05/18/19

How I Spent my Vacation at a Writer’s Convention

I’m writing this from the hospitality area at The Nebulas. In a couple of hours, Melissa and I will get dressed for the award ceremony. We’ll be one step closer to the completion of this event. Tomorrow morning, we will check out and drive home.

I’ve been attending conferences like this for about a decade. It started with WorldCon in Reno, which as I’ve noted before, changed my life and reminded me that there is this whole other part of myself that I’d been neglecting. I had found my people, I felt like I belonged, and I wanted more of it.

At some point over the last couple of years, my attitude towards these conferences changed. I’m just not as thrilled at being at a convention as I used to be, and I’m not sure what happened.

I’m going to keep this post as positive as I can. This is not intended to be a thousand word essay of me whining. What I’d like to do is examine the different factors that I can observe which is keeping me from feeling the same joy I felt when I first started coming to writer’s conventions.

Introvert Starts with I

I am an introvert. Large crowds make me feel claustrophobic. It takes energy for me to engage with strangers. If you are an introvert yourself, you already understand. If not, just imagine trying to do work at the bottom of a pool. You have to stop and go up for air every once in a while, and the longer you’re down below, the harder and more tiring the task becomes.

When I first started attending conventions, I think I had a greater reserve of energy to draw upon when dealing with strangers. It has always been challenging, but I used to go off to the hotel room and get some alone time. I don’t do that as much now.

Also, and without getting too political, I don’t think I used to stress over the news as much as I do these days. Worrying about having three functioning branches of government has left me with less energy reserves in general. That’s just the reality, and it’s not something I should talk about while at a convention.

Ignorance is Bliss

When I first started attending writing conventions, the only thing I really knew was that I liked writing and reading science fiction and fantasy. I wasn’t particularly familiar with any big name authors or agents. I didn’t have any stories to sell or talk about. I could happily get into an elevator or walk down a hall with an agent or editor and treat them just like I’d treat anyone else. It was easy.

I still try to treat everyone equally, but I think that having two completed, unpublished novels, stories that I’m dying to talk about, puts a strange aura around me. An aura of sick desperation. It doesn’t matter if I don’t say a single word about my stories, it is still repellent.

The Long College Course

Let’s talk about the panels for a moment. When I first started going to conventions, I absolutely loved the panels. I filled up my schedule with them, eager to attend and upset that I’d have to make sacrifices because there were always conflicts.

The problem is that after nearly 10 years of attending and taking notes, I’ve stopped hearing anything new. I try to take notes, but I feel like I’ve heard it all before, and often from the same people.

It feels like I keep attending the same college course over and over again. No one is taking attendance or handing out grades, and it is impossible to graduate. I keep going and listening for the differences and contradictions, just in case some of the material shows up on the test, which is probably never going to be administered.

Who?!?

I keep meeting the same people over and over, and most of the time, they don’t remember me at all. We are all wearing name tags, so some of the more socially graceful are able to play it off without a hitch.

While I don’t expect everyone to remember me — there’s really no reason they should — it still hurts to see the confused look in their eye when I call them out by name. It makes me feel like I’m not a part of the community.

Am I part of the community? Maybe not. Perhaps I’m not doing enough. When I first started attending conventions, it was okay to be an unknown because I didn’t know anyone, either. Now, it doesn’t feel as much like I’ve found my people. I have a bunch in common with this community, but it feels like there is some kind of entrance exam that I haven’t passed yet. Probably because I don’t even know where to go to take it.

So… How about that Weather…

Several times this conference, I’ve drawn a blank when it comes to simply engaging in conversation. This is entirely my fault. As I stated before, I’ve been getting into these crowded rooms with very little energy. It’s hard to start the engine when there’s no fuel in the tank.

I haven’t been completely hopeless talking to people, but I also haven’t brought much to the party. I can’t talk about my stories. I don’t want to talk about work. I’m not a stalker, and I’m not particularly good at small talk.

Often, I’ll ask a question about the convention, what the other person is writing or reading… something that seems pertinent or that will lead to common ground. My hope is to get the other person talking about themselves. Then I can listen and be attentive. But then their answer will be short, and I’ve got nothing after that.

This is My Vacation

When I look back at how I’ve spent my time during this convention, it’s hard for me to justify the time and expense. This is not going to be a tax write-off for me. This isn’t going to lead to any sales. I don’t think I learned much about the business of writing or any techniques to help me with my craft.

I took time off from work and spent a bunch of money to go to L.A. I spent my vacation feeling socially awkward, listening to things I’ve heard before, meeting people that don’t remember me and won’t remember me the next time we meet.

Do the benefits outweigh the costs?

At this moment, I don’t think so. People have asked me if I’ve had a good con, and I politely lie and say, “Sure, it’s been great!” But if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve had a great time. At this point, I don’t know what I can do to make it better.

Maybe the next one will be better.

04/28/19

Avengers: Endgame Thoughts Assembled

I dropped myself from the internet Wednesday night and now that I’ve finally seen the movie, it’s safe for me to return. With my return, I bring many opinions and feelings about this movie, and I’m going to take some time to talk about them.

Here are my thoughts in the order I’ll present them. I will avoid spoilers at the beginning. When I get to spoilers, I’ll flag those sections in the header.

  • Preparing to See the Avengers: Endgame
  • The Experience of Avengers: Endgame Part 1
  • The Experience of Avengers: Endgame Part 2 (Spoilers)
  • Plot Musings (Spoilers)

Preparing to See Avengers: Endgame

Several weeks ago, I opened Fandango on a whim to see if I could buy tickets. I hadn’t read anything that suggested tickets were available. It occurred to me that it might be possible and to my surprise, I was able to make the purchase.

I didn’t hesitate. I bought 4 tickets for the second available showing, which was 7:25PM. That would give Melissa and I time to arrive after work. I bought 4 tickets so that Chris and Bryanna could join us. I didn’t check to see if they worked those nights. They did have to work, so Melissa and I invited friends to join us.

We had a couple of weeks and about 20 movies to watch. We started with Iron Man and moved through the movies in the order they’d been released. When we got to Captain America: Civil War, I realized we still had about 10 movies left and only a couple of days before the show time. We had to make some cuts.

Here are the movies we skipped:

  • Ant-Man
  • Dr. Strange
  • Guardians of the Galaxy 2
  • Spider-Man
  • Ant-Man and the Wasp

On the last night before we were to see the movie, Melissa and I raced home so that we could watch Black Panther and Infinity War on the same night. That would set us up perfectly for the Endgame cinematic experience. We didn’t dawdle on Thursday night, going straight home and crawling into bed to watch the last two movies.

You may have already guessed where this story is going. We finished getting caught up on Thursday night, went to work, I threw myself into my programming to try and make the day go faster. In the afternoon, I sent a reminder text to Michael to make sure he had the correct theater and show time. I copy/pasted the information from Fandango into the message.

That’s when I saw it. The show time was indeed at 7:25PM. On Thursday, April 25th.

I’d missed it.

These tickets had reserve seating, right in the middle of the theater. Perfects seats. We had been aiming our entire week towards this viewing, and I’d blown it. About 80 bucks blown. I was nearly inconsolable.

Melissa went out Friday night with her friend, and Michael went to dinner with me and cheered me up. He’d gone to see the movie Thursday night because like me, he lives on the internet and didn’t want to have the movie spoiled. Michael did an amazing job of not talking about the movie at all. He didn’t even drop any sly hints. Instead, he helped me get over my abysmal blunder. Michael really helped me Friday night.

I hunted to find seats for a showtime that were comparable to what I’d missed out on, and I managed to get 4 tickets for Saturday at 10:25PM. Pretty late for a three hour movie, but it meant that Chris and Bryanna could join me and Melissa.

We saw the movie last night and I’ve been thinking about it all day today. Now I want to talk about it.

The Experience of Avengers: Endgame Part 1

As stated before, this section will contain no spoilers for the movie. For the next little bit, I’m going to talk about my thoughts and feelings of the film without going into any specifics.

Though I spent a fair amount of time enjoying the work of film critics on YouTube, I’m not a critic myself. I’m an unapologetic fan that goes into these movies looking to be entertained. I bring extra helpings of forgiveness for the movies I watch, so they have to be really, really bad for me to have a bad time.

In regards to Avengers: Endgame, I could have left all that forgiveness and benefit-of-the-doubt at the door. I didn’t need any of it. This movie is great!

As a writer, I often struggle with movies and stories because I can see between the cracks of the narrative to the weird and wiggly underpinnings underneath. I can usually tell how important a character, setting, or plot device is going to be to the overall narrative simply by feeling how much weight the writers place on the subject. For example, in Black Panther, when Suri is talking about the train carrying vibranium, I knew that technology and setting would be important later. They focused on that element just a little bit too hard.

I’d been initially disappointed with Captain Marvel because I wanted to be surprised. On subsequent viewings, I warmed to the movie because there was a perspective present in that movie that I’d missed while trying to look for something the movie makers never intended to put in that film.

Avengers: Endgame came full of what storytellers should strive for: surprising, but inevitable. Going into the movie, I didn’t try to make any predictions for how the story twist around, and it’s a good thing because I probably would have been wrong at every turn. It went places and showed me things that I didn’t know I wanted to see.

The movie ran for 3 hours, but it didn’t feel like it. The first part lingered when it needed to linger. I might describe the first part as a “slow burn.” It moved at a pace that I felt appropriate for the subject matter.

I’m not a film critic and I don’t have a scoring system. I can safely say that this is my favorite Marvel Cinematic Universe movie. Beyond that, it might be one of my favorite movies of all time. I have potentially one criticism, which I’ll talk about in the next section, when I get into the details of the movie and talk about spoilers.

The Experience of Avengers: Endgame Part 2 (Spoilers)

Beyond this point, there will be spoilers. You have been warned.

As I stated in the previous section, this movie takes its time at the beginning. It’s slower, but that’s because it’s dealing with the ramifications of The Snap from Infinity War.

I didn’t expect the story to move ahead five years. This gave The Snap weight and consequences. Some part of me going into the movie thought that by the end, they’d cheapen the stakes of Infinity War by undoing it. They do undo The Snap in the end, but there were still consequences. Take half of the population of the world and displace them by 5 years and you wind up with a world that is entirely changed.

That whole first act let us wallow with the characters and all that they had lost. The emotions of the characters felt real, and I appreciated that the movie gave us the time to feel it all and sit with the consequences of the first movie.

By the second act, we get into time travel, which is always a huge gamble. I think they did a pretty good job with it, right up until the end (which I’ll talk about in the next section).

I could probably write about 5 or 6 paragraphs all starting with the words “I didn’t expect.” Fat Thor. The 5 year jump, with Tony as a parent. Banner/Hulk no longer separate people, but a combined individual with both strength and intellect. Black Widow dying for the soul gem. All of the cameos of characters/actors that we’ve seen over the years. Maybe it helps that I go into these movies with as few spoilers as I can manage, even going to the point where I stop watching trailers. I want to be surprised, and this movie kept accomplishing it.

Two big surprises came in the form of Thor’s hammer. I didn’t expect Thor to grab it from the past and bring it with him. I didn’t expect to see Thor wielding two hammers at the same time. But the big one… I didn’t expect to see Steve Rogers wield Mjolnir. That got a huge reaction from Chris. He still can’t get over it. Every time he sees me, he says, “I knew it!”

The spectacle of the last big set piece is overwhelming and so satisfying. Captain America saying “Avengers, assemble!” and having the entire MCU behind him.

The look between Strange and Stark right before Tony makes his move and ultimately his sacrifice. “I am… Iron Man.” Oh man.

I could keep going on and on about this. It’s all I’ve been able to think about all day. I need to see it again, and maybe again after that.

Avengers: Endgame is a tremendously satisfying conclusion to so many stories. While I know there will be more movies, this one feels like the final chapter in an epic. This is a movie I wanted, a huge ambitious 22 movie cross-over event that’s making all the money and setting history.

I loved this movie. It made me smile. It made me tear up.

I loved this movie 3000.

Plot Musings (Spoilers)

Let’s spend a couple of moments going into time travel.

Bruce made it clear that you can’t go into the past and interfere with things that have already happen. The experience of your past, your timeline, is set. There are no paradoxes. The mechanism of time travel in Avengers: Endgame is not like what you see in movies like Back to the Future.

They way that Tony solves time travel is a subtle way of explaining how the rules work, too. It’s no coincidence that they mention a mobius strip in that scene. A mobius strip is an object with one side, so if you go in one direction long enough, you’ll return to where you began. That’s how their time travel works: when you go back in time and forward again through the quantum realm, you’ll return to the same timeline that you left.

The existence of multiple timelines is further clarified by The Ancient One when she knocks Bruce out of his body and they have a discussion. Taking the Time Stone from The Ancient One would lead to a branching timeline. Bruce’s timeline would still exist, but the one The Ancient One journeyed down would be new and dark, because they wouldn’t have the tools they need in order to defend reality.

This all makes sense to me. It means that Loki can escape with the tesseract, creating a new timeline where he is not imprisoned after the events of Avengers. Without Loki in prison, he can’t help his brother defeat the dark elves. The tesseract isn’t in Asgard when the events of Ragnarok unfold, so it can’t be picked up taken by Thanos… that entire timeline plays out differently.

Nebula shot and killed her past self. There is no Grandfather Paradox because the Nebula that shot and killed herself is not from the same timeline as the younger Nebula.

Thanos and the Chitauri move forward in time to invade Earth and fight for the stones. Thanos and all of his crew are killed, turned to dust, which means there is another timeline where Thanos disappeared from existence before he could go after the stones. In that timeline, the stones still exist, because Thanos couldn’t have used them to wipe out half the population, then destroy them.

All of that seems clear to me. I’m good with that. I like it.

Unfortunately, that means there is a potential flaw. When Steve Rogers goes back through the quantum realm to return the stones and Mjolnir, he did not come back to his own timeline via the quantum realm. No mobius strip involved. He went back in time and created an alternate timeline just by being there. If he continued forward chronologically, I don’t see how he could have caught up with his friends on their timeline.

It’s a powerful moment and gives us such a great closure on the character of Steve Rogers that I’m willing to overlook that flaw. I enjoyed the ending. It satisfied me. I wouldn’t trade it away for what would have happened, which is that Steve Rogers would simply have disappeared. That would have felt like a cliffhanger. The resolution they gave us is better.

Those are my thoughts and feelings on this movie. Let me know your thoughts. I can’t wait to go and see it again.

04/14/19

VLOG #3 – How to be a Positive and Supportive part of a Writing Community

The third entry in this series is finally done!

I think this one is generally more useful than the last one, in that I’m offering realistic and usable advice.

Though it’s been 6 months since I did the last one, I think the process for creating these is getting a little bit faster. I borrowed my son’s microphone again, set up my Surface on the new table in the backyard, and used AVS Video Editor to record and edit the video. It took about 20 minutes to record the initial video (I kept screwing up enough that I had to start completely over), then another hour to edit out the extraneous mouth noises and false starts.

Let me know what you think! Do you like this series? Are there any topics you’d like me to focus on next?

Also, if you missed The Reluctant Apprentice, here is a permanent link. It’s also the previous post, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.

Other appropriate links:

04/10/19

The Reluctant Apprentice

Click here to find other stories set in the WFGC Hotel.

Jake Potts stood in the lobby of the hotel, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.  In front of him, a massive, twisted oak tree sprang from the lobby floor, reaching towards a domed ceiling decorated to look like a sky split between night and day, with the a brilliant sun shining in a cerulean sky on one side, a crescent moon and twinkling stars on the other.  Jake blinked again, looking around the rest of the lobby, trying to take in the hotel’s staff dressed in blue and gold livery, and the massive wooden desk waiting for people to approach for check-in.

“Where am I?” Jake asked.  His voice sounded strange in his ears, as if coming from a distance.

“Ah, Master Jacob.” The man standing next to him spoke with a deep voice colored with a strong, upper-crust British accent.  Jake recognized the voice, though he couldn’t put a name to it. “I did warn you to order your thoughts.”

“What?” Jake turned and looked at the British man.  He wore a black suit with vest and pocket watch, and he had wings of white hair running back behind his ears.

“It’s the first lesson,” the British man said. “Order your thoughts.  You cannot hope to master the arcane arts if you cannot master your own mind.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh dear, this is worse than I thought.” The British man was not much taller than Jake.  When he got down on one knee to talk to him, Jake found himself looking down into the British man’s sharp blue eyes. “What is the last thing you remember?”

Jake tried to think.  The first memory that sprang to mind, still painful and fresh, was picking up the phone at home and hearing a crackling voice deliver news of the accident.  Jake shook his head.  No, that wasn’t the last thing he remembered.  The call had been weeks ago.  The memory just refused to fade like the rest.

“The foster home.” Jake frowned and looked around. “Wait.  Where is Michael and Clementine?”

“Master Jacob.” The British man’s voice became stern. “Focus!  I need you to remember.”

Jake locked gazes with the British man for a moment.  Then, like morning fog giving way to sunlight, details in his memory became clear.  He remembered packing his bag and leaving the foster home.  He packed everything because he knew he would not be returning.  And he remembered this stranger’s name.

“Miles Baker,” Jake said.

“Yes, that’s right.  What else do you remember?”

“You told me… you told me we were going somewhere.”

“For what purpose, Master Jacob?”

Jake took a deep breath.  He remembered something, but he didn’t believe it.  He looked back into Miles’ eyes.

“Yes, that’s right.” Miles stood back up, placed his hands on his hips, and stretched. “You have the gift and the potential to join the ranks of the Arcane Guardians.  Or, to put it in terms you may be more familiar with, you are a wizard, Master Jacob.”

“Bullshit.”

“Language!”

Jake opened his mouth to deliver a stronger swear word, and stopped.  A bitter taste coated his tongue, running down his throat and making him gag.  He clapped a hand over his mouth and stared as Miles’ lips twisted into an impish grin.

“Now,” Miles said, “why don’t you wait here while I finish securing our rooms.  And please do not wander off or touch anything.  This place is not what it seems.”

As soon as Miles took a step towards the front desk, the awful taste of soap in Jake’s mouth disappeared.  He licked his lips, wondering if he’d imagined it.  Had Miles done something to him?  No. Impossible.  Magic wasn’t real.  Could Miles have hypnotized him?

Jake turned to watch Miles at the front desk.  The dapper British gentleman smiled and spoke with animated hands to the person behind the counter.  Jake tried to look at the night clerk and found himself staring at the white marble flooring that surrounded the massive tree.  The huge oak came right out of the floor with no visible gaps to expose the soil beneath.

Frowning, Jake tried again to look at the night clerk.  He blinked, and then stared at an ornate painting on the wall depicting a knight in silvery armor astride a massive black horse.  The knight held a gleaming sword in one hand as his other hovered near the edge of his visor.

“What the hell?” Jake said.  He remembered what Miles had said before and tried to focus his thoughts.  Gritting his teeth, keeping his intention clear in his mind, Jake slowly turned to look back at the night clerk.  A muscle spasmed in his neck and he ignored it.  A figure stood on the other side of the massive desk, but Jake’s eyes refused to focus.  His vision blurred, and he felt a tear run down his cheek.  When his head began to ache, he let his vision turn away.  The tree stood before him, tiny decorative houses lining its massive, twisted branches.

“Master Jacob,” Miles said. “Are you quite alright?”

“What’s happening?” Jake’s head throbbed, though the pain began to subside.

Before Jake could pull away, Miles reached forward and wiped the tear from his cheek.  When Miles didn’t withdraw his hand, Jake looked down at it.  Blood covered the tip of Miles’ finger.

“Is that–“

“One cannot look upon The Night Manager without their express permission,” Miles said. “But don’t worry.  I’m sure you will become acquainted soon enough.  And see here!  It takes a strong will and a focused mind to look for as long as you managed.  You certainly must have what it takes to be a Guardian.  Mark my words.”

Jake reached up and wiped his eyes and his cheek.  He felt the tacky warm blood on his fingers before he looked down to confirm.  Miles hadn’t tricked him, and he hadn’t hypnotized him.

“Let’s climb up to our rooms so you can wash up.  You’re going to want to get a good night’s rest so you’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, Master Jacob, you are going to cast your first spell.”

*

Jake sat in a creaky wooden desk chair in Miles’ room.  They shared adjoining suites, and Jake could see his unmade bed through the open door between their rooms.  Hunger twisted Jake’s stomach into knots, and he hoped that the joke or farce would be over quickly.

“Now,” Miles said.  He bent over one of his black-scaled bags and rummaged through the contents. “Let’s see… ah!  Here it is.”

“Can’t we go down to breakfast first?”

“Oh no, my boy.  One’s first brush with the arcane can lead to nausea, and–“

“I’m not your boy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not your boy, Mr. Baker.  Don’t call me that.”

“Ah.  My apologies, Master Jacob.  Now as I was saying–“

“Can’t you just call me Jake?”

“Of course, Master Jacob.  Of course.  Now where were we…”

Jake heaved a sigh and looked towards the door.  He wondered what his British host would do if he just got up and left.

“Take this.” Miles offered what looked like a brass thimble and an eye dropper.

“What is this?”

“In the cup?  Tap water, though we’ll fix that up soon enough.”

Jake found himself holding the thimble in one hand and the dropper in the other. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Just hold it for now, and clear your mind.  Once I’ve explained what it is we’re doing, I’ll–“

“No.  Stop.” Jake set the thimble down on the desk behind him. “I don’t want to do this.  I don’t believe in magic.”

“I know, Master Jacob.  I know.  And I understand.  That’s why this first spell we’ll be casting is to clear your vision and open your eyes.”

Jake opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.  He raised a hand and touched the corner of his eye.  He had seen things already that he couldn’t explain.  What would be the harm in going along with Miles?  If it got them down to breakfast that much sooner, it would be worth it.

Miles gestured towards the dropper still in Jake’s hand. “That is called a Dropper of Clarity.  It’s a tool the Guardians devised some time ago, easily made and easy to use.  What goes in the dropper does not matter, but what comes out will wash away the sticky film of the mundane that covers most people’s eyes.”

Jake blinked a few times. “What?”

“It’s a magic item that helps you see magic.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“Because the details are important.” Miles gestured towards the thimble on the desk. “Please pick that up, and follow my instructions.”

Jake did as he was asked and sat up straighter in his chair, mirroring Miles’ posture.

“Some magical artifacts are more difficult to use than others,” Miles said. “Some require a specific location to work, or the utterance of triggering words.  Droppers of Clarity, on the other hand, only require a small effort of will.”

“Right.  How do I do that?”

“Clear your mind.  Empty it of everything.”

Jake shook his head. “I can’t do that.  No one can do that.”

“I know it can be difficult at first but–“

“It’s like telling someone not to think of a kitten.  Just saying it out loud makes people think of it.”

“Master Jacob,” Miles’ voice became suddenly stern. “I would appreciate it very much if you would not interrupt me when I am instructing you.  Furthermore, until you have learned more in the ways of the arcane arts, it would reflect well on you not to proclaim what is and is not possible.”

Jake sat back in his seat.  He felt his cheeks warm, and he wanted to be anywhere out of Miles’ presence.  Jake knew that he’d been rude to the British gentleman, and getting called out on it made him feel small and ashamed.  He wanted desperately to see his parents.  Of course, his father wouldn’t have put up with Jake’s tone or behavior.  Jake’s shoulders slumped and he wished he could crawl into the thimble and hide under the tiny pool of water.

“You have already demonstrated that you can do this,” Miles said. “You tried to look upon The Night Manager, and as far as I can tell, nearly succeeded.  Compared to that, activating the dropper should be simple.”

Jake smiled. “So, you’re saying this isn’t going to make my eyes bleed?”

Miles did not smile. “Most likely not.  We’ll have a clean washcloth handy, just in case.”

Jake swallowed and reached to touch the corner of his eye again.

“If, as you say, you cannot completely clear your mind, then I’d like you to visualize something appropriate.  Imagine a door opening, or a dense fog lifting.  Anything that gives you a sense of revelation.”

Jake closed his eyes and tried to go with it.  He tried to imagine the things Miles had described, but neither doors nor fog gave him a sense of clarity.  He kept seeing the door close, and the fog return, and it all reminded him of a life he’d never have again.

“Concentrate, Master Jacob.”

A sharp comment formed on Jake’s tongue but he bit it back.  He was concentrating.  What did Miles think he was doing?  He imagined wiping a hand across a foggy mirror and seeing his own, red-rimmed eyes looking back.  He visualized ripping wrapping paper off a package.  The last Christmas with his parents, his mother had given him a leather jacket.

“You had something for a moment there.  Keep trying!”

Jake pushed away the thoughts of his mother and his jacket and reached for a memory that wasn’t so close to recent events.  He thought back to a science class.  The teacher had smudged something oily on a plate of glass, and all of the kids took turns looking through the microscope.  Jake remembered twisting a dial, raising and lowering the glass until the circle of empty white light solidified into an image of tiny, translucent cells, swimming in pale liquid.

“That’s it!  Very good, Master Jacob!”

Jake opened his eyes and looked at the objects in his hands.  Neither the thimble nor the dropper looked any different. “Okay, what now?”

“Draw some of the water into the dropper and release a single drop into one of your eyes.  Do it quickly, though, before the device goes back to sleep.”

“Which eye?  Why not both?”

“You certainly may choose both eyes, if you wish, but I do not recommend it.  You will soon be able to see things you never would have imagined.  If it becomes overwhelming, you may want to be able to close one eye and still see the mundane world, as you’ve seen it your entire life.”

“Did you put something in the water while I had my eyes closed?”

“I think you already know that I did not.  Hurry, please.  The dropper will only remain active for a few more seconds.”

Jake shook his head as put the glass into the thimble.  The tiny dropper drank the water and glimmered in the hotel light.  He tipped his head back and held the dropper over his left eye.  He squeezed, the drop formed and fell, and a split second before the liquid touched his naked eye, he thought he saw a golden light.  Then the cool moisture was there.  He blinked and raised a hand to wipe the water away.

“A moment!” Miles said, taking hold of Jake’s arm.  A few seconds later, Miles let him go. “That should do it.”

Jake wiped his face.  It felt like wiping tears, something he’d done far too often over the last few weeks.  He looked at Miles and shook his head again. “Nothing happened.”

“Are you so sure?” Miles pointed towards one wall of the room. “Look there.  Close your right eye, if you must.”

Jake set the thimble and stopper down and turned towards the indicated wall.  A framed painting of a farmhouse interrupted a cream-white surface.  Faint shadows drew darkened lines diagonally from carpet to ceiling.  It looked like an ordinary hotel wall.

“I told you, it didn’t–” Jake started.

The wall rippled.  Something long and sinuous slithered just beneath the paint.  The creature stretched along a narrow passage Jake hadn’t seen before.  Jake thought at first it was a snake, but its thick body didn’t seem to end.

“Is that…?”

“A tentacle,” Miles said, sounding pleased. “Some sort of giant squid, I believe.”

Jake’s chair fell over as he tried to get away.  He propped himself on his hands and crab-walked backwards, away from the wall.  Miles put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

“She will not harm you.  For the most part, she isn’t even really here.  Or more precisely, we are not there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jake realized he’d shrieked his question.  His breathing came in short gulps.  He wanted to look away but he couldn’t turn his head.  Miles’ firm hand kept him in place on the floor.

“If you hadn’t guessed yet, this hotel is an unusual place.  In our world, it sits directly over the conjunction of two powerful lay lines.  Because of this, it–“

“Let me go!”

“Of course, Master Jacob.  Why don’t you close your left eye for a moment and catch your breath.”

Jake blinked several times before reaching up with one hand and covering his left eye.  The undulating image and the corridor within the wall disappeared.  Through his right eye, he saw the painting and the plain off-white wall he’d seen before.  He quit trying to scramble away from it.

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing!  I simply helped you cast a spell which allows you to see beneath the surface of the mundane world.  I assure you, Master Jacob, this effect is quite temporary.  In an hour or two, the fog of creation will fill your eyes again.  But with practice, you can open your eyes to magic at will and see what lies beneath whenever you like.”

“Why would I want to do that?  What did you put in the water?  Did you drug me?”

Miles reached past Jake and picked up the thimble.  He raised it in a brief toast, then tossed back the contents as if it were a shot of liquor. “It’s just water.  No drugs.  Nothing extra except for whatever it might have collected from this hotel’s old, brass pipes.  Consider, Master Jacob.  If you’d been drugged, why would the unseen world disappear when you covered your left eye?”

“It could still be–“

“No,” Miles said in a sharp tone.  He took a deep breath and forced a smile before continuing. “We don’t have much time here, and I don’t want to spend what we have trying to explain to you what most of the world would find unexplainable.  For your sake and mine, I need you to start trusting in what I have to teach you.  As for your other question, why someone would open their eyes to the supernatural, there are many reasons.  Open your left eye and look at the stopper.”

Jake lowered his hand and looked.  The stopper appeared as it had before with its smoky glass and its bright red rubber stopper.  Closing his right eye, Jake saw something else.  The stopper glowed with a soft golden light.

“I see it.” Jake turned and looked back at Miles.  A small, round object rested above Miles’ heart, glowing from beneath Miles’ shirt more brightly than the dropper.  Jake pointed towards it. “I see something there, too.”

Miles’s eyes went wide and he clutched at the object at his chest. “Ah, yes.  This.  You don’t have to worry about this.  Not yet, anyway.”

“What is it?”

“Not something you’re ready for.”

“But what is it?”

With a sigh, Miles loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.  He tucked a finger beneath his collar and fished out a silver chain.  The chain itself didn’t glow, but the golden medallion that emerged shone like a torch. “This is a Master Key.”

“What does it open?”

“It’s complicated.”

Jake crossed his arms in front of him. “You just said I need to start trusting you.  It goes both ways.  How am I supposed trust you if you don’t trust me enough to answer my questions?”

“Oh, very well.” Miles removed the medallion from his neck and held it out in front of him. “Most people live their lives believing that the only world that exists is the one they were born into.  But there are many worlds.  More than you can imagine.  Master Keys like this one open and close the doors between the many worlds.”

Jake stared at the gold disk in Miles’ hands.  In spite of the otherworldly light that surrounded it, in spite of his heart still beating fast from seeing a monster slithering through the walls, Jake clung to his doubts.

“Why don’t we have a little stroll around the hotel?” Miles asked, closing his hands around the Master Key.

Before Jake could form words to protest, he found himself walking down the hallway next to Miles.  Wood-paneled walls stretched out in front of him, occasionally interrupted by immaculate white doors with ornate brass handles.  More paintings of countrysides and farmhouses dotted the walls, each composed with exquisite detail, none memorable enough to capture Jake’s attention as he walked past them.

“Where are we going?” Jake asked.

“Just around the hotel.  Not too far, I’m sure.”

Jake started to ask another question, then stopped mid-step.  He turned to his left and stared at the wall.  He covered each of his eyes in turn.  Through his left, he saw a closed door like the rest in the hallway.  With his right eye, the wall continued uninterrupted.

“Is this one of those doors you mentioned before?  Into another world?”

“There is a door there, and it is in another world.  It’s just not connected to our world.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Try to open it.”

Jake reached for the handle.  His hand passed through empty air.

“This hotel is a special place,” Miles said. “Built on a conjunction of many lay lines, the boundary between worlds here is quite thin.  Thin enough that we can sometimes stop and look across the gap and glimpse the places beyond.  That’s why I brought us here, Master Jacob.  Sometimes, seeing is believing, and I need you to believe.”

*

Jake lay on his bed above the covers, his fingers knitted behind his head, his eyes fixed and unfocused on the ceiling.  Jake and Miles had walked for almost two hours before the effects of the eye dropper wore off.  During that time, he’d seen things he couldn’t believe.  One of the phantom doors had opened to reveal a long-haired goat chewing a cigar with an intelligent gleam in its bar-shaped eyes.  Only it hadn’t been chewing.  It had been smoking.  Through a window, Jake had seen what looked like a modern bathroom dominated by a velociraptor, snarling and slashing the linoleum, like something out of a Stephen Spielberg movie.  They passed an elderly woman in a wheelchair that looked normal enough, except for the silenced pistol tucked into her knitting bag.  Jake saw dozens of things he had no explanation for, any one of which would have been enough to keep him awake at night.  Then there had been the explanations.  All day, Miles went on and on about lay lines, incantations, the history of magic… it had all been overwhelming.

The sun had set long ago and the clock had made the transition from large numbers to small.  Laying on his bed with his mind swimming through memories he couldn’t catalog, sleep eluded him.

With only one lamp lit, long shadows reached dark fingers across the walls.  Jake stared at them, closing one eye.  After everything he’d seen, he half-expected to see something looking back at him through the darkness.  He focused.  For just a moment, he could almost see the outline of a tentacle, long and sinuous.  Or was his imagination getting the best of him?

An unrelenting silence pressed down on Jake.  It had never been so quiet in his home.  His mother always had something going on the television.  Half the time, she couldn’t tell you what was playing.  She just wanted the noise, she’d say.  Even after the accident, after Jake had gone to the foster home, there had never been true silence.  The foster home had creaked and hummed around him like a living thing.

However else Miles had disrupted Jake’s life, one constant remained: Jake’s mind found its way back to his parents and the accident.  He didn’t like to think of it, but he couldn’t avoid it.  How can a person make themselves not think of something?

If Jake’s dad was there, he might have had an answer.  His dad was so smart.  He’d work on crosswords with a pen.  If Miles had been pulling some sort of trick on Jake, Jake’s dad would have seen through it.  Jake wished his father was there right now, if only to help Jake process the impossible things he’d seen that day.

A sound like fabric tearing broke the silence.  Jake flinched from the noise.  It came again, sounding through the door that separated the two rooms.  Snoring.  Miles had a snore like a sputtering lawn mower.  Did the British man have sleep apnea or something?  Jake added another tally to the mental checklist of things keeping him from sleeping.

Jake’s memories tumbled back to another time when snoring had kept him awake.  He and his parents had gone camping and they’d had to share a tent.  Jake had ducked down into his sleeping bag with a flashlight to read while his parents fell asleep a couple of feet away.  When the batteries ran out and his eyes got heavy, he could hear the sleep noises coming from his parents.  Eventually, insect chirping and an occasional breeze through dry leaves lulled Jake off to dreamland.

Sleep wouldn’t be so easy this night.  He’d seen things in the hotel that wouldn’t let his brain rest, like the tiny people that lived in the tree in the lobby.  As Jake had watched, one of the little elves raised a hand and waved at Jake.  They could see him, just as Jake could see them.  Miles insisted that they were in a different world, but they acknowledged Jake’s presence.  That made them real.

As another one of Miles’ resonant snores penetrated the walls into Jake’s room, Jake sat up.  A new thought filled his mind.  A possibility.  Something he never would have considered before that day.  He rose from his bed and crept towards the door into Miles’ room.

Jake gave the doorknob a slow turn.  It clicked open, and the hinges snitched on him with a creak that sounded like a scream.  Jake waited in the open door.  Miles’ thunderous sleep noise encouraged him forward.

The British man lay unconscious above the covers, an open book spread on his chest.  Miles’ head rested on the pillow facing Jake, his mouth open and a thin line of drool running in a line to the fabric.  Jake froze part way into Miles’ room, only moving whenever the sleeping man emitted another resonant blast.

Miles kept his room neat and organized, with his clothes hung up in the closet and his sundry other possessions tucked into his crocodile skin bags, which he left open on the dresser.  Jake tip-toed to the bags and peaked inside.  He found the box with the dropper, pulled it out, and moved on to the bathroom.

Jake drew water from the tap and tried to activate the dropper.  It took him several tries.  Jake’s eyes stung and his cheeks felt wet as though he’d been crying.  Eventually, the dropper glowed in his hand.  This time, he’d dosed both eyes.

As he made his way back towards his room, his footsteps slowed.  Other items in Miles’ room wore similar auras to the dropper.  Items beamed from Mile’s bag on the dresser.  The book resting on the British man’s chest bore a rose-colored light.  None of the other magical items in Miles’ room lit up like the Master Key, though, which Jake could see radiating from the bedside table drawer.

Jake’s plan had been to look for a window that showed him his parents.  With so many possible worlds, there had to be one where the accident had never taken place.  Jake thought that if he looked hard enough in the hotel, maybe he could find that world.  Maybe he’d be able to see them.  Maybe they’d be able to see him, too.  But why look for a window when you might be able open a door?  Jake crept towards the table with the glowing golden amulet.

The drawer slid open with a soft sigh.  Jake reached for the chain.  Miles stopped mid-snore.  Jake looked towards the British man, caught in the act, his heart pounding in his ears.

Miles snorted, closed his lips, and turned his head.  The snoring resumed, a bit quieter than before.

Jake withdrew the Master Key and slunk back to his room.  He closed the door behind him and released the breath he’d been holding.  He had the key.  All he had to do next was figure out how to use it.

*

With both eyes opened to the magical world, Jake had a hard time navigating the hotel.  He kept trying to follow hallways that didn’t exist.  When he found the stairs, he nearly tripped and fell.  Whatever world he was looking into had seven steps down before the turn, while the real world had eight.  He managed to catch himself on the rail.

On the bottom floor, he started towards the lobby, then stopped.  If the Night Manager were on shift, what would happen?  Would Jake’s eyes start to bleed again?  With the effects of the dropper running, would his head simply explode?  Jake turned around.  Best not to risk it.

In front of him, the world flickered and moved.  Hallways winked into existence, slanted off into different directions, then disappeared.  A casino appeared in front of Jake for a moment, its occupants wreathed in smoke as they pulled one-armed bandits.  The slot machines disappeared, replaced with poker tables.  A restaurant took the place of the casino, with waitresses wearing blue dresses appropriate for a sock hop.  The restaurant morphed into a diner.  Jake locked eyes momentarily with a short-order cook that had a scar twisting his mouth and cheek into a wicked sneer.  The diner disappeared but the grim-faced cook remained, only he was a bouncer standing in front of a dance hall.  A line of waiting guests stood in front of him next to a velvet roped queue.

“Can I help you, sir?” a man whispered in Jake’s ear.

Jake turned to see an older man in a bright red bell-hop’s uniform.  A name tag read “Sammy” in black letters on a gold background.

“I think I need a quiet place to sit down.”

“Have you been to the lounge?  The bar is closed this time of night, but the seats are comfy and it should be very quiet.”

“Can you take me there?”

Sammy smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Of course!  Right this way.”

The old bellhop walked forward into the heart of the chaos.  Jake kept his eyes focused on Sammy while the geography of the hotel shifted around them.  A few moments later, Sammy stopped and gestured towards a beige sofa.

Whatever room Sammy had brought them to, it continued to warp through different realities.  Jake reached his hands forward and placed them on the back of the couch.  He felt the soft material and sighed in relief.  It was real.

Jake turned to thank the bellhop.  Sammy was gone.

“Right.  I think I’m just gonna sit and wait this out.”

Jake lowered himself onto the sofa as the hotel continued its dizzying dance.  For as long as Jake had walked with Miles earlier that day, Jake hadn’t seen anything like this.  Had they just not come to this part of the hotel?  Was it not so dramatic before because Jake had only dosed one eye?  Perhaps Miles had done something to keep the realities straight.  Jake could only guess.  With a heavy sigh, he sat back and resigned himself to watching different realms of possibility twist all around him.

As the immediate surroundings changed from a bar to a pool to a well equipped gymnasium, Jake noticed one detail remain fixed in place.  However else the rooms changed, he could see a stationary door leading out of the hotel.  It changed colors and shapes but it did not move relative to Jake.

After a few minutes, Jake reached down and pulled up the Master Key.  In his hands, it glowed with hope and possibility.  He looked from the Master Key to the door.  He’d come this far.  Why stop now?

Keeping his eyes on the door, Jake stood up and walked across the chaos of the hotel.  Phantoms of people and furniture appeared in front of him.  Jake gritted his teeth and walked through them.  He reached a hand up and touched the door knob.  A static shock stung him as he wrapped his fingers around the cold metal.

Jake pulled out the Master Key and held it against the door and thought of Miles’ instructions on using the dropper.  He had to focus and visualize.  Visualize what?  Probably something to do with opening.  Jake’s mind conjured a memory of his old home, before the accident.  He visualized the heavy front door which his mother decorated with a wreath every holiday season.  He saw the door opening in his mind, with his parents waiting for him on the other side.

He opened the door.

Plates crashed.  A man shouted.  Jake turned and saw a waiter surrounded by shards of porcelain, his cart overturned next to a set of dumbbells.  A woman with long brown hair, platform shoes, bell bottoms, and a tie-die shirt stood a short distance off, staring at another woman wearing a big-shouldered, tan business suit.  Except for their clothing, they could have been twins.  Another waiter in a completely different uniform from the first pushed a mop bucket towards the spilled plates, stepping over gymnasium equipment before sliding around the beige couch.

“What’s happening?” asked a man in a blue blazer.

“Where am I?” asked another man in a space suit, his helmet tucked under one arm.

More people appeared, each adding their voices to the chorus of questions and exclamations.  Jake heard more sounds of dishes breaking, followed by a gunshot.  Then screaming.

“Oh no,” Jake said.  The door was gone.  Where it should have been, a ragged hole in reality yawned, the edges frayed and moving.  Beyond the opening, Jake saw another hotel.  As he watched, the hole widened by several inches on each side.

“This can’t be happening.” Jake squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to break the spell.  After a moment, he heard a familiar voice approaching.

“There, there.  Be a good chap and help this woman up, would you?  That’s it.  Everything will be all right.  No need to worry.  Ah!  Master Jacob, there you are.”

A hand gripped Jake’s shoulder and he opened his eyes.  In front of him, the tear in reality continued to eat away at the wall.

“Miles, I don’t know what to do.” Jake turned to the British man and pressed the Master Key into his hands.

The British man looked at the amulet. “Impressive.  It usually takes months of practice to get an artifact like this to respond at all.”

“You’re… saying I did a good job?”

“Oh, heaven’s no.  An unstable rift at a nexus of power like this can tear the fabric of our reality to ribbons.  This was quite irresponsible on your part, Master Jacob.”

“How do we fix it?”

Wood splintered and glass shattered somewhere behind Miles.  The British man rubbed his chin as he examined the rift.  After a moment, he took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.  He handed the amulet back to Jake.

“We’ll do this together.  The Master Key will only work from this side, so you hold on to it.”

Before Jake could protest, Miles stepped around him and through the portal.  As Jake watched, duplicates of Miles stepped off to the right and left.  More copies of Miles appeared behind Jake wearing different outfits.

“Now,” Miles said from the other side of the rift. “Hold up the key where the door should be.”

Jake lifted the amulet.  It felt heavier than before. “Miles, wait.  What are you doing?”

“It’s very important you try and focus, Master Jacob.  We don’t have much time.”

“Focus on what?  If this closes and you’re on the other side–“

“This will take both of us, one on each side.  Visualize a boulder or a stone.”

“Not a door?”

“Doors are meant to be opened.  This is a break, and what we need is something solid and whole.”

The memory of a lake with a rocky beach sprung immediately to Jake’s mind.  He remembered climbing the huge boulders next to the cold, blue water.  He tried to put the image out of his mind, but how do you delete a thought once it’s in your mind?  The amulet touched something solid.

“No!  Don’t leave me like this!”

“I’m sorry, Master Jacob, but this is the only way.  We only have a few moments, now.  There’s a book in my room.  I want you to–“

Jake didn’t want to hear it.  He tried to pull the Master Key away, but it refused to budge.  Jake brought a foot up, braced himself, and pulled harder.  Something gave and he fell, landing hard on his back.  The door that had not been there slammed shut.  The click of the lock echoed into the sudden silence.

Groaning, Jake sat up and looked around.  The strange warping of reality had ceased, and he found himself on the floor of a sparse lounge.  Alone.

Jake scrambled to his feet and opened the door.  Cold night air rushed in, prickling his skin to goose flesh.  He stepped outside and looked around.  Miles was nowhere to be found.  A crescent moon partially obscured by clouds beamed down at him.

“Miles, I’m so sorry.”

The empty night offered no response.

*

Jake found Miles’ book on the bedside table beneath an ornately carved wooden pen.  Jake picked up the writing instrument and examined it.  On the top where a clicker would be, Jake found a dime-sized ruby set into the dark wood.

Setting the pen aside, Jake opened the book and thumbed through it.  Half the pages were blank while the other held words and pictures drawn in black ink.  Jake turned to the last page and found a message addressed to him.

Dear Master Jacob,

You have already experienced more grief than any young man your age should have to bear, and I hope that my departure does not add to your burden.

Though I have only known you for a short time, I am certain that you will make an excellent Guardian.  You are inquisitive, strong-willed, and pure in your intentions.  Do not let the experience with the rift dissuade you.  I believe in you.

As you may have already guessed, this book is special.  In addition to containing my notes and instructions on the mystic arts, it is also a way for us to communicate.  I have a copy, and whatever is written in one appears in the other.  But please have a care as there are only so many pages.

You will find the resources you need within my bags, and the hotel staff has been instructed to attend to you for as long as you’d like.  Study my notes, and for the sake of our reality, do not try and open a portal to reach me.  Trust me when I tell you that you are not ready for that.

But someday, you will be.

Humbly yours,

Miles Baker

Jake traced the last few words with a finger.  He picked up the pen, set it to the page, then stopped.  What was he going to say?  Was he going to thank his brief mentor, or apologize?  He riffled through the empty pages with his thumb.  Miles was right.  There weren’t enough pages to waste.

Turning off the light, Jake returned to his room and closed the door behind him.  As he saw it, there really was only one thing left for him to do. He turned on the bedside lamp, sat on his bed, and opened the book to the beginning.

He began to read.

04/7/19

Dieting, Upgrading, and Writing

There’s a few things I want to talk about, but before I get into some of the topics, I want to announce that in just two days, I’ll be posting an entire short story to this blog. It’s part of an anthology spanning many blogs, or as I’ve been calling it a “blogthology.” Here is the handy graphic:


I’ve been working on this fun project with my friends in the #WriteFightGIFClub community on Twitter. It is still the best online group I’ve ever been a part of. If you’re a writer and you want a nonpolitical group of people to hang out with, you should look us up. We make jokes, we’re supportive, and we encourage writing.

About 20 of us are participating in the WFGC Hotel anthology. We’re all writing different stories with different genres, with the Hotel as the binding agent linking them together. When I post my story, I’ll provide a link so you can read the others. I’ve read a couple of them and they are fantastic.

We’ve all heard the story of an orphan that’s told he’s a wizard. Or, if you’ve gone to see Shazam recently you’ve seen a story where an orphan is told he’s a hero by a wizard. My story runs along the same lines, only my orphan, Jake, needs a bit more convincing.

I’m excited to share The Reluctant Apprentice with you. I had fun writing it, and I’m sure you’ll have fun reading it.

To prepare for this posting, I wanted to do some housekeeping with my blog and my web server hardware. It’s something I’ve been needing to do for a long time. Posting the short story became a good excuse to actually get it done.

My servers are in my garage, which is fine most of the time. In the summer, however, it gets pretty hot, and the oldest server does not like the heat. Actually, it doesn’t like much of anything. I brought it up almost 10 years ago, and it was an old computer back then. It should have been retired a long time ago.

My other server is tiny, hardened, utterly silent, and better in every meaningful way. I picked it up specifically so I could get off the old wheezer. I’m happy to say that as of a few hours ago, the move is done.

It was not easy. Since this is a writing blog and not a tech blog, I’ll spare you the details. When I first checked the blog after the move, I found a couple of things broken. Links to images wanted to use plain http but the new server is using https. I believe I’ve fixed the issues with images, but there may be other problems.

Email might be wonky. I’m hoping that the people subscribed get their posts per usual, but there’s a pretty good chance email still isn’t right. I’ve cranked up the security. It’s possible I’ve ratcheted it up so tight that nothing gets out. I’ll find out in the morning!

Speaking of tightening things, I’m on the last hole of my belt. I’ve been dieting since the beginning of March and I’ve managed to lose quite a bit of weight. As of this post, I’m just under 195. My official starting weight was 211, though I’m pretty sure I was 215 when we started the diet. Melissa and I have been doing it together since the beginning, and Bryanna joined us a couple of weeks ago. All three of us have lost a bunch of weight. We’re going to all be slim and sexy by summer.

That’s it for the update. Watch this space for the story on Tuesday! It’s going to be great!

03/11/19

Catching Up: Captain Marvel and Other Topics

Hello, friends and family! I’m still alive.

There’s a whole lot of things I’d like to talk about and they’re not all related. I’ll try to keep each section brief and easy to read, but I have a feeling I’m going to ramble. After this, I’ll try to post a little bit more regularly. But no promises.

Here’s what I’d like to talk about, in no particularly order:

  • My Captain Marvel Review
  • Latest Writing Successes
  • My Birthday!
  • March: A Very Busy Month
  • VLOG #3
  • The Hotel: A Short Story Project
  • Why Haven’t I Posted in So Long?

My Captain Marvel Review

I took the kids to see Captain Marvel on Thursday night last week. Melissa would have gone with us, but she knew that if she we went to the midnight showing in the middle of the week, she’d have to zombie her way through work the next day.

I’m not going to go into spoilers. In brief, our reactions were mixed. Bryanna fell asleep early on and slept through most of the movie. Chris left the theater with a huge grin, fist-pumping and talking about how we needed to buy it when it came out on Blue-Ray. As for me… my reaction lay somewhere between those two extremes.

To be fair, Bryanna hadn’t had enough sleep going into the late show, and her slumber probably had nothing to do with the movie. Boring isn’t quite the right word to describe the movie.

The movie felt like filler. Because of the setting (sometime in the 90s), I knew which characters were going to live. I never thought Carol Danvers was going to lose. I never thought Nick Fury was in any real danger. The future had already been shown to us, so none of the stakes of the movie grabbed me.

The special effects were great. Scratch that… the special effects were amazing! The de-aging of Sam Jackson and Clark Gregg was so perfect I stopped thinking about a few moments in. That’s incredible.

The movie was fine. Better than most DCEU movies, but not as good as Wonder Woman. It was fine. I’ll see it again with Melissa (and maybe Bryanna, since she didn’t really see it the first time.)

Latest Writing Successes

If you follow me on Facebook, you probably already know that I managed to get a short story into an anthology coming out this year. My story Unclaimed Goods will be appearing in Tales from The Goldilocks Zone released by Flying Ketchup Press.

This is huge news! It may be a small publisher based out of Kansas City that accepted me, but it’s still a major success on my road to getting my stories in front of people.

In addition, I made the favorites list on the Ink & Insights contest with the first 10,000 words of The Repossessed Ghost. I entered in the masters division and came in 7th out of about 150 contestants. Which reminds me… I should send a link to my blog. Hmm.

My Birthday!

Again, if you follow me on Facebook, you already know that my birthday was Tuesday, March 5th. Though I was a little grump at work that day, the evening was really nice. Melissa bought me a Switch, and the kids each bought me games for it.

I have Zelda: Breath of the Wild! And Super Smash Bros! And a cute little game called Moonlighter!

The last couple of days, I’ve mostly been playing Stardew Valley. It’s quiet enjoyment which is what I’ve craved lately.

March: A Very Busy Month

On Saturday night, the whole family went to see Michael Gallowglas’ live storytelling show on The Delta King. It might have been his best performance yet of Bard for Life. Michael drew a great, appreciative crowd, and he delivered.

This weekend, Bryanna and I are going to head up to Medford for a little bit. This is a targeted visit, with two main goals. First, I want Bryanna to meet Tim and talk to him. Tim is perhaps the greatest visual artist I’ve ever known, and Bryanna is majoring in art. These two need to talk. Second, I’m going to fix Tim’s computer. I need him to have tools. Also, it’s kind of a late birthday present for him.

Next weekend, I’m flying up to Seattle for a writing retreat on a train. I’m going to meet up with a couple of friends of mine from my Twitter writing community. Saturday morning, we’ll get on a train bound for Portland and write. In Portland, we’ll have dinner somewhere. Sunday morning, more writing on the train back to Seattle. This is going to be a really fun event, and I’m hoping to write lots of words.

I don’t know if I have plans for the last weekend of March. If I don’t now, I’m sure I’ll have some soon.

VLOG #3

I reached another milestone on Twitter and it’s past time for me to make another VLOG post. I’ve been dragging my feet a little bit. The weather hasn’t been spectacular, so my “filming location” has been unavailable. Also, I just haven’t been in the mood to do that kind of work.

Regardless of whatever funk I’ve been in, VLOG #3 is coming soon. Obviously it won’t be this weekend or the next for the reasons I mentioned in the previous section. If I find time in the middle of the week, I’ll shoot it, edit it, and post it. They’re only five minute videos, right?

Chances are good that I’ll be doing it the last weekend of this month. The topic will be about writer support systems, and I might allow myself to go slightly over five minutes for this one.

The Hotel: A Short Story Project

I’m participating with a number of people from my Twitter community to produce what can be described as an anthology spread across multiple blogs.

Originally, we were planning on writing stories with a common theme. The idea evolved into not just a common theme, but a common setting. It has stressed out a few people, and I’m not sure how many are still participating. We started with close to 45 participants. I think we’ll have significantly less by the time we post our stories.

I’m still planning on doing mine. I’ve got a really great idea. The pitch would be something along the lines of: What if Harry Potter was told he was a wizard, but then he needed a bit more convincing?

This week, I’m going to work on the first draft of that story. I’m really excited about it and I’m looking forward to sharing it, along with the links to the other related stories.

Why Haven’t I Posted in So Long?

The short answer is: I haven’t felt up to it.

The long answer is: I haaaaaavvvveeeeeeennnnn’t feeeeeeelt uuuuup tooo iiiiiiiit.

Haha.

Seriously, I’ve been in a little bit of a funk, and I’m trying not to post grumpy or sad stuff here. Work has been a little bit stressful. The news has been very stressful. I haven’t been playing music, and worse, I haven’t been writing.

I’ve been in a funk. Even the bright spot in February where I went to LTUE still had all the colors bleached out of it like a bad Zach Snyder film.

How do I get out of a funk like this? I focus on doing what I can do. I work. I pay the bills. I do the plumbing in the kitchen and clean the litter box. I play The Sims when I know I should be writing, and I try to forgive myself for falling a little bit short.

Tonight, on a Monday evening after a long day at work, I’m writing a blog post.

Tomorrow, I’ll write a story.

After that? Who knows what I’ll be capable of doing? The trick is to just do what you can, when you can. And then treat yourself with kindness and forgiveness.

11/26/18

Last NaNoWriMo 2018 Status

I guess I’ll just put this here:

Yay! I did it!

It’s actually been about a week since I crossed the 50,000 word milestone with the novel Synthetic Dreams.  I was hoping I’d finish the entire first draft before the end of the month, but I petered out last week.  By Thanksgiving, I needed to basically stop doing anything for a while.  This whole long weekend, I didn’t write, program, leave the house, or do anything that could in any way be described as “constructive.” I did laundry yesterday.  That was the extent of my productivity.

We need to take breaks every once in a while, and my need crept up out of nowhere.  Now it’s Monday.  I’m writing this post during my lunch break at work.  A few minutes ago, JPL landed a drill-bot on Mars and at the moment, I’m more excited about that little victory than anything else.

This is my last check-in for NaNo and I’m glad to report I now have a non-losing record.  3 out of 6 of my NaNo attempts have ended in a success.  Not too shabby.

I have a lot of friends that set out on this NaNoWriMo journey with me, and they aren’t going to hit 50,000 words by the month’s end.  For them, and for my future self, I want to take a moment to talk about what it really means to succeed at NaNoWriMo.

First of all, let’s keep it real.  I’m not going to try and cheer you up with a “participation is the REAL winning” kind of speech.  That’s not what this is about.

NaNoWriMo is purely about adding one more motivator to your writing engine.  That’s all it is.  You’re a writer 12 months out of the year and not just November.  50,000 words is an arbitrary goal during an arbitrary month.  It isn’t real and it doesn’t mean you’re not a real writer if you’re not hitting the 50k goal.

Necessity breeds creativity, and deadlines create both necessity and motivation.  When November started, we set for ourselves a deadline.  Write so many words in 30 days.  By framing the writing journey in such a way, we’re activating parts of our brain that we may not otherwise employ when sitting down to write a story.

There’s nothing wrong with that! It’s a good way to boost productivity.

Then there’s the competitive part of the experience.  When you’re comparing your word counts to those of your writing buddies, there is a part of you that is cheering them on.  There is also a part of you that really wants to win.  To get to 50,000 words first.  That’s another part of your brain that isn’t usually used during the writing process. While “winning” may not be the most noble of motivators, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.  It’s all about digging deep and getting creative.  The more of your brain you bring to the keyboard, the better.

If you wrote this month, you won.  The prize is your collection of words, which hopefully resembles a story.  The quality of the prize is directly proportional to the length and readability of the story you’ve created.  If you vomited 100,000 words into Word and it’s incomprehensible… well, that’s your prize.  If you crafted 10,000 words over the course of thirty days, but it’s exemplary writing… that’s your prize, too.

I reached 50,000 words in Synthetic Dreams and I felt great about it for a few minutes, but I’m not really ready to celebrate because the story isn’t finished.  I’m in the middle and that’s a treacherous place where slumps happen and plot threads unravel.  I love my characters, the premise, the world building, the ideas of the story… but what I’ve written is going to need a lot of editing.  There’s a great story here, but it’s not leaping from my head fully formed like Athena.  My story is an ugly duckling that’s going to need a lot of time and effort.

I’m going to keep going on this story.  I’m going to try and get the first draft finished before the end of the year, but there’s no guarantee that will happen.  Looking at my outline, I can safely say the end is still another 40,000 words away.  Once I get the first draft finished, I’ll check what’s next in my queue.

Tying back to NaNoWrMo, the next novel I’m probably going to write is a fantasy.  It’s basically The Bourne Identity meets Game of Thrones.  It was the novel I attempted my very first NaNoWriMo.  I wrote about 10,000 words that November, then another 20,000 words before I abandoned it to work on The Repossessed Ghost.  I still like the concept and the characters I created.  I haven’t given up on the idea.  I just needed to grow as a writer before I could do that story justice.  So, taking what I’ve learned over the last 3 or 4 stories, I’m going to write A Clean Slate and it’s going to be great.  It won’t be an official NaNoWriMo winner, but it will be a winner to me.

Whether you wrote 50,000 words or not this month, you still have a prize.  Enjoy it!  But also remember that it’s not done.  No one wants to read your unedited first draft.  The first draft is like a pencil sketch.  You still need to go through and do the inking and coloring, shading and texturing.

A first draft is an important beginning and worthy of being celebrated, but switching from art metaphors to cooking, it’s not done yet.  It needs to cook more.  Don’t serve your guests something raw.

If you’re a writer, I hope you’ve had tremendous success this month!  And if you’re not a writer, I hope you’ve at least done something creative that’s made you happy.

11/5/18

NaNoWriMo Check-in

It’s November 5th.  Tomorrow morning, I’m going to get up early and go vote.  Bryanna may be coming with me if we get up and go early enough.  Then it’s back to the grindstone at work, which has been as intense as expected.

I try NaNoWriMo most years.  Going into this year, I had very low expectations.  The story I’m writing is complicated in every conceivable way, from its lack of gender pronouns to its post-apocalyptic world building, from its complex character dynamics to its layered plot structure.  I knew this story would challenge me.

The previous years where I made the 50,000 word goal, the stories were written in first person.  Since I spent the entire preceding month writing blog posts which are naturally in first person, I entered November with applicable practice.  I always assumed that if I was ever going to succeed at a NaNoWriMo, I would have to write it in first person.   Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to generate the story fast enough.

I’m coming up on the end of Day 5.  According to the official web site, to be on track and make goal on November 30th, I should have 8,333 words written.

As I go to bed tonight, I’ll have completed 16,542.

At some point along the line, I went up a level.  Or maybe several levels.  Just last month, I didn’t think I was capable of producing quality writing at this speed.

Granted, this whole thing is going to need a ton of editing.  The lack of gender pronouns is making for some very clunky prose.  My descriptions of these synthetic humans can probably use some boosting, too.  Once I’ve finished the first draft, I’m going to have my work cut out for me when I hit the second draft.

But it’s not all bad!  In fact, quite a bit of the story is really good!  I’ve found inspiration in a number of places, and I think the story already hits some of the emotional depth I was aiming for.

Sunday morning, Michael Gallowglas asked me what my goals were with this story.  He said that I’ve already proven in past Novembers that I have the ability to produce.  So what am I doing this month?  Is it just about writing 50,000 words, or am I trying to make a great story?

As I explained to Michael, those two goals aren’t mutually exclusive.  I believe I am crafting a great story.  I’m just crafting it way faster than I thought I was capable.  Thinking about it today, I think I know why.

First, my inner editor has been remarkably silent as I’ve worked.  Some of it is due to the clunky prose I already mentioned.  My inner editor just doesn’t know what to do with it.  Some of it is because I’m experienced enough with NaNoWriMo that I’ve become better at ignoring the inner editor while drafting.  Practice pays off, my friends.  If it can work for me, it can work for you, too.

Another reason I’m blazing along is that I’m writing from the most complete outline I’ve ever produced.  It doesn’t go to the level that true plotters enjoy.  Jennifer Brozek, for example, would have a much more complete and detailed outline.  But what I have is doing what I need it to do, which is keep me focused and on track.

Here’s an example from the beginning of my outline:

Act I
Goal — Establish the world, the characters, set the tone for the story, and start each of the three cases which will act as the backdrop to the real story, which is the relationship between Dee-ehn and Jayvee

Scene — Dee-ehn and Jayvee investigate scene of an extremely violent and graphic murder
Scene — Dee-ehn and Jayvee interview victim’s neighbors
— We learn the victim kept to themselves
— First view of someone suffering from the virus
— Introduction to another character which may be important later
— We see how interacting with other synths is stressful for Dee-ehn
— We see how interacting with other synths is Jayvee’s strength
Scene — On the way to the bar
— We get our first view of Humanists. Maybe they’re protesting
— We’ll get some explanation of Humanists and Singulars as Dee-ehn and Jayvee argue about the two sects
Scene — At the bar
— This scene establishes the status quo and again demonstrates Dee-ehn’s shyness and Jayvee’s outgoing nature
— Jayvee might play some music. Something that lets Dee-ehn and Jayvee talk about their progenitors
— It’s in this scene we should hint that Dee-ehn’s progenitor is late stage viral

I’ve edited this a little bit to remove spoilers.  Also, I wound up cutting the “On the way to the bar” scene.

My outline is giving me a very basic road map of the story.  It details my goals, the location, and tells me where things are going.  It gives me an idea of what I’m trying to accomplish with each scene without going into too much detail.

I’m the first reader of this story as I’m writing it, so I don’t want too many details.  I may have spoiled the over-all plot for myself, but I can still discover some interesting things as I get down to drafting each scene.

The third thing going in my favor this year is my time management.  Instead of leaving for lunch during the work week, I’ve been mixing a glass of Soylent and heading to a secluded conference room where I can hide for an hour and write.  Each lunch, I’ve managed to write around 1000 words.

When I get home, I go right to the computer, hook up with my friends on twitter, and participate in sprints.  It’s incredibly liberating working to a timer.  I know that for as long as the clock is running, there isn’t anything else I need to do.  I can just focus on the story, craft the prose, learn more about the characters by revealing details, and do the work.  When the timer beeps, I stop writing and screw off for a little bit.  Rinse and repeat to victory.

There may be a fourth contributor to my success thus far, and it’s that I’m writing with two point-of-view characters.  It’s third person limited, and each chapter either follows Dee-ehn or Jayvee.  I’m working hard to keep it clear.  I avoid head-hopping in the middle of the scenes.  The transitions should be clear, and I don’t believe the reader will be confused.

Up until The Exorcism of Jack Evans, I always kept to a single point of view.  For this story, it felt very natural to alternate.  I think both characters are compelling, and it’s fun exploring their competing views.

I’m not going to have any problem reaching 50,000 words this month.  In fact, if I maintain this pace throughout the month, I might be able to finish the entire first draft before December.  If I manage that, it will be amazing, and a real milestone for how far I’ve come.

I’ll try to check in from time to time throughout the month.  I don’t want to spend too much time blogging because time spent writing a blog post is time I’m not writing Synthetic Dreams.  But, I do miss posting here.  I think Blog-tober went really well this year, and I’m humbled and glad that so many people stopped by to read what I have to say.

If you’re participating in NaNoWriMo this year, let me know how you’re doing!  I’d love to cheer you on and offer  encouragement.

If you’re not participating… you should give it a try some time!  You still have time to jump in this year.  There’s no financial commitment involved, and the exercise is valuable even if you fall short of the 50,000 word goal.

10/31/18

Short Fiction: Halloween Harvest

At the edge of town, along a gravel road that stretched between lonely, rundown farm houses, Toby ran from Dana. Toby, a seventh grader and small for his age, pumped his arms and legs, moving with a desperation reserved for night terrors and closet monsters. Dana, an eighth grader that towered over the rest of his class, pursued with a wolf’s grace, each of his long-legged strides covering as much ground as two of Toby’s. The bully closed in on his prey. The cadence of their passing made quiet thunder and left a cloud of dust in their wake.

Toby could see his home off in the distance as he ran. A long, rude fence separated Toby from salvation, along with a broad field of tall, scraggly, brown grass. Just ahead of him, a gap in the fence marked the driveway. He sprinted harder.

Dana reached forward. His hand found Toby’s backpack. The smaller boy missed a step. He went down hard, the bully falling on top of him. Both boys tumbled across the gravel road, collecting fresh scrapes and bruises.

The bully recovered first. He grabbed the front of Toby’s jacket, hauling the smaller boy up and throwing him against the closest fence post. Toby bounced off, landing on all fours at Dana’s feet.

“Where is it?” Dana’s voice echoed across the field, sending a pair of birds into the air.

“Where is what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Dana held Toby with one hand as he raised the other into a threatening fist. “That weird flashlight. Where is it?”

“Please!”

Dana swung. Knuckles struck Toby’s cheek. His head snapped back with the blow, the dull crack chasing the echoes of Dana’s voice.

“Where is it?”

Toby held up his hands to shield his face. He tried to pull himself from Dana’s grip, but the bully held firm. Neither of them noticed the long-haired, black cat slip past the fence to stand a few feet away from the boys. Not until it hissed.

“Is he yours?” Dana asked, nodding towards the cat.

“Misty is a she. Leave her alone!”

Dana released his grip on Toby’s jacket. The smaller boy fell hard on his back. As Toby rubbed his cheek with one hand, Dana lurched towards the cat. The feline took a step back, but not fast enough or far enough to escape Dana. The bully brought one hand down, grabbed, then picked up the cat gripping it by the scruff of the neck.

“Got you,” Dana said, straightening and holding the cat out in front of him. Misty made a deep, angry noise from the back of her throat, but remained motionless in Dana’s grip, her front paws sticking stiffly in front of her.

“Let her go!”

“No. I’m going to count to three, then I’m gonna see how far I can kick him if you don’t give me the light.”

“I don’t know what you-”

“One.”

“Please! She’s a good kitty, you can’t-”

“Two.”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t-”

“Three.”

Dana turned, raising the cat a little higher. He took a step forward, a football player starting the motion of a kick-off. One step. Two steps. His foot went back.

“Wait! I’ll give it to you!”

Dana stopped. He lowered the cat but did not release it. When he turned back to Toby, he wore a smug, triumphant grin.

“Please, just let her go. I’ll get you the light. Just don’t hurt Misty.”

“Give me the light first. Then I’ll let her go.”

“I can’t.” Toby wrung his hands in front of him, his eyes fixed on his pet. “I don’t have it with me.”

“Bullshit.” Dana turned towards the field again.

“Wait! I’ll show you!”

Toby unslung his backpack and unzipped it. He upended it, dumping school books and papers into the dirt at his feet. After emptying the bag, he reached into his jeans pockets and turned them inside out. A few wadded bills and some loose change joined the pile at his feet.

“I don’t believe it.”

“You can search me! Just let my cat go. Let her go, and I’ll show you where it is. We’re not far from it.”

As fast as Dana’s hands had been catching the cat, he considered Toby’s words with glacial slowness. Time stretched between the two boys. A tear slipped from the corner of Toby’s eye, carving a slow path across the bruise growing on his cheek. Just as Toby opened his mouth to make his case again, Dana opened his hand. The cat fell to the ground and darted off into the scrub grass.

“Fine. Show me.”

“Okay.” Toby released a held breath. He looked off in the direction Misty had run before kneeling to pick up his things.

“Leave it,” Dana said. He moved closer and kicked one of Toby’s books into the road.

Toby straightened. He looked at his books, his unfinished homework, his box of pencils which had cracked open and spilled yellow number twos onto the gravel. Then he looked into Dana’s face. With a shiver, he turned and began to walk.

The smaller boy walked in front of the larger, the bully close enough to reach forward and prod Toby in the back. They moved in silence, Toby leading Dana past the fence and down the driveway. Instead of heading on to the farmhouse, with its clean white walls and short rise of stairs leading to a red door, Toby turned down a side path, leading towards a dilapidated barn.

“In there?” Toby punctuated the question with a shove to Toby’s back.

“I like to play in there, sometimes.”

“I don’t care what you do in there. If we go in and there’s no light, you’re dead meat.”

They stopped in front of the rundown barn. If the bare, warped planks that made up the front door had ever held a drop of paint, it had been washed away long ago. The barn sagged ever so slightly to one side as if too tired to sit up straight. In contrast to the weather-worn door and the dry, crackling leaves leading up to it, a length of silver chain held the barn closed.

“Locked?” Dana asked. He balled up a fist and smacked it into his open palm, like a baseball player prepping his mitt.

Toby said nothing. He reached down through the neck of his shirt and drew out a chain holding several keys. He selected one, bent in front of the door, and worked the lock until it opened with a click.

Dana stepped forward and threw open the door before Toby could free the key from the lock. The smaller boy choked as the chain pulled him to one side. Dana gave the barn door another shove, laughing at Toby’s pain before stepping into the dark structure.

Rays of afternoon sunlight sliced through gaps in the western wall of the barn, lighting up thin spider webs stretched between the rafters like strands of gold. The corpse of a broken-down tractor peeked out from the deepest shadows of the barn, its rusted bulk listing to one side on flat tires. The straw-floored space contained tools and farm implements, mundane equipment and other sundries that Dana ignored. A clean black table standing at the center of the barn became the focus of Dana’s attention. A broad shaft of sunlight broke through a hole in the west wall, illuminating the table’s contents.

An old copper pot squatted at the left side of the table, its small handles poking out on each side like cat ears. Opposite the pot, a number of dinner plates sat, covered in cookies, brownies, fudge, and assorted Halloween candy.

“What’s this?” Dana asked, reaching for one of the plates.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Ha. Watch me.”

Dana plucked one of the pieces of fudge off a plate and tossed it in his mouth. He turned and leaned against the table. Chewing with his mouth open, he stared defiance at Toby. The bully swallowed, and silence filled the space between the two boys. Then Dana turned to grab another chocolate treat.

As the bully’s finger touched an orange and brown square, golden light filled the pot. The illumination grew in brightness until it seemed that the ridged copper pot held a piece of the sun itself. A fragrance like cinnamon and honey wafted out from the depths of the blazing vessel.

Dana stood transfixed, one hand still extended towards the candy. The light filled his eyes, narrowing his pupils to pinpricks. The scent filled his nostrils. Then he began to change.

His skin blackened like charcoal as though scorched by the golden light pouring out of the pot. His eyes pushed outward, the soft irises flattening, his pupils splitting, then splitting again and again until two, black, multifaceted gems stood in the place where his eyes had been. His mouth twisted and mandibles protruded from his cheeks like a pair of down-turned tusks.

The transformation began slow, then ended in a rush. One moment, Dana stood there, his body becoming strange and monstrous. The next, the boy was gone. Where his hand had been, one finger touching a piece of candy, a small black spider stood, its long, yellow-striped arms twitching.

The light went out of the cauldron. It became a simple pot once again, and the scent of Autumn magic diminished. Toby stepped closer to the table and looked at the spider, shaking his head.

“Toby? Is everything okay?” The female voice floated in through the barn door. Before the boy could respond, Toby’s mother appeared in the doorway.

“I’m okay. But we have another spider.”

“Oh, dear.” Toby’s mother stepped up next to her son. She tilted her head to one side as she studied the spider amongst the Halloween treats. Then she saw Toby’s swollen red cheek and the dirt covering his jeans. “Did he do that to you?”

“Yeah.” Toby touched the bruise, then lowered his hand.

Toby’s mother looked back at the spider, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment of consideration, she raised her foot, slipped off her shoe, and raised it over her head.

“Mom, don’t!” Toby said. “I think he saw me playing with a will-o-the-wisp at school yesterday. It’s my fault. I should have been more careful.”

“Oh, Toby.” She lowered her shoe, still staring daggers at the striped arachnid. “Okay. I won’t smash him. But I think he deserves to stay that way until he learns a lesson. Where’s your backpack?”

“It’s back at the road. Will you stay with me while I go get it?”

“Of course, dear. Tell me everything that happened.”

Toby’s mother slipped the shoe back on her foot, then rested a hand on her son’s shoulder. They left together, Toby recounting everything that happened. As they walked, Toby’s mother drew upon the afternoon sunlight and the Autumn breeze to weave a simple healing spell. She laid the magic on Toby’s cheek while he talked, the mother’s love already at work to set things right.

So wrapped up in the retelling and the magic, neither of them remembered to close the barn door. Neither of them saw Misty creep in from the tall grass, stalking into the barn. The long-haired cat sought a kind of justice of her own.

10/30/18

Remembering my Father

I’m writing this on October 30th, but most people that see this post are going to see it on Halloween.  Tomorrow, October 31st 2018 marks 30 years since my Dad’s death.

I’m 45.  I’ve lived twice as long without my Dad as I’ve lived with.  It’s crazy because I still get a little bit melancholy around this time of year.  Not as bad as it used to be, but my mood definitely takes a dip.

This isn’t the first time I’ve written about my father on Halloween.  I don’t want to repeat myself too much.  I loved him and I still miss him.  I wish he could have met my family.

When someone important to us passes away, we tend to idolize them and put them on a pedestal.  I know I’ve done this with my Dad to an extent, but I’ve tried my best to remember him as he was.  He did a lot of things right and I want to emulate him in those ways.  At the same time, I want to avoid some of the mistakes he made.

He loved me and my Mom and my sister unconditionally.  He put up with a lot of our garbage, and we were really good at being assholes.  As a kid, I accomplished demolition levels of damage.  I took a claw hammer to our furniture.  I smashed fences with my thick skull.  I broke windows and dishes and I wrote my name with a permanent marker on walls and washing machines.  He endured Hurricane Brian, and he didn’t stay mad at me for long.

We usually lived fairly close to whatever school I was attending.  I could have — should have — been getting myself up using an alarm clock and walking to school.  He liked to spoil me.  He’d wake me in the morning, make sure I had breakfast, and he’d drive me to school.  I took it for granted.

I took him for granted.

He wasn’t perfect.  He was an alcoholic until about 4 or 5 years before he died.  He smoked, too.  He knew I didn’t like him smoking so he pretended to quit.  He was comically bad at hiding it.  One time, my sister and I approached him at a diner.  He didn’t have anywhere to hide his cigarette so he threw it on the floor, on the other side of the counter.  The waitress looked down at the stub of cigarette, then looked back at my Dad with a hard, flat look.  He didn’t meet her eyes.  He just took a sip from his coffee cup before turning to greet me and my sister.

He didn’t sleep in a bed.  He’d fall asleep every night in a big chair in the living room.  Towards the end, there’d be reruns of Hill Street Blues playing as he passed out.  Before settling down for the night, he’d fix himself a pot of coffee, drink it down, and then either read or watch TV.  He was apparently immune to the effects of caffeine.

My Mom worked and my Dad stayed at home and took care of the house.  He did most of the cooking.  Usually that was great.  Sometimes, however, he’d make baked chicken which usually came out under-cooked.  To this day, my sister and I have a difficult time eating baked chicken, even when it’s prepared properly.  My Dad also made a nasty fish soup.  It might as well have been left-over dish water.  I couldn’t stand it, and he was the kind of parent that insisted that kids eat what is given to them.  We tested our stubbornness against each other several times over food I found too horrific to eat.

For a while, my Dad and I would go out every Thursday evening to Skipper’s in Medford.  I’d get the fish and chips and he’d get clam chowder.  A bowl of chowder came with my fish and chips on Thursdays, so I’d give the bowl to my Dad because I hated chowder at the time.  We’d eat and talk, usually about school or bowling or whatever was going on in my life.  It was a good time.

Much later, I discovered my tastes had changed and I actually liked clam chowder.  Every time I have some now, I think of my Dad and those Thursday nights at Skippers.

That’s all I have left of him.  Some scattered memories of inconsequential moments that add up to a warm and comforting whole.  Like a quilt in my mind.

He was born on Valentine’s Day in 1914 and he died on Halloween in 1988.  There’s a lot of time in between that I know nothing about.  One of my bigger regrets is not getting to know him better.  I was a punk kid.  I can forgive myself to an extent, because I was just acting my age.  Still, I wish I’d taken more time to ask him personal questions.

We spend so much time wrapped up in our own thoughts and feelings that we take for granted that the ones we love might not be there tomorrow.  We have to do this, of course.  Living on eggshells and constantly clinging to the people around us like they’re about to die is no way to live.  But maybe we can do better.

I think that’s all I have to say about my Dad tonight.  If your Dad is still around, do me a favor.  Take them out and share a meal.  It doesn’t have to be fish and chips and chowder, though that worked pretty well for me and my Dad.  Share a meal and ask him questions.

We only get one shot at this life.  Enjoy your Dad while you can.