I hoped to find myself and my writing voice by going to the retreat. Though writing is a solitary activity, where the writer crawls into their own skull to mine their thoughts and imagination to produce words, we are still social animals. Being around other writers can be rejuvenating. Did the retreat accomplish everything I hoped?

Mostly.

It reminded me that I have skills as a writer. The retreat generated fuel for my passion, but on its own, didn’t reignite the fire. However, it reminded me that after years of taking this seriously, I acquired tools and abilities to not only make my stories better, but to push through writing blocks. While I didn’t generate a lot of words, I managed to push my most recent short story forward a little bit, and I know how to get to the end.

I don’t remember if I talked much about my current story. A writer acquires a magic typewriter and begins writing the best story he’s ever written. When he’s not working on the story, he becomes more and more depressed. But he discovers that as soon as he finishes the story, he will die.

When I started the story, the writer sat in a coffee shop, staring at a blinking cursor. I intentionally started it from an autobiographical perspective, grounding the opening in my own lived in experience. I didn’t realize how of myself I was putting into the story, though. He pines over this story he’s written, the way someone might long for their soulmate. I didn’t know that part was autobiographical until later, when I found myself procrastinating writing this story by reading parts of Synthetic Dreams.

I still haven’t finished the first set of revisions for Synthetic Dreams, and it distracts me from all of my other writing. It’s my favorite story that I’ve ever written. I may have to finish the revisions for that story this month, so that my mind will be clear for the new novel next month.

The retreat helped me get in a better headspace for writing. It meant a lot being around other writers again, and socializing, and being a part of something bigger. There were moments during the retreat where I felt like I was paying back to the community, at least a little. I learned so much over the last decade or so, and every once in a while on the ship, I had opportunities to share.

I’m not sure I’m completely right in my heart and my mind, but I’m writing again. I committed to writing something here every day, and this post will make 5 for 5. If I make it ten days in a row, I’m confident I can make all 31. And if I can do that, maybe I’ll be able to write every day in November and get the next novel out of my heart and onto the page.

It feels good to write again.

“This is not the greatest song in the world, no. This is just a tribute.”

Tenacious D

One morning on the cruise, Melissa and I ate breakfast with several other writers in the Windjammer. The opportunity arose to tell the story of how Melissa and I met. It’s one of my favorite stories to tell because it involves a lot of build-up.

The thing about the story of how I met Melissa is that there are two stories. In the Windjammer, talking to Jamie, Shawn, and John, I was able to tell the first part without interruption.

Melissa and I were both in the Air Force, and we both lived on the same floor of the same dorm. After a long day, on my way to my room, I passed Melissa and her best friend Smith sitting on the hallway floor. I heard Melissa complaining about the hot chocolate they were drinking. Something about the drinks being “chalky.” As I entered my room, I remembered that I recently received a care package from my Mom. I heated up some water, cleaned a couple of cups, and brought out a hot apple cider and offered it to Melissa. She hadn’t had hot cider before, and loved it.

Not long after that, I was playing pool in the dayroom downstairs. Melissa sauntered in, leaned against the table, and asked, “Do you have a car?” I said that I did. Then she asked, “Do you want to take me into town to see a movie?” I agreed.

This is the nice half of the story, because everything is fresh and new, and you can imagine the two of us finding happiness with each other. I managed to tell this part of the story without interruption. But then things got interesting in The Windjammer.

When there is an alarm for the crew, an announcement is made over the loudspeaker in code. “Bravo Bravo Bravo” means there is a fire somewhere, for example. We heard “Alpha Alpha Alpha” which meant that someone needed medical attention. I paused the story so we could talk about the alarm and the implications, because I’m not a monster.

The thing is, the story of how Melissa and I met is best told without interruptions, because of the flow and the build-up. To resume, I had to reveal more details and draw it out a little more, to make sure the timing and emotional impact is just right.

If one were to consider going out to dinner and seeing a movie as a date, then Melissa and I had our first date in late 1994. Her friend Smith came with us, so maybe it wasn’t a date. Who can say? From a certain point of view, Melissa and I never really dated. We met, some stuff happened, and then we got married on July 29th, 1995.

I had a trip coming up where I needed to drive to Albuquerque to pick up my friend Arison from the airport. It’s a 4 hour drive from Alamogordo, and I asked Melissa if she’d like to go with me, thinking she’d say no. To my surprise, she said yes.

In Albuquerque, I took her to Yesterdaves, a restaurant with a 50’s diner feel. Melissa was very impressed, but not nearly as impressed as when we went to the airport and Airson greeted her. Arison was tall and imposing, and he emerged the gate wearing garb, with a huge bag slung over his shoulder. He bowed and kissed Melissa’s hand, another first for her.

On the way back to Alamogordo, with Arison sleeping in the back of my car, Melissa and I held hands for the first time.

In the Windjammer, another alarm sounded, and we stopped to listen and interpret it. At this point, the interruptions themselves became a humorous part of the storytelling. I wondered if I was going to be able to tell the story at all. Since the timing was thrown off so much, I didn’t think it would land correctly. The emotional payoff wouldn’t be worth it.

The thing is, everything I just told you about how Melissa and I met… it wasn’t really our first meeting. We thought so at the time, but the actual first meeting was something much less romantic. I figured it out later, not long before we decided to get married.

To understand what our first meeting was really like, I have to tell you a little about what I did on base, and I have to talk about Building 1020.

As I relayed this information to the people at the table in the Windjammer, several of them started laughing. They provided their own interruptions. I laughed, too, but I worried that the story was already ruined.

I was attached to the 83rd Air Control Squadron, but I was on loan to the base, fixing computers for the Comm squadron. I’d get a list of trouble tickets to resolve, borrow one of the vans, and drive around the base with my bag, resolving both hardware and software problems. One morning, I needed to go to Building 1020.

What happens in Building 1020? To this day, I have no idea. I pulled up in my van, got out, and approached a fence. On the other side of a gate was about 20 yards of “killzone,” with a couple of guys guarding the space from an elevated position with M-16s. At the gate, a telephone hung, waiting for visitors. There are no buttons on this phone to dial. You pick it up, put it to your ear, and it automatically rings to someone at the front desk of Building 1020.

After they answered, I said, “This is Airman Buhl from the Comm squadron. I’m here to fix a computer.” The person at the front desk pushed a button and I heard a click from the gate. I opened it, walked across the killzone, and entered the building. Just inside, they took my bag and searched it while someone else patted me down. Once they were satisfied, they returned my bag, then reached under the desk and flipped a switch. Blue lights mounted to the ceiling throughout the building came on and started spinning. This was the signal to everyone in the building that a stranger was in the area, and they needed to take whatever they were working on and put it away until the stranger left.

This was my experience of visiting Building 1020. From the outside, it looked like it might have been 3 stories, but it could have had subterranean levels. Maybe they worked on fancy new weapons. Maybe they researched alien technology. I don’t know, and I will never know. It was a mystery that spawned rumors and fireside stories, and I kind of love it.

In the Windjammer, we heard 7 short blasts, followed by a long blast. We knew this as the signal for everyone to go to their muster station. Upon boarding the ship, everyone is taught this, so we all got up from the table and headed for the door. No one else in the Windjammer seemed to be acknowledging the alarm, though. At the door, we asked one of the crew why no one else appeared to be headed for muster.

“It’s a drill for the crew,” they said. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

We were relieved, and we laughed and went separate ways. I did not get to finish the story. I told them if the chance came up later, I’d give them the rest, but the opportunity did not arise, so they didn’t get the emotional payoff I hoped to deliver. As told, the story must have been somewhat unsatisfying. They heard me describe how Melissa and I met, and then I talked about some weird, high security building. What did one have to do with the other?

I didn’t get to finish for them, but since you’ve read this far, and you’ve been patient with all of these interruptions, I’ll give the rest to you now. You’ve been a good audience, and even though this post is about the telling of the story, I’ll deliver to you what I could not deliver to them.

After I left Building 1020, I had a number of other jobs to complete around the base. None of them were as intimidating as the experience at Building 1020. None of the jobs were particularly complicated or memorable, either. Not until I drove out to the 7th and 8th Fighter Squadron, which is where the F-117A stealth fighters were stationed.

As I understand it, the F-117A is a fighter in name only. It’s an air wing and it cannot fly without the computer on board constantly making adjustments, just to keep the plane flying straight. It can reach mach-1, qualifying it to be called a fighter, but it’s really a small bomber. It’s not meant for dogfights.

These planes were super expensive and high profile, so when I went to the front door of the administrative building, I was not surprised to see a phone hanging just outside. Earlier that day, I’d visited building 1020, so I knew the drill. I picked it up and called inside.

Someone answered and I said, “This is Airman Buhl from the Comm squadron. I’m here to fix a computer.”

“So?” the young woman on the other end said.

“Can you buzz me in?”

“Open it yourself. The door is open.”

When I saw the phone hanging next to the door, I didn’t bother trying to open it. After I hung up, I opened the door and made my way to the computer that I was supposed to fix. The young woman that answered the phone pointed and laughed at me, and kept laughing at me while I worked.

“What a bitch,” I thought.

And that is was the actual first time Melissa and I met. Weeks later, I met her again in the hall of the dorm, but neither one of us recognized each other. It wasn’t until later when I found out where she worked that I was able to put it together.

A few weeks ago, I went and saw Shang-Chi in theaters. I really enjoyed it! But my experience being out of my house, surrounded by strangers, felt uncomfortable. I pulled myself into my seat, trying to be as small as I could be. I remained that way until the movie ended and I left the theater.

Next, Melissa and I traveled for our vacation. We flew Delta, going from Sacramento to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Houston. From there, we bused with our group to Galveston, boarded the Independence of the Seas, and had a really great time with the Writing Excuses Retreat 2021. Melissa and I remained on the ship the whole time. When the retreat finished, we again bused to Houston and flew the reverse of the course that brought us there.

Yesterday, I played with a swing band at a wedding, which took place in someone’s backyard. There were around 70 guests, and no one was wearing a mask. I wore my mask when not playing, and in general, I tried not to get too close to anyone that wasn’t in the band.

I’m describing all of this because these have been moments of tension. I’m aware of every person around me that isn’t wearing a mask, or that is wearing one improperly. There were plenty of chin-strappers at the airport on the way home from the retreat. My heart beats a little faster. It bothers me, and I don’t want to add myself to the list of people potentially spreading a deadly virus.

That’s the crux of it. While I’m a little bit worried about catching the virus and getting sick myself, I’m more worried about spreading it. Through action or inaction, I do not want to endanger another person’s life.

Yet there I was yesterday, playing my sax at stranger’s wedding, after I’d done all of this traveling.

I am vaccinated, and I’ve been doing a lot to make sure I don’t become a vector. I work from home. I wear a mask whenever I’m out. I wash my hands and I social distance. I can’t say I’ve done everything to be safe now, though, since I went out and played at that event. If I was an asymptomatic break-through case and spread Covid to that wedding, that’s entirely on me, and I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.

I played the gig because it felt like the universe was telling me to do it. There’s a section in Acts I could quote to back up what I’m saying, but I’m not going to use The Bible to justify my actions. The timing made me believe this was something I was supposed to do, so I did it. Today, I’m reflecting and trying to see if there is something I can learn from this experience.

Maybe I’ve been too uptight about spreading Covid, and this experience is trying to teach me that I can continue to exercise caution while still going out and supporting people. Or, maybe I’m supposed to see that I’ve been living too much in fear, and I need to let that go and just follow my conscience.

If I find out that the wedding became a superspreader event and I’m part of the cause, I’ll learn a completely different lesson.

Looking at the numbers, it seems like there’s still a lot of time in front of all of us to learn some of these lessons.

I mentioned yesterday that I had a gig today. I played with the Swing Collective, which is basically the reboot of RC Swing. Most of the people I played with tonight were part of RC Swing. The music folder I used was the same one I turned in when I left the band. My handwriting is still on the sheet music.

It was a bit like stepping back in time, and it was exactly what I needed.

To fully appreciate what this meant to me, I have to tell you about one of the evenings on the cruise. Deck 5 is the promenade, and I was walking across it with a group of other writers. Above the promenade, a small band played some swing music. A tenor, trumpet, trombone, drums, and bass player. They sounded great, and it made my heart hurt a little. I wanted to be up there with them, playing and making music. I hadn’t felt that kind of longing to play my sax in years, and it hit hard in the middle of my vacation.

The next morning, I had an email from one of the people I used to play with in RC Swing. He needed someone to sub in on Alto, and he wanted to know if I was interested.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. We were flying home on Monday night. Practice on Tuesday. Muddle through the rest of the week, then play the gig Saturday evening. I said yes, and it was great!

I was afraid I wouldn’t play very well. I haven’t touched my instrument in a long time, and I was afraid I’d be too rusty to perform. While I could have done better, I think I played pretty well. It made me very happy to play again.

So why did I quit in the first place? Does this mean I’m going to try to play again?

I quit because I wanted to prioritize my writing. From 2013 to 2017, I didn’t finish any major stories. Those were the years I was participating in two bands, plus administration, plus work. I spread myself too thin, and my writing suffered. I left RC Swing in late 2017, and just after that, I finished Spin City. The next year, I finished the first half of Synthetic Dreams. The next year after that, I managed to get my first short story published.

Taking a break from band directly lead to me finishing writing projects and advancing that part of my life. I made the right decision, even though I’ve really missed playing music.

Maybe I can just stay on the sub list. It’s a lot less responsibility and a lower time commitment. I get to keep playing when the opportunity arises.

They asked if I could sub again this month on the 22nd. I’d need to be at practice again this Tuesday. I told them I needed to check with Melissa first and make sure I didn’t accidentally double book. I also wanted to get her opinion on whether or not I should keep doing this, because I have a history of not thinking clearly when it comes to making commitments to band.

The Surrey International Writers Conference is that weekend, so I think I’m going to have to turn this one down. It’s only one night, but… this is why I quit band in the first place. To prioritize my writing over my music.

I’ll think about it. I had a lot of fun tonight, and it fed a part of my soul that had been starving.

It’s that time of year again! A full month of writing to prepare me for a full month of writing!

Thirty-one posts in as many days. It’s harder than it sounds.

Previous years, I went into this month with a plan, which really helped. I figured out a theme and topics in advance, set myself a schedule, and then checked off the list each day. Sometimes I’d change up the plan a little bit. I was often surprised by how well some topics worked, and some I’d been looking forward to failed to work.

This month, I don’t have much of a plan yet. I asked on Twitter what topics people would like me to include, and I received two responses: 1) Things that make me happy and 2) Music I like to play while I’m writing.

I’m not sure I can make much of a post out of the second one, since I don’t write very well while music is playing. At least, not music with lyrics. I’ll see if I can come up with some music themed posts, though.

As for what makes me happy… wow. That question always catches me off guard.

Since I’m freshly back from a vacation, the question of what makes me happy isn’t sending me into an existential crisis. At this moment, it just hits me as a curiosity. What makes me happy? Writing? Music? Games?

This month, I’ll try to come up with as many posts as I can relating to topics that make me happy. I’m not sure how many posts that will wind up being. More than 3, but probably less than 10.

At some point, I’ll probably write about the novel I’m going to start next month. Maybe I’ll also talk about the short story I’ve been working on, and the revisions for Synthetic Dreams.

I’ll give Blog-Tober a solid attempt, but I’m not going to stress over it. And, if I fall short of my goal, I’ll probably reconsider whether or not I have enough fuel in the tank to do NaNoWriMo.

However it goes, I’m going to relax into it.

On a completely different topic, I have a gig tomorrow. I get to play with most of the people I played with in RC Swing. Mostly the same music, too. It’s going to be a lot of fun. I’ll probably dedicate a topic to the performance, and maybe reflect on the decision I made to leave band a few years ago. In hindsight, was it the right decision? Come by later in the month and I’ll tell you all about it.

I’m typing this from the conference room of the Independence of the Seas. I’m participating in the Writing Excuses Retreat 2021. It’s Sunday, there’s no land in site, and through some very impressive techno-wizardry, I’m submitting this post from the Caribbean.

This week has been pretty amazing. It’s the first vacation Melissa and I have taken together since the start of the pandemic, and we really needed this. The Writing Excuses community is fantastic, and it has been food for our soul to be able to connect with people again. Some faces are new to us, some or old friends, and we have felt welcome and part of the whole.

The weather has been pleasant, and the ship has been steady beneath us, yet it’s been a little bit of a bumpy ride for me, at least emotionally. Some of it has to do with the pandemic. I’m out of practice meeting people. I’ve never had a surplus of social grace, and I struggled all week trying to connect with people in a meaningful and satisfying fashion. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, congratulations! You’re probably an extrovert!

I came onto the ship aware of my writing problems, which is knowing how to talk about my stories. Over the course of the week, I have found some answers. I have a lot of practice to do to grow the skill, but now I feel like I have enough information that the exercise will actually serve me.

While stumbling through talking about Synthetic Dreams, I hit a point where I lost all confidence and started questioning why I’m even writing at all. I went for a long walk on the ship, trying to process my emotions and doing a bad job of it. I wound up talking to Mary Robinette that evening, and she was able to help get me settled down. In the process, she suggested I may have forgotten why I write, and maybe I should look at that.

I have written about this before. All of the reasons I listed 7 years ago are still applicable. My previous post talks about why I want to write, but it doesn’t necessarily touch on why I need to write.

When I’m not writing, I’m more prone to depression. Writing stabilizes me and grounds me. I entertain many creative outlets, but writing gives me something permanent that I can easily share with other people.

Also, my stories are a form of immortality. I’m so afraid of being forgotten. I recently wrote about feeling like I won’t live to old age. If I can just write something of value, something that can mean something to other people, it will give my life meaning.

I suppose that’s the simple, ignoble answer.

Why do I write?

I write to satisfy my hubris.

I keep running away from people and I don’t know how to stop.

A few years ago, I realized Facebook was making me really unhappy. I thought about deleting my account, but that meant completely cutting off a few people I didn’t want to lose. It also would have impacted some games I enjoy which depend on Facebook for credentials. I decided I just wouldn’t engage with Facebook as much. For a while, that was enough and things got better.

Recently, I had a bad experience on Twitter, so I’ve been withdrawing from that space, too. There was someone there I thought of as a friend. We shared stories with each other. I thought we were fine, but then I found out they blocked me. I was shocked. I have no idea what I might have done or said that ended that relationship. When I reached out to some mutual friends, I didn’t find any kind of reassurance or understanding. It threw me for a loop.

It calls into question all of the relationships I thought I had in that space. Some of these people I’ve met in person. I thought we were friends, but maybe I’ve been fooling myself.

I don’t want to be hurt again. I don’t want to get close to someone, make myself vulnerable, and give them the power to break my heart.

At the same time, the pandemic is keeping me apart from people I care about. Withdrawing from social media means I’m giving up the illusion of socialization. I’m lonely and taking actions that will make me lonelier.

It’s more complicated than that and I’d be lying if I said social media was the only problem. We all know social media is like junk food. A little bit every once in a while is fine, but a steady diet of it will make you sick. My problem with loneliness isn’t just the pandemic or social media. I was withdrawing from people well before COVID-19 impacted our lives.

A few years ago, one of my oldest friends told me that if I cared about him, I’d leave him alone. He said my presence in his life hurt him. So, I stopped reaching out to him. I did care for him. Still do, in fact. If it’s a choice between hurting myself or hurting another person, I’ll take the pain upon myself.

Many years ago, someone told me that when I entered the room, I sucked out all of the oxygen. We weren’t particularly close, but I don’t think he was saying that just to hurt me. Maybe he was trying to help me through tough love or something. His words sit with me every time I enter a crowded room.

A few people have reached out to me to check on me in the last year and a half. Maybe I give off the impression of someone that has their shit together so well that they don’t need to be checked on. Maybe I’ve remained distant from people so long that when I’m no longer visible, I evaporate from people’s memories. I don’t know.

It has me questioning everything. My writing. My self-worth. My future.

I don’t know how people make friends and keep them. I think it has to do with a willingness to put time and effort into a relationship, and to allow oneself to be vulnerable. That’s probably exactly it, and I just don’t know how to do those things. Not anymore.

Why do you write like you’re running out of time?

Write day and night, like you’re running out of time?

Lin-Manuel Miranda

Earlier this week, I was training one of our new hires with another of the senior programmers in a virtual meeting. We were looking at the way the application deals with Holidays, which is to list them all out in a database so they can be tied to pages by an ID. It’s a limited, inefficient approach, but that’s not important right now. The holidays are metadata for this system we were working on, and it was our job to update the metadata in a separate system so that it stretched out to 2036.

One of the people on the phone said to the young trainee, “In the 30’s, it’ll be your job to update this.”

He responded, “You don’t think you’ll still be here?”

The person on the phone said, “We’ll be retired by then. Millionaires. Buhl will be a Best Seller.”

Trainee, “Then I’ll just call you up.”

I said, without thinking, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be dead by then.”

The person on the phone laughed. The trainee said, “What? That’s just a few years from now.”

I laughed and played it off and we kept on with the training. For a moment, I let something slip. It would have been a really awkward conversation at work, but maybe I can unpack it a little bit here.

For some reason, I’m casually convinced I’m not going to live all the way through my 50s. It sounds morbid and depressing, but it’s something I just accept as a given. Tomorrow, the sun will rise in the east and set in the west. My family will still love me. Social media will still be one of our Big Mistakes. And sometime in the next 6 to 8 years, I’ll stop being alive.

What convinced me of this? It’s not one particular piece of evidence, but more like a collection of ideas that collectively feel like a dark prognostication.

Let’s start with genetics. I don’t have any information on the biological, paternal side, but I have some on my maternal side. My Mom, my biological grandmother, died when she was 68. Not super young, granted, but she was sick for years before that. She spent most of her last few years in and out of hospitals, getting treated mostly for heart issues. She held on to 68 out of sheer stubbornness.

Leslie, my Mom’s 4th/5th (it’s complicated) daughter and my biological mother, died in 2010, I think. I found out well after it happened. She lived in Israel at the time, and we weren’t particularly close. That means she died when she was between 53 and 55. I don’t remember exactly what killed her. I remember she had a tumor on her liver. I think she also had a tumor in her brain. I really don’t have many details about her death, and I’m not sure who I would ask to find out more.

Monica, my youngest biological half-sister, died around 20 years ago. I don’t remember the exact year or date, or even how old she was. Young, though. She had an inoperable brain tumor that lead to multiple strokes. She powered through those and recovered. For some reason, the doctors had to operate and remove the tumor. She was fine for a time after, but then died from complications related to the surgery. Those are as many details as I can remember.

Based on that patchy family history… it’s not a death sentence, but none of that is good news. Still, the source of half my genes is a mystery. That alone shouldn’t convince me I have a short mortal thread. What else is it?

The other reasons are less scientific and more poetic. My Dad died when I was young. His death was one of those moments that forced me to grow up and be my own person. When I look at my kids, I feel like I’m doing them a disservice by lingering. It’s like I’m holding back from them some key experience they need.

I just wrote that, and I know it’s bullshit. My kids would much rather have me around and alive, just as I wound have preferred to have more years with my father. But maybe in 5 or 6 years, when they’re getting closer to 30?

The other ideas that make me think I’m going to die in my 50s are even flimsier than the last. I’ve said for a long time that I’m never going to retire. That I’m going to keep working, right up to my last day. That feels like a true statement, every time I say it. It doesn’t mean I have to die in my 50s, but coupled with the other things I’ve talked about, it makes sense.

Laying it all out like this sounds depressing, and that’s not what I’m going for. The genetics may or may not mean anything. Not having any sort of retirement is just something my whole generation has to look forward to. And the idea that I might be doing my kids a favor by dying… that’s just weird.

When I was joking with my coworkers about not living into the 2030s, I wasn’t being melancholic. It’s just some idea I’ve grown to live with and accept.

Aside from being a source of morbid humor, it alters the way I think about some things. I think about how I was born a very sick baby, and how every year I’ve spent in this world has been a gift and an opportunity to do or say something. The clock is running out, so I need to make the most out of what time is left.

Neither of my kids seem interested in being parents, so what else can I do to leave something permanent behind? That sounds like hubris, like why should I be so special as to make a mark on the world when so many people are forgotten, but it’s not. I’m the result of an unwanted teenage pregnancy in the early 70s. I fell into the lap of a couple in their later years. My arrival in this world disrupted lives. If I don’t do or say something, then how can my life be considered anything other than a huge, cosmic mistake?

I write like I’m running out of time. Maybe I can conjure a story that will say something that outlives me. Maybe I can write something that will make up for all of the harm I’ve caused just by being born. If I’m going to do it, I’ve got to hurry. Because some part of me is certain I don’t have much time left.

I want to talk about Loki. But before I do, I’m going to talk about what it’s like for me experiencing stories as a writer. Then I’m going to talk about the MCU in general. Finally, with enough warning about spoilers, I’ll talk about Loki on Disney+ and what I think about it.

Stories through a Writer’s Eyes

I’ve written about this before, but the more I write, the harder it is for me to enjoy stories. A story is essentially a magic trick where the writer misdirects and distracts their audience while setting up twists and turns designed to create an emotional reaction. When you know how the trick is performed, the impact is lessened.

You don’t always have to be surprised in order to enjoy a story. Sometimes the adventure is enough. Some stories are full of beauty, or the characters are endearing enough that we want to spend more time with them. These are the stories I revisit over and over.

The Formula of the MCU

We open with our protagonist, a flawed human being that’s attractive, quippy, talented, and not necessarily a nice person. Our protagonist’s main character flaw gets them into trouble and they’re forced to see who they are and how they’re affecting the people around them. They reach their lowest point, then after working to overcome their greatest weakness, come face-to-face with a villain that is in some way a twisted reflection of who they are. After a climactic conflict, our protagonist comes out on top, still flawed, but also changed for the better. They see themselves in a new light and in the end, they are determined to do better.

Which movie am I describing? When it comes to the MCU, I’m basically describing all of them. There are exceptions, and I’m leaving out a lot of nuance, but the MCU movies are borne from the same DNA.

I’m rarely surprised by an MCU movie, and yet I love them. These movies are full of characters I want to hang out with while they go on their colorful adventures.

I want to be surprised by these movies, but it’s okay when I’m not. Avengers: Endgame delivered quite a few surprises. Black Widow didn’t surprise me, but I still left the theater satisfied. In my opinion, it’s a solid movie. It follows the MCU formula, but that doesn’t matter because I enjoyed all of the characters on display.

Loki and Disney+ Shows in General

I mentioned Black Widow and gave my general opinion, but I didn’t go into any spoilers. I’m about to go into spoilers for the Disney+ shows. If you have not watched them, go watch them and come back. I’ll wait.

*** Spoilers for Disney+ Marvel Shows Below ***

I’m going to start with Falcon and the Winter Solder. As much as I love Sam Wilson and this series in general, I think this series is the weakest of the three. It’s still very good! I really love it! But I think it could have been better, and it was the least surprising of the Disney+ shows.

While it is interesting and a little surprising to make Sharon Carter the Power Broker, it doesn’t make a ton of sense if you scrutinize the details too closely. If one were feeling particularly uncharitable, one might describe it as a character assassination. I think it’s fine, but I think it could have been handled more gracefully. For example, if she’s The Power Broker, it makes no sense for her to put an armed Zemo in the same room as the person developing her super soldier formula.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier went places I did not expect a show to go on Disney plus dot com. They explored what it means to be a black superhero. They touched on the injustice black Americans experience regularly. They showed a faux Captain America kill a man with his shield. The creators of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier were bold in the story they delivered, regardless of whatever criticisms I might have about this being a somewhat predictable Marvel offering.

Now let’s go back to WandaVision. That show surprised me continuously. It kept me entertained every week while opening up more and more questions.

I loved WandaVision. This show looked different from any other Marvel product. It dived deep into grief without flinching. As weird and fantastic as the show could be, WandaVision delivered a very human story.

It gave us what may be the most profoundly beautiful sentence the MCU has ever stated: “What is grief, if not love persevering?” The Internet may have turned that phrase into a meme, but I’m still moved by it.

Speaking of The Internet, they did to WandaVision what they often like to do, which is come up with theories, then become insolent when those theories don’t pan out. Evan Peters playing Quicksilver in WandaVision did not mean we were starting the multiverse and bringing in the Fox X-Men characters. And, even though the comic books have a strong association between Agatha Harkness and Mephisto, we were not shown Mephisto as The Big Bad after 9 episodes of no direct mention of him.

…

So now let’s talk about Loki.

Loki captivated me. Loki actually, legitimately, surprised me. And I loved it.

This show took a pre-redemption Loki, a villain that just tried to take over the world, and truly rehabilitated him, even beyond what we saw in Thor: Ragnarok.

I loved the relationship between Loki and Mobius. I loved the relationship between Loki and Sylvie. I loved getting to explore all of the Loki variants in Episode 5, especially when Classic Loki proved to both the audience and protagonist Loki that they were more powerful than they believe. Powerful enough to change from their selfish, broken ways and sacrifice themselves while Ride of the Valkyries played over an illusory Asgard.

And then we got the final episode of season 1, and I was shocked.

They never actually gave his name beyond He Who Remains, but that was Kang the Conqueror. There were lots of subtle hints pointing at Kang leading up to the last episode, but it seemed like another Mephisto situation. They weren’t really going to reveal that the man behind the curtain is a character we haven’t seen at any point throughout the rest of the series, right?

That’s exactly what they did. Since we witnessed so many Loki variations, my theory was that we were going to see another Loki variant pulling the strings. The Loki that Wins. It would explain why Loki timelines in particular seemed targeted for pruning. My theory fit with everything else watched up to that point. I saw the Kang hints, but didn’t think the showrunners would actually go there.

Putting Kang aside, the episode delivers in other ways. Throughout the series, we saw Loki developing relationships with Mobius and Sylvie. We saw him confront his own absurdity and the lies of his “glorious purpose.” Loki grew throughout the series, but it ends with the ultimate test of his rehabilitation. He’s separated from Sylvie, the person he just told, “I just want you to be okay.” If that’s not the purest expression of love, I don’t know what is.

Further, he’s back at the TVA, where no one seems to know who he is. He built a friendship with Mobius and now that appears to be gone. As Lady Sif predicted in a previous episode, Loki is alone, whether he deserves to be or not.

Final Thoughts

Marvel excels at getting the characters right and making their audience care about them. Most of the time, that’s enough for me. Loki, and to a lesser extent WandaVision, showed me that Marvel is capable of going a step further. It’s good storytelling, and it’s fresh and exciting.

Writers can learn a thing or two from watching these shows.

Last week, I tried to record a new VLOG. I wrote the script and recorded about 20 minutes of footage. After editing, that would probably have become a 10 minute video.

I wound up deleting it. The good and valid reason to trash the footage was because my recording used the wrong microphone, so there were a lot more audio artifacts than usual. The less good and valid reason… it was a very sad and depressing entry.

I try not to censor myself here. However, I try not to put out too much depressing content. I have written many blog posts that I never clicked Submit on because they were too dark. In spite of my dalliances with political topics on this blog, this has always been about my journey as a writer.

To be a writer, you must have endurance, and you must be able to withstand the points in your career that turn dark. One of the best ways to do this is to embrace optimism when you can, and root out pessimism when you have the strength to do so.

You cannot make it as a writer if you let the despair overwhelm you.

I’ve been so close to giving up, especially over the last year and a half. Even this last week, I’ve been feeling really down.

This morning, something occurred to me, and I want to share this in case you need encouragement the way I do.

I woke up late and took a long shower. As I breathed in the steam and the smell of soap, I began to daydream. I imagined myself leaving my body and transporting into the past. I inhabited someone else’s body in 1995, but I still remembered everything.

In this scenario, I wanted to make the world better. But how could I overcome the Cassandra problem? What could I do to convince the people in power that the information I carried truly came from a possible future?

I went to the military. I convinced them to hook me and the Brian Buhl of that time up to lie detectors and record our reactions. I would ask my younger self deeply personal questions, things only I could know, and the people observing would be able to read the reactions from both of us.

The daydream continued after the interrogation. Young Brian was thoroughly spooked and distraught after going through that ordeal, so I spoke to him to help him out. This is what I said:

“Keep writing. It brings you joy. Whether or not you succeed, it doesn’t matter. It’s a part of who you are. It keeps you sane and stable, and it’s something you’ve always loved doing. You’ll lose sight of that for a while, so I’m warning you now so you stay on it. Also, start attending writing conventions sooner than later. You’ll meet people that will change your life.”

I came to my senses, shampoo in my hair and my eyes stinging for a different reason. I realized the message I wanted to carry to my younger self applies just as much to me today.

The reality is that I probably won’t have the writing career I want. Is that the reason I write, though? No. It isn’t. I write because I have stories to put on the page. It’s who I am and it’s what I do. It would be nice to be paid for my work and to sustain myself with the stories I tell, but that’s not why I do this.

I should not allow publishing fears and concerns dissuade me from doing what I love.

Are you doing what you love? What’s stopping you? If you could go back in time and tell yourself one thing, what would it be? What do you think a future you would tell you today?