze-dried soggy noodles.

With every bite came the sinking sensation that, once I'd shaken the virus, there was a good chance those size-10 skinny jeans I bought at Ross to wear to that Sci-Fi convention I recently returned from were, probably, never going to fit quite right again. Of course, with that came the reminder that even at the Sci-Fi convention, and even in size-10 skinny jeans, I wasn't able to land even the tiniest make-out session with one of the desperate engineers who, instead, spent the evening salivating over my best friend. My best friend, who (while having tremendously good taste in television entertainment) is somehow always prettier, smarter, skinnier, and all around more approachable that I can ever be, especially when I'm stuck in bed coughing out what's left of my internal organs in between sobs over the adventures of the equally skinnier and more good-looking starlet on the television show. The girl who managed to not only bag herself a good-looking vampire but who, most certainly, never even gets the flu.

Just before I resolved myself to a slobbering mess of mucus, it occurred to me exactly why I find such television adventures to be so rewarding. The shallow merits of television lie in precisely what life cannot offer very few; the endless adventure that constant danger offers, the sweet torment that forbidden love elicits. In reality, there is little appeal to me in the constant onslaught of adventure and certain death – I get all I need from that driving in car. Not to mention, who would really want to date a vampire? Cross out those afternoon picnics in the park, and never mind that morning when you find a strand a grey hair and realize time will never be quite as kind to you as it offers to be to an immortal. At the end of the day, when the shadows set in and the television goes off, it's nice to have shared an adventure with someone I will never have to be. Watching a teenager stave off the evils of the spirit-world makes that ever-growing pile of laundry in the corner of my bedroom seem entirely more manageable.

I love stories because they remind me of things I wish I was, and sometimes they remind me of things I'll be glad never to be. They fill me with hopes and fears and expectations and disappointments, and it's like the weight of the world is off my shoulders when I can press the pause button and remind myself that the seductive darkness of the world is not mine alone to bear.

Sometimes, life is about being swept up in the emotion and the call of adventure. Sometimes, life is about being taken in completely by the desperate hope of that final battle, of that doomed true love, or of the hero or heroine that lay within us all, waiting for that shadow at the window to take shape into something we can vanquish forever.

And sometimes, when we're really lucky, life is just about romancing a bowl of chicken soup.

"An optimist stays up to see the New Year in. A pessimist waits to make sure the old one leaves." - Bill Vaughan

2009-01-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

I remember in school being told that the bitter taste buds are found on the back of your tongue. I was told when I take a pill, the best idea is to put it on the front of the tongue, so it tastes sweet.

But it couldn't be located anywhere more appropriate. Bitterness lies in the darkness of all things, steaming and pulsating and spreading, oh so quietly, until you take the pill that reminds you it is still there. It pounces, explodes through your being in the most unexpected moment, burning your throat, reminding you what it is like to be angry.

It can be forced back into the darkness, ignored, but it's always there.

There is something about the New Year that reminds me of these things. Not that it's any different; the sun will rise, pretty much the same, and set, pretty much the same. You'll get up, go to work, drive the same car, locate through the same spiral of streets with the same other perturbed drivers, you'll probably stop at the same light and realize you will be late, the same as you always are. You'll vaguely make resolutions that will eventually be forgotten, in the hustle and bustle that is every day life. The world won't feel any different, in the shining, brilliant light of the New Year... because it's not any different. You'll go home, talk to the same people, go to sleep in the same bed, and wake up and do it all again.

"Change" is the catch-phrase of 2009. And people will spend the year idling away, waiting for the change they waited for through 2008, and then will spend 2010 waiting for it again.

The world isn't going to change. The sun will rise and set, regardless of who hates who, who is president, what war is fought in some far off country with a name no American can correctly pronounce. No one is going to wake up to a shining new day of peace and eloquence, because you can't wait for the world to change to fit your needs.

No matter how many times my health teacher may tell me to stop putting pills in the back of mouth, I never remember to. She couldn't stop me from tasting the bitterness, because I never chose to remember too. Because the bitterness will always be there, and there's nothing I can ever, ever do to change that.

I spent much of 2008 being bitter, thinking of the things that weren't fair, that should have been different, that should never have been at all. I spent 2008 waiting for the world to change to be fair, to not hurt, to wipe away the bitter taste in the back of my throat that I couldn't entirely forget.

But without the bitterness, maybe I would forget the taste of what is sweet.

So for me, 2009 is no longer the year of waiting for the world to change. It is, instead, discovering what can be changed within me, to create around me the world I want to be a part of. I will stop lamenting the ills of the unchanged world, and instead celebrate the power of how I can change myself. And a lot of that is remembering that even through the taste of the bitterest pill, there is sweetness lying somewhere too, patiently, waiting to be remembered.

"Say your goodbyes if you've got someone you can say goodbye to." - Matchbox 20, "How Far We've Come"

2008-11-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

I think there is an end in sight!

It's actually a bit strange, really... I wrote an event today in the novel that has been in my mind since I wrote the short story when I was 14.

It is really appropriate, I think, that ten years later I would be seeing it come to some kind of advanced completion. I can tell you how many times I've written this story: three times in high school, twice in college, and now once for real, and numerous times only in my head.

It's changed, yes, but in it's heart, it remains the story I always envisioned it to be. Hopefully it will, after revision, be as good as I want it to be too, and the story will serve the characters, and be testaments to the lives they've lived in so many multiple forms through my life.

What's more, in a few short days, I will no longer be "writing" a novel. Before June, I was thrilled with being able to no longer having to be one of the millions of people who say, "I want to write a novel." Instead, "I am writing a novel." Soon, I will no longer have to say, "I am writing a novel." I will get to be one of the few to say, "I have written a novel." And perhaps, "I have published a novel," or "I am a novelist."

But see, now I am ahead of myself. So I will go back to reiterating my joy of seeing an end in sight, and knowing that, perhaps, all the hours spent creating this world will one day pay off. I'm lucky in this has been the year I have got to do two of the things I have always dreamed of doing; making a movie and writing a novel. How can 2009 compare? I guess we'll see.

On the other hand, I don't know if my novel is quite agreeing with the word count of 75,000 words, it will be done when it's done; and if I am a real writer, that will probably be never, even if it ever gets published. But I'll keep it as a generalized goal, and we'll see what happens during the long editing process ahead of me.

61,214 / 75,000
(81.6%)

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." - Abraham Lincoln

2008-11-06T13:19:00.000-08:00

Just wrote the first main climax of the novel.

Not at ALL what I expected. As it seems, one of the characters earlier on actually hijacked one of the major villain-esque roles I had intended to assign to a previous character. And in that, said character also managed to hijack the climax scene with some super completely unplanned villainy and probably a wee too much exposition, and now things have turned out quite differently than previously imagined.

I don't know if it's any good. I know there is going to be A LOT of revising on my part because the nature of my writing serves for such. There's things I need to add and get rid of, and it's been murder forcing myself to continue writing until it's done, rather than going back and revising chapter by chapter as I have every other time I have tried writing this thing.

But the one thing that pleases me above all is the joy I have when my characters decide what I am going to write. If anything, this small character that originally was no more than a placeholder turned out to be one of the most defining characters in the story, and I'm looking forward now to revising his/her role and making her more of a serious player early on. (Sorry I am being so secretive about pronouns, but he/she is one of the major villains in the end, and it wouldn't be nice to give that away, would it?)

I'm pretty happy with this climax as a rough draft, because it's driven straight from the characters and what they would do, rather than me struggling to adjust them around the plot. If anything, I'll have to go back and adjust the plot somewhat to them, which I find fantastic because, for me, it's been about the adventure with these seven characters since the beginning.

(Oh, and I'm not even at the end, and it's already asking for a sequel. We'll see how that plays out once I get it done!)

54,690 / 75,000
(72.9%)

RIP Michael Crichton.

"Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon." - Woody Allen

2008-07-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

We went down to the beach side. It's sort of hot and muggy, all the time, and when Hurricane Katrina went through it pretty much uprooted everything off the beach, leaving debris and foundation and a strange smell of death. Things change little in two years, I've learned.

It's not like I haven't been to a beach in a while; on the contrary, we go in Florida every couple of years, but you get used to soft, hot sand on your feet and clean waves and clear-cut shorelines, you kind of forget that a beach is just like anything else and not all of them are beautiful.

There wasn't much of a shoreline. It lay jagged, small bodies of ocean water separated by the land, like small islands. The waves were low and the sand where the tide is highest was packed and muddy and cut with the lines of the waves. We found two hermit crabs, scuttling their way across the beach and hiding in their shells for little afternoon naps. We took pictures in the shallow waves and fell into sink holes, and I wouldn't go back in the water as I watched the dark, inky cloud of mud rise and swirl across my vision. We found two dead crawfish and Queen Arachnia almost stepped on a jellyfish floating, like it was suspended in time, in one of the cuts of water across the beach.

We came across a jellyfish, fully intact, laying in the sun, too far away from the water to reach. We took a picture and I saw it shutter and move, breathing, as if it were gasping in the air. It was evening and I wondered if the tide would rise enough to wash it back to sea before it died. QA filled a hermit crab's shell with water to dump on the jellyfish. The crab poked it's eyes out of the shell, glaring and silent.

We trudged from the water and across the beach, my mind heavy with bitterness that this awful city didn't even have a decent beach to offer; it gave us, instead, cuts and isles of dirty water and black sand and death.

I caught a flicker of movement in the water. The water rippled again. Before long, I could see the sliver bodies of hundreds of minnows, scales silver in the sun, leaping from the ocean that before offered not movement or life beyond the summer breeze. QA found a flopping minnow on the shore and in one solid scoop tossed it into the water. They danced back and forth, leaping from the water and landing in streaks, hundreds of little splashes, so alive.

Show me a character whose life arouses my curiosity, and my flesh begins crawling with suspense. - Fawn M. Brodie

2008-06-26T20:29:00.001-07:00

I had an interesting epiphany on character today.

Epiphany was one of those words that my creative writing teachers always hated yet always let me get away with. I have a bad habit of epiphanies, at least with my characters. They like epiphanies. It makes the twisted and brambled sidestreets of the literary universe a little easier to navigate in the reader's steady hands.

But I digress.

In short, there are three characters - P, D, and J - conversing over coffee in an undisclosed location in Texas (Undisclosed here, not in the book.). In my manic typing, J said something, to which P responded, to which J retorted, to which P put J in her deserving place.

A few paragraphs later I realized that it was necessary for D to respond to J initially, simply to assist in flow. So I did what any first time lazy-arse writer does. I deleted P's name and put in D's.

And low and behold... all the sudden what was being said sounded completely absurd. And I realized it's for the simple reason that D would never say anything like that because it was clearly P's voice.

There is something comforting about the fact that already, a chapter and a half in, I've got the sense of P's voice. He's the main character, after all, and it really disturbed me that all of the sudden D was speaking like him. But at the same time, I was happy that even at this point, I could identify what these characters would and wouldn't say, because I understand their nature. I've reached the point I've been trying to with this novel for ages, the point that I knew I needed to reach before I could really tell their story... My characters are becoming real.

So I did what any real writer does. I reworked the dialogue.

In the realm of personal news, Queen Arachnia over here found her keys. I'm debating chronicling her maniacal escapades, but I refrain from doing so only because I know if I were to attempt publication she would insist her name remain Queen Arachnia. And I simply have too much pride for such things.

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work. - Mark Twain

2008-06-25T06:29:00.000-07:00

The thunder is cracking outside, and I can hear the rain against the building in waves. It must be a symptom of sea-side towns; every evening so far I have caught the glimpse of lightning snaking across the sky; it is only today that the thunder takes hold and shakes the town beneath its thick blanket of clouds.

We're on Day Three now, it's taken this long to get the internet working and the room to comfortable set up. Queen Arachnia , as she prefers her pseudonym to be during the course of this blog, managed to lose her keys in her classroom yesterday, causing a rash of panic and tears as we tore around the hotel trying to find any sign of them. They have yet to turn up so I am holding out hope they were turned in to one of the offices in the area.

We are less than a mile from the beach, which is wonderful in theory, but as of the last three days has proven no use to us in practice. I suspect this rain may keep up all day, proving it unlikely that any beach time will be procured. How strange it is, that one can vacation to places like beach fronts, and be so filled with excitement to explore that world that is unfamiliar and exotic; yet, when one is confronted with the realization that life as one knows it is changed, and life shall be lived in normalcy alongside such exotic pleasures, all of the sudden such adventures can be taken for granted. I'm willing to be it will be the 4th of July before we made it to the beach.

I have finished chapter one of the novel and a page or so into chapter two. Slow progress but improving, at least as of yesterday, though today might kill my stride as it is already 9am and I've yet to write a word beyond this blog. I'm allowing a week for my adjustment period, before I put my nose to the grindstone and expect solid work for at least 8 hours a day. But at least so far I'm writing, though I am sure the argument can be most of it is useless and will not make it to the final edit, anyway.

I have access to the internet and I am hoping to make part of my writing day an update of this blog... perhaps it will help me keep on my writing tasks, too, without much distraction by energy sucking breaks like television.

Now I must go google "Houston Space Center layout" and see what is offered.

"Who died and made you fucking king of the zombies?" - Shaun of the Dead

2008-06-13T01:15:00.000-07:00

They told us the day would never come, but who are we to argue like we have some kind of control over such nightmares? Sure, the lock on your door may save you through a moment. The wooden planks we nailed to the windows - brittle and warped from years in the sun, waiting for the day they would be needed - may last the night, but it's long enough to know we are only stalling the inevitable.

The Bible foreshadows the dead will rise, and yet we laugh at the homeless man on Main Street, waving his doomsday sign, warning us of the fates of our immortal souls. I suspect he is gone now; whisked away by the demons he so sought to conquer, spared now of his endless nights of shivering beneath the soiled newspapers of his cardboard house, robbed now of his bright days hinting for a quarter or a scrap of food in return for his words of warning and shaded mercy.

Maybe that was his gift for his soothsaying; a quick demise, a silent banishment from this oncoming march of war, as those soulless vessels march along our streets to claim the rest of us in torment. It is odd to think, now that I can, that they very thing that will bring the end of our world was our splendid and unyielding reverence to those who came before. The dead have risen and they have come for the living.

I won't write the "Z"-word; too cliche, to simple of an ending for the world our ancestors struggled to create, and now march to destroy.

I hear them outside, scratching at the paint-peeled walls. Never did have time to repaint. Never had time for any important things, now things that echo so simple in an empty town.

Perhaps the wooden boards will hold, long enough to allow me to finish my thoughts and send them into empty space, destined to be lost in the ruins of the human race. Perhaps they will hold the night, only for me to be greeted in the morning light by the face of the homeless man whom I once laughed aside upon the street. I suspect his empty eyes will hold no understanding of our final irony; that he who foresaw the End of the World has simply become an accomplice in it's bloody downfall.

Blog Like It's The End of the World

"Work is a necessary evil to be avoided." - Mark Twain

2008-06-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

It is the first week of my unemployment; length undetermined and nest egg already dwindling.

I have plenty to do, besides write, and yet almost nothing has been completed. There is a pile of... things forming in my room waiting to be sorted, packed, or thrown away. There are various scribbles and pointless scenes popping up in the notebook, my questionable prose tossed in between too many trips to the car shop and two many hours spent in front of reruns of Scrubs and Doctor Who whilst I question my initiative - or lack thereof.

I've got the Summer Novel narrowed, at least, to two in progress: First, the Science Fiction Tome of Doom, 10 years in the making, yet somehow remade year to year as it never seems good enough; Second, the Fledgling Fantasy Novel, with the promising concept and non-existent plot.

Needless to say, I am leaning towards the SF Tome of Doom. Somehow, I feel, after all these years of its forgotten loyalty, it has earned the right to be completed.

Finished Reading: By the Pricking of my Thumbs, Agatha Christie
Will Begin Reading: Either a collection of Christie stories, or Sherlock Holmes.