darkly dreaming

I think the world would benefit from titles. I have a master’s degree, I think ‘master’ or ‘lord’ would be beneficial. Not just to humor myself, but to really help everyone understand the varying levels of education and experience we all have. I’m not suggesting a formal system wherein everything is impersonal, I prefer to be called Dave in most circumstances. But it’s something to think about, having an easy and accepted way to introduce ourselves.

Teachers often incur my wrath simply because I have so many negative experiences in education and partly because I choose to work with students who are going through exactly what I have. I sat in an IEP the other day and it drug up so many old issues for me to think about. But this thought also occurred to me as well, but it wasn’t really brought to a head until I started helping a student review for a final.

It’s not simple, but I do have to point out that at the University level not returning a test, or withholding previously graded work that will affect the final test is unacceptable in every class I’ve ever taken. And at University is where cheating really matters. These are the institutions that will stake their reputation behind your degree. So why are they able to cope with this apparently pervasive issue and High School teachers are not? Why is it High Schools that seem to take draconian measures to ensure test security and not the colleges?

My opinion is quite simple, I think that many teachers think much higher of themselves than they ought. I know I used to. Being called Mr. Arney be adults twenty or thirty years my senior setup too large a power differential. Especially when some of them were far better educated and filled with more experience than I could even imagine. I love Pauline epistles for the very reason they make great allusions. The Romans were warned of this problem, and Paul suggested that they ought to think of themselves as to have sound judgment.

So why titles? Well, I want one mostly, but also because then Mr. and Mrs. stop setting teachers apart. Plus I deserve to be respected for my area of expertise. I’ll always give deference to someone with more experience and education because it only makes sense. Unless they prove themselves incompetent, I am inclined to listen to them above my own opinions first. I’m not sure when it started, but this unsound image teachers seem to hold of themselves only leads to things I would consider ludicrous. I can’t imagine a college professor being coy about what will be covered on a final. The hardest classes always had very clear revision guidelines. It wasn’t even uncommon for the professor to provide a series of essay topic and then select only a few for the actual exam. And not receiving the results of quizzes and previous tests that were also to be included on the final exam never happened to me, both B.A. and M.A.

So yes, Master Arney or Lord Arney would make me smile, but it would also keep the constant contest I find myself in with some teachers from occurring. I almost try not to interact with teachers at this point because I’m tired of the pissing match that usually ensues. It’s funny because they use the Mr. and Mrs. so authoritatively at times, but then can feel so vulnerable at the same time. Basically, I want everyone to be honest about what their expertise is and not try to be more than they are. Teachers should be proud of the fact that they convey basic information in the general studies in such a manner that teenagers become competent. They shouldn’t have to be experts in learning styles, or visionaries in modifications. That’s what I’m good at, and I like doing it.

Why should we be fighting, pissing, or whatever else ends up happening? You’re Mr. and I’m Master, and we can each do what we do. It shouldn’t be this hard. And you shouldn’t worry so much. Cheating is going to happen no matter what. It doesn’t hurt you, and it always comes back to bite the student’s ass in the end. Chill and just concentrate on being excellent. Then let those of us who find it exciting to diagnose and modify do our thing. I gave up the classroom because it wasn’t my passion. Let me have my passion and my title, dammit!

It’s so odd; still. I went through a program for psychology, and even there I hated the question “How do you feel?” But there I was, “How does that make you feel?” like a good little boy. Today, I asked my student a variation on that question even though I know there isn’t a real answer for it. Before I left, I was asked the same question myself and when I’d returned I was asked it again. I didn’t have an answer. What is the answer anyway? At work, I’m trained/expected to ask how are you today? I think it’s ruined the question. Because now we have to a positive answer at all times. Like it’s just natural to go around being okay all the time. And if your not and you say it, that really blows their mind. Customers ask me and every once in a while I’m too tired of the game to lie. Usually their faces drop and it’s just a total suprise not to hear something different.

I’ve come from the land where it’s not okay to not feel. I’ve grown up around a lot of feeling people. And for a while I beleived in it. But I’m fast losing my faith. I exist, and I go forward, but I’m not sure I have to feel all the time. It’s especially odd when someone expects me to feel something that really only they can feel. “Why can’t you be happy for me? Like it is somehow my responsibility to feel the happiness about their life for them. Or worse, that my inability or lack of desire to do so is somehow damaging to them. I’ve seen faces drop and had people mad at me for not willingly participating in their rather individual joy. I liken it to “How do I look?” because a secure person rarely asks this question, and I just find myself unable to give unrealistic insight. I know so much, I shouldn’t have to give out platitudes.

Maybe it’s a defense, but my answer is “Fuck you, please.” Because it’s my perogative to be defensive if that’s where I’m at. Had they stopped to consider it, then it would become obvious we do what we do so that we live. If we did differently, then perhaps we wouldn’t. It’s a bit anthropic really, because if we all allowed ourselves to be overcome with emotion all the time it would not always be pleasent. There is gritty, dirty, and evil emotion as well. Those of us just being, and not really feeling much of anything are possibly doing the world a favor at the moment.

I think I’ll try to not find myself asking this question anymore. Even how’s it going is too icky. What’s wrong with “Hi”? Because if you really care, then you’d know something more specific than how do you feel? And if you were really inclined to know the depths that question is capable of plumbing, then you probably wouldnt’ throw it around so much. If you’re dying for some sort of connection, this isn’t the right way.

Ironically, in the end, I feel not neccesarily what’s in me, but what’s in you. And some people are incredibly loud, shouting every single impulse of anxiety my direction. I’ve had to leave rooms because I was feeling too much. I’m not sure they are even feeling it, though they may say they are. I think they are really just throwing it away so they can pretend it’s okay, when I know very well it isn’t. I’m pretty happy feeling just. Just is a good place to be. Being is good too. Things might be smoother if we all stopped trying to feel something all the time. Happiness should be treasured when it’s really there, and not called upon whenever there is a hint of the positive. I’m never goint to be happy about a new outfit, or that you did something you should have done, or were always capable of. I’ll be supportive if you need some direction or even just a hug. But let’s not call that happiness, shall we?

And the oddest bit; I’m really never that sad or depressed. Yet when I fail to smile, when I actually accept that every day isn’t amazing based on content alone, I think everyone gets worried and obsseses about what’s wrong. But I don’t think it’s for my sake. I think it’s mostly for theirs. See, they want to fix it so I’ll get better. I break the facade, and that’s scary. Though I understand they mean well, it doesn’t automatically excuse it. That last beat fits into another problem, but there is a truth universal of it’s situation. If we continue to exuse shallow and uniformed thinking, they will never change. It’s more elitist to spread sympathy than to stand against the tide. Pretending you don’t see beyond them hurts everyone. Calling it out may only hurt one person. So I may understand, but I’m done excusing. It’s time to evolve, catch up, please.

There are a few sticky points I’m still ironing out with the published, but I’m on Amazon (almost.) My name was most unfortunately left off the posting, however, it still appears on the cover. BookSurge is falling short for me, but I’m hoping they recouperate themselves with an easy fix this week. You can purchase the book here, and if you want to get more information first, try the Forgotten website. I’m jazzed and frustrated all at the same time, about what it’s been the whole time. Somehow I knew it wasn’t over yet, even when I got the final proof for my shelf, I couldn’t get excited about it. Whether I wished this on myself or not, it’s just par for this course. Sometime I’ll write about my computer an it’s rather odd sense of humor, and the fact that it gets cold and refuses to work properly. I’ve decided I pull ghosts to me and that’s why all of my electronic equipment is always behaving as strangely as possible. Anyway, more on all those fun things later. For now, you can be excited for me while I write nasty emails until things get fixed.

I have fought the movement toward plaid in my own passive aggressive way; I just didn’t buy them, no matter how many models, actors, or cool guys did. It’s not my fault though. I had a horrible incident in childhood where once Christmas was entirely plaid, I mean mountain man wearing my mother’s bras plaid. A few thousand jokes later and the idea of having anything but a kilt on when I wore plaid again was as close as I could bear to be to the design. And now, I’ve snapped.

It seemed time to give up my senseless resistance and attempt to find things that were non-offensive to my childhood trauma. Hence green. It got me thinking about fashion in a philosophical sense, and I’ve been designing clothes for the characters in my books, for which the male characters present much difficulty mainly in the lack of books and shows for them. Here is my little attempt to talk about the subject without the words garment or references to denim and chiffon.

Hips — This is surprising the key differences between the gross anatomy of men and women. There are more obvious features to our eyes, and yet as far as actual structural differences and size of areas in question, the hips win every time. I think it’s essential to start there, and was the reason for my turn toward plaid. It’s not just the color but the better approach those shorts tend to take for the male hips. They are almost vertical and produce a short indentation in our frame, the perfect place to hang shorts and pants from. Obviously I’m not about sagging in the slightest.

Aside from practicality, there is something to be said for playing to our strengths. Upper bodies are interesting but overdone in a way. Additionally, the size is entirely dependent on how big of a gym life you have time and money to develop. However, with diet you can mostly control the tone of your hips, and it’s an even denominator. They don’t change in size except when your growing. For adults, they will be the same until we break them when old. It evens the field between all rivals. Therefore, choosing the appropriate rise of the shorts/jeans and the length of shirt is important for bringing out this area.

It was a recent discovery, but one I should have thought of much earlier. My upper body is incredibly short in comparison to my overall height. My legs are so long that I usually have to by jeans that come up to my belly button to get the appropriate length. Hence, for me a lower rise will make them sit much better, despite my lack of toned and uncovered abdominal muscles. Discover your body proportions and then work with them. Exposing genital hair and arch certainly have their place, but well framed hips that allow that short segment where bone meets skin to be exposed above the shorts/jeans will probably offer the most attractive visage.

Abs — It’s not necessarily about the six-pack when it comes to non-beach/nudist wear. If the shirt lets the hips become a tease, it is my opinion that the upper abdominals are better left for the later period of getting to know each other where alcohol and anxiety can distract your companion. Most everyone has strong muscles right at the waist because ever motion we make comes from this area. You can’t twist, squat or sit without activating them. Again, using the natural strengths of this isolated area can maximize your impact while at the same time creating a level field with those annoyingly sculpted men.

Choosing the shirt should be just as important as the shorts/jeans, and I see a great number of men and boys going with undershirts. I know it’s a look, but consider that even a tight undershirt of the wrong length will miss it’s opportunity. Also, they come in colors. For minimum financial impact you can have a rainbow to choose from, white isn’t right for everyone. Get the right length to suit your upper body. As I stated, my upper body is very short, and when I was at better weights, it became apparent that most shirts where incredibly long on me. This doesn’t mean you should select crop tops; if you’re that impressive, don’t wear a shirt. What I suggest is that teasing length where movement will expose the hips and yet you can walk most anywhere and not feel under dressed. Learn from women, teasing is almost more important that the goods themselves.

Minimalism — This is more my taste I suppose, but again, consider that clothes are really an optional choice in warmer climates. They are like paint in a way, and you don’t want to deface a great building with too much decoration. Layers are important when it gets colder, but there are still ways to assist your frame and therefore your appeal while doing so. Even though I opposed zipper sweatshirts in the past, the modern incarnations have made a lot of progress away from the bulky, itchy things I knew. They also allow for warmth of the extremities while allowing your previously mentioned choices to shine through from below. But always think about what the added element will do to the overall approach. Not on the day, but when you purchase the clothes. That’s another part of my philosophy, aside from ensuring that you don’t wear red and green together unless your in a camp Christmas musical, more than forty-five seconds of thought about a shirt is too much.

Interesting shirts should probably be covered by simple, single colored zippered sweatshirts or jackets. If you wear a pull over sweatshirt, then wear one of those nice cheap, colored undershirts and save the pretty ones for another day. I’ll allow that those more creative than me can link up over and under shirts to create some sort of artistic statement. If that’s the case, design some dumb options for the rest of us to buy because you’ve got skills and should be paid for them. I prefer to think that only one element should draw the eye at one time. Skin is always the first thing humans see. Next is something shiny, and after that contrasting colors and interesting shapes. This can lead to some interesting ideas.

Instead of awesomely bejeweled jeans, and I saw some the other day that could only be described as masculine dazzle, go for a belt that is yellow or white. Both of which have been slowly trickling down into everyday fashion for a year or so. Not to belabor the point, but the belt will help to draw attention to the hips, and it offers something new for those checking you out. Belt buckles are becoming cool again, and not just in square dancing contests. Even cool ripped jeans can benefit from an interesting belt. The studs thing is interesting, but I have a feeling bold colors may be the next thing plus they fit my minimalist philosophy.

In short, don’t overdo. Cool shirts go with boring jeans, and a bold belt. Tight buckles go with boring everything. Hoodies from Guiness, my birthday present, go with everything. Shoes are their own thing, or even if they should be worn. I’m fixated on converse for the moment, but allow that sandals and other choices make find additions. I personally don’t understand sandals and jeans, but I hate pants in general and try to wear them as little as possible. So to free your feet while constricting your legs seems stupid, and cold. Beside the fact that sandals really go with shorts, they complete the freed leg and show others that you spend your time with little to no clothes on most of the time. Or that you are a weekend slacker, but still, they know you a little better that way. Pale feet in the winter tell me you like frostbite, and tanned feet in the summer make me think you’ve been kidnapped and brain washed into wearing jeans. But that’s probably way over thinking it, and that’s against my philosophy.

Last, don’t wear colors that make you look stupid. My dad is slightly orange when considered in the appropriate light. When he puts on anything close to that color he becomes bright orange. I look best in greens and earth tones, though I sneak blue in because it’s on of my favorite colors. Pink can go with most people, but that horrible bright magenta thing should be banned from existence. Pale is probably better for our eyes anyway. Black will is good, but it creates a lot of contrast. If you’re still waiting for the public pool to open it’s doors, or the house to empty for the weekend and the neighbors to turn a blinded eye; it may not be the best option head to toe. Though I appreciate those who can use chains and face paint to make it all come together. Industrial is something I won’t pretend to comment knowledgeably about. When it’s good, it’s amazing. When it’s bad, you wonder when they showered last. An okay rule is match your eyes when possible. Especially your shirt; it’s why superman has a blue costume. But if you start to resemble the shirt color, change and never look back.

Above all, don’t obsess. Once you open your mouth, the clothes will dissapear, and depending on how wide you open your mouth, well, clothing should introduce you not speak louder and be more interesting than you are.

I just found this amazing group, originally four cellos, now three plus a drummer. Well worth a look. Their first album was a cover of Metalica with the grungy guitar type distortion added to the cello. It works much better now they’ve added the drummer, and there are a few songs that I am pretty well fooled into believing this is a metal band. There’s the slight classy effect of bowing though that adds a new layer to it. I can see them being the underpinning for the soundtrack to Forgotten. I always imagined something like a rock opera as the genre of music to back up the movie. This is totally the group to pull that off too. Their latest album, Worlds Collide, features the lead singers of Ramstien and Three Days Grace. It’s tight. Not exactly Nine Inch Nails, but with the help of additional instrumentals from other rock groups, they would be perfect for what I want. And they’re worth the twenty bucks to pick up a couple of their albums from iTunes.

It’s odd, but watching a documentary about the Westboro Baptist Church, (who own the God Hates America website among other credits), got me thinking about the role of hatred and resistance in my life. Normally I watch things like that, and have this gut wrenching hatred and anger that swells up at the harm that they are causing, not only to themselves, but to the unnamed population of kids and adults who don’t fit the straight christian lifestyle. It only gets worse when they throw in the word ‘fag’, one of a few slurs that make my body cringe every time they’re used. But I sat there, sometimes with my eyes closed because it was too hard to look at the main guy’s face, and it wasn’t making me angry. Rather, I was feeling compassion toward these people. Something that was incredibly odd to begin with, but especially of people that I view as abusing and twisting religion to suit their own selfish desires.

Thus, I took a moment to study what was happening to me, and this one incident began to place some other things in perspective. I found out recently about another in a longer chain of backstabbing abuses commited by some former colleagues of mine. I left my position as Sales Manager because I wasn’t able to mix with these two people, and at the time was very angry at having to do so. I wanted to blame them for all of it, of course. But as time went on, I began to first not care, and then to work through what had happened, and try to glean from it what I could; to grow in whatever areas I had been deficient. Still, to discover that even after I had quit, they persisted in maligning my character was too much at first. I kind of went numb all over. Afterward, as I began to face what I was feeling, I realized I wanted so badly to hate them. I wanted so badly to revile them, but I couldn’t.

In truth, I felt bad for them, and not in a superior way. Both of them had to make a very similar choice to the one I made a year ago; to leave the company and seek employment somewhere better suited for them. One of them has children to feed and cloth, and the other a long history of sorrow and pain. So in the midst of my simple desire to hate them, I instead found myself feeling almost love for them. If I had to name it, then compassion, universal human compassion. Suddenly the Buddhist teachings made so much more sense to me. In my desire to be angry I found instead the realization that I couldn’t hate, I had to love them. Not to make me sound wonderful, just that I actually tried, and failed in my task of hatred.

At some point in the weekend the idea of peaceful resistance came and went through my mind. It was the contradiction in the words themselves that caught my attention. I grew up Mennonite, and therefore still have very strong aversion to violence; yet I do not deny it’s place in the normal operation of society and the world. My ability to publish this is wholly dependent on the violent efforts of my ancestors, and even the contemporary efforts of my peers. But, the notion of resisting without violence had always been a nice idea, something to balance the need for the other. As the news of my maltreatment lingered, this was the belief that somehow came to be challenged. The link still escapes me, but I followed the thread to see where it would go.

Nowhere. At least, not initially. I don’t even remember being able to make anymore sense of it until I sat down to the program today and the numbness didn’t’ come. The anger wasn’t there, and this compassion that I thought was singular, seemed to have become more universal all of the sudden. I can’t cry, that ability seems to have left my emotional reach. But I do tear up just slightly on a few occasions. When someone sacrifices themselves for another, fictional or otherwise, especially if it’s a soldier; but also during these kinds of documentaries. I just feel so overpowered by the injustice of it, by the horribly monstrous attempts to vilify and invalidate another human beings existence. Those are angry tears, and they didn’t come.

This was it; the final piece in the burgeoning puzzle created by my uncharacteristic reactions. As I watched them protest all sorts of odd and honestly perplexing things, I wondered how I might ‘get back’ at them. Nothing. In fact, there is only acceptance and peace. Not acceptance as in turning away and ignoring it; the secular definition useful for the peaceable co-existence of conflicting viewpoints. This is an inclusive, supportive, acceptance that finds not a viewpoint, but a human being; and in finding that human being, loves them without condition. There was nothing to be done, not in resistance to them. I had to simply let my heart go and seek out the individual beyond the hate filled words and angry masks.

I suppose then, on a larger scale, this leads me to rethink a lot of those peaceful ideas I had clung to in childhood. Resisting is violent, it’s against the flow of things. I discovered a certain pleasure and success in doing so this weekend as well. As a kind of counter-weight to the path I’ve just explained, I also had some problems with a friend and finally just plainly addressed it, not exactly confrontationally, but very much direct; definitely not in the water flowing downhill way that I normally use. Also for a job that wasn’t getting back to me, I sent a direct and strongly worded email, getting an almost immediate response. Thus these two conflicting things were floating around my head at the same time.

I’ve not reached some amazing realization about all of it yet, but I do see some interesting things that I had ignored or failed to see before. Where I had assumed that these horrors wrought by religion required resistance, I find instead that they require compassion and acceptance. Yet, there is this piece to action that requires violent resistance, even in my own life. And all the while I hate doing it. My very being rejects the idea of it. But my being can’t eat if I don’t get a job. Hence the conflict between ideas and hungry reality. Where I had viewed myself as being peaceful, it was really just passive. Even going all the way back to my job, it wasn’t a peaceful existence that I responded with, it was passive. Realizing that I would have to move into an aggressive, violent role in order to renegotiate my work environment, I quit. It wasn’t a line that I was willing to cross into. But it wasn’t peaceful, it wasn’t the water way; at least not on it’s own.

Things are reversed at the moment. It’s a little odd, and definitely unbalanced for the time being. Yet peace seems to come out of it. I’ve released the violence where it was needed, and at the same time removed the need or desire to unleash it in other places. I’m sure some master ought to slap me with a stick about now. I do feel good; like something important has begun to emerge in my mind. In this moment, as I write, I am able to understand the master and his stick for the first time. How a purveyor of peace could use violent means to enlighten. I probably won’t take such a path myself, but the paradigm shifts of the weekend have at least given me some different ways to view my water metaphor.

I seem stuck in this belief that there will be something better further along. It was one of those incessant thing that followed me throughout my most doubt-filled times, when I questioned the nature of reality itself, I have always had this inexplicable feeling that something else is going on. Just this tiny little note of peace that seemed to fill in the gaps when I needed it the most. Now that life is feeling absolutely pressured, now that I begin again to question what the point is, I’m still stuck with that tiny little feeling that keeps me hoping despite all evidence and feeling that mounts against it. It’s odd, just this completely ridiculous belief that tomorrow will be better. No matter how many yesterdays that didn’t prove out, I still believe that tomorrow something greater, something better will come along.

This above all other things is the foundation for my belief, my faith, my spirituality; because I lost all else that had anything meaningful to say about this. Depression is such an odd little condition; insidiously comforting so that you believe all you truly need is yourself, even though you despise everything that you are on principle, still you persist quietly, hoping. When if falls upon you slowly, you can almost welcome it; the quiet between storms of genius or mad flights of imagination. Almost as though you expected it, even though you’ve forgotten what it was like every other time, and in the midst of it, you are convinced it’s never been like this before. Again, that hope, that delusion even, that this is as worse as it gets, and that something else is always better. A gentle confidant, it coos to you in deepening tones of despair, all the while slowly stroking it’s clawed finger along your chest, letting flow the life as though it were blood spilt upon the ground. If you’re lucky, you wish it were your blood; at least it would be something real.

Other times it comes on so fast you can feel your whole body begin to slow, and the skin tingle as though each muscle suddenly lost it’s vigor. Those are the worst time, because you were conscious of the process, you saw it glide across your heart and cool your blood to near silence. Where the world slowly fades from real in the quiet times, now it suddenly becomes a story; a fairy tale told by fools who still believe in rules of right and justice. Fools that continue in games of showmanship and love, fools that conjure happiness from potions of food and fun. These times are not gentle; they collapse atop you as a wave upon the sandbar, dragging you under but blurring your vision so that no way is out, there is only in. These times you fight, because you know better, you have only just left the way you wish things were; still fresh are the memories of the other time, the better time. These times you feel the loss, you mourn it with every labored breath.

And when everything is a joke, a stupid pun; when simply breathing is a questionable activity, then you are left only with your principles. You no loner trust the sensations so long regarded as real, the suggestions of life that you clung to with the fervor of fools too distracted to notice the gently peeling tide dragging them into oblivion. What is real? Because your body has stopped to function, it’s dead weight is carried only by your mind’s insistence that it above all else is still real, still exists. So you collapse inward until the things that support you fail, and you become a small lump at the center of swirling fantasy. You are not left with anything but that one, small belief; life is better than not life. Truly, it is the only belief worth having. And from that springs an eternal and unfailing hope. Something greater, something better.

Does it need an explanation? True beliefs may never. Once established by reason and fact, it is no longer a belief. That I call my belief God comes more from ease of use than something classic and codifiable. Should any theology speak to my soul, it would be Anselm. A God, the God, would be that which nothing greater can be conceived. Nothing is greater than a hope for life. I make rambling twists and turns through Jesus and Zen, whending my way home to a merry tune. These are pretense and locution; I know nothing more than hope, and of that I know very little indeed. I don’t believe in Camus, exactly; to die or to live is not the question. Even being and non-being go far beyond the issue. What drives us is the answer; is life worth the cost? Is there something greater, something better to be had that will cancel all the horrors that lurk among our days, preying upon our years? Negating life is an active decision, a rational decision; contemplating death is for mystics, but believing is the passage of all living things.

This little, annoying belief grows in intensity over time. It proves itself over and over again without evidence, and in the face of so much despair. It whittles away the will so that you must acquiesce for the sake of composure. It would be rude not to. The longer you believe it, the stronger it gets so that it despises any questioning, it loathes any attempt to reason with it. An indefatigable tyrant that lords its terror upon you even in the midst of pain and suffering. While the depression seeks to soothe you, to calm you; hope attacks you, rips at your chest and claws at your gizzard, poking flames of life into your hollow skin. You must move, for it will never cease, it will never tire; it will continue forward until death or destruction.

Thus, I believe in life. I believe that something greater, something better will come for me if I persist. I believe that whatever the cost, at least for now, life is worth it. I know things will probably worsen, that sickness and destitution linger about the edges of anyone’s existence. I know that tomorrow will most likely bring more bills and no jobs. I understand that no one will ring at nine in the morning and declare their undying belief in my abilities, offering me a posh job on the spot. Still I believe, I hope.

That I find peace in moments of surrender to the currents of impulses and allow them to wash over me is perhaps a way of centering, a way of achieving Zen. That I flow with the world, allowing it to guide me as best I am able, feeling what it wills and not directing whenever possible, is perhaps a way of achieving Satori. And perhaps, because I bless others whenever the mood strikes me, and seek the way from what I know of Jesus as man, just maybe, that’s a way to heaven. But such a thing is more dangerous than helpful. The moment I am sure that it is beyond this life that is something greater, something better; I will no longer believe, I will no longer hope. I would know, and by knowing, end.

Non-resistance, total acceptance, blessing; it is all I know. Everything else is conjecture built upon wishful thinking. There is a hope, and I am not its master. Today, I believe that something greater, something better is coming tomorrow.

Books are made to be sold, in that they are produced as consumable items and marketed as leisure activities for the masses. But the great books, the ones that linger beyond trends and fads are not necessarily deep, penetrating works of philosophy or sophistry; they are unique because they have that something, that extra polish which grabs hold and won’t let go, long after you’ve put the book down. They have a voice, all their own. This above all is the thing we have beaten out of many students and aspiring authors. In our zeal to accomplish homogeneity of language and culture, we have expressed an unwillingness to allow exploration that might step outside these carefully approved areas. Whether we find fault or simply cause, it is the industry itself which contributes to the synchronization of ideas and elements, so that movie writers are so starved for ideas that they must turn outside of themselves completely, looking to things like comics; a place where unique vision and telling is prized above blockbuster aspirations.

This isn’t some polemic about the loss of anything in particular. Actually, I just want to express some basic ideas I’ve found helpful in working toward some measure of individuality in what I do. Think the tipping point came when I read the fourth or fifth article in a row that practically forbade me to write unless I had read hundreds of books in my genre. This is of course not unlike the literature review for the dissertation I never started. It’s hazing. Yes, it has some measure of validity, but it is still hazing. Pay homage and tremble at all who came before you. In academics, I see the point of making language and ideas work readily together. Kuhn should be consulted, as he expresses my own view of the nature of scientific progress, but not in this small setting. In literature, it is so dangerous to assume that you cannot begin to write lest you have read everything.

The secret I learned for myself is that it’s all been done before. It’s all been told and retold in so many ways, sometimes much more creatively than I could imagine myself. So yes, I have read, and continue to read in the areas that interest me, but I gave up the idea of truly being unique in plot or story, and instead set myself on a different path, one that really starts and ends inside of me. What I learned from reading in my genre were some basic ideas of the language that teen readers have come to expect in what they read. But I did not see this as a barrier, more an opening. And rather than looking at how one author does or does not offer didactic platitudes to uninterested adolescents; I just started looking at myself, at what was happening within me as I read.

It felt fake. Most of all of this felt just a little less than stick figures. Now there are exceptional instances where I was tied to the characters as though I knew them myself. And it was this, more than subject matter, or reading level that caught me. I stumbled across a book called Breathing Life Into Your Characters, and found it helpful for refocusing myself. Of course it bandies about that you shouldn’t make the characters a projection of yourself; and I find this to be only helpful to a point. When I write, I have to feel as the characters do, and if I’m intuned, then they do become alive, and often lead me along as we go. But if I didn’t have a piece of me in every one of them, there would be no connection, no element for me to focus on. When the character is dirty or injured, I have to feel that too. And when I’m writing the angst, the turmoil, I have to feel the pressure in my own chest, my anxiety peaking as the situation hangs unresolved. The joy, sorrow, pain, and ecstasy all have to grounded somewhere inside of me first.

There is no formula, no method. I’ve looked, and tried. I enjoyed The Writer’s Journey, because it confirmed that since man began telling each other of exploits, there has been a formula to it. Even in biography, we expect some arc of development, and those able to find it make truly wonderful historians. But it has, most definitely, been done before. Forget the desire to create something unique; lose it to the mists of unfulfilled desires and then rest. Beside, you don’t really desire this, you desire a connection with people, one that you think will be brought on by that flare of new and different. This is not what makes that. It is you, you creeping around the pages of what you wrote that does this. If you are true and able, the soul of your creation will speak to those people, and they will love you. It will seem new and different because no one looks at the story in simple terms unless you force them too. A bad movie is easily summarized as a pale imitation of something greater because there is nothing to interrupt the comparisons. No character to stand up for you and shout at those detractors to take head and listen.

What is different, is you. Abraham has sacrificed his son countless times, and Cain has been slaying Able for millenia. Yet when you tell it, you put a piece of your own soul in there; that is why it is different. How then do you do this? First look long and hard at you. Find the messy bits and poke them, play with them until they ooze and swirl; possibly in pain, but sometimes in joy. That’s what everyone else ignores in themselves, and pretends doesn’t exist. And it’s also what they love to see in everyone else. Be your own gossip rag, and find the juicy bits dangling out the side of your baggage. Know thyself, artist; then shall you know everyone.

I began Forgotten in the third person, imitative of Rowling. It’s called a limited omnipotent narrator. It’s not the main character, but it’s someone just behind them. They can’t travel far, but often see things a little less gilded than whom they speak of. It’s a really great tool, and it absolutely destroyed my voice. My angel, my editor asked me why I was writing a first person narrative in the third person. My feeble defense of market research and expected genre fell upon the table and gasped for a final breath before dying in rotted stink over another round of beer. Painfully, I rewrote thirteen chapters into the first person, and found that what had been a good story became alive with a spark that seemed impossible, even to me. More than that, it freed the story to grow around the cave which had for so long terrified my dreams.

Your voice will change, it must. It will find the character where she waits, and if you stay out of the way, it will follow and develop her through all the familiar pieces of heroic quests; except no one has ever seen it like she has. A cave is not just a cave when it plays upon the fearful, troubled by years of confined dwelling in the face of near death and suffering. The dragon looks not like a beast, but a tender soul trapped by language and bigotry. Unless you try to force it. Then you will have something that might be timely, and popular; but it has cost you something in return. Some unexpressed bit of you that now withers in the cold.

It will be messy, and scary, and you will feel like they all see you naked and scared, scampering from recto to verso in a mad tirade of suppressed glee. And it’s all true. It is you, in all your scary glory laid bare. They stare and poke and tease. They call you names, and look down their noses, comparing size and color. You are humiliated and broken; but then a laugh. A single joyous note that breaks the spectacle and you see them not looking at you, but enjoying the lives you breathed your soul into. In the end, you are saved, whisked away by your hero and your villain, while the supporting cast distracts them all. Then from the side stage, hidden by the curtain you watch it all unfold. And share in the joy and tears, until the curtain falls and they call “Author”.

Look inside and breath. Take what you find and then start to sketch. Draw if you have to, but I just write out little bits and pieces of scenes and dialog that come to my mind. At one point, I was so stuck I had to write the same scene from all three characters perspectives, until I could understand each of their dynamics. Then when I wrote again, it was they who acted, and I just recorded their dialog, and did my best to observe their faces for signs of hidden meaning or suppressed emotion. It won’t be good, not yet. Because what you’re really doing is expressing all that you desire for them, getting it all out and then letting yourself be empty. An expectant author is like an overprotective father who fails to teach his child to ride for fear that she will fall. Your characters need to fail horribly, to be miserable and to commit murder. They need to disappoint and anger you. You need to chuck the pages into the wall in a rage at the incompetence they offer you. But you must love them anyway. You must hold them and coo softly in their ears until the moment is passed.

I refused to keep writing Forgotten once Xanatos got to his point of departure from what I knew he could be. As he fell in on himself, I couldn’t do it any longer. It was six or seven weeks before I was able to make my way back. I worked on other books in the series, even created an entirely new set of characters for later exploration. I hated the things he was doing, and the state he was in. I knew he was better, grander. I saw him at his peak, his strongest and most illustrious. But I hadn’t the patience to walk him through the wasteland. It sucked. And then we met, and though we could not stand each other, we got down to it. And he surprised me. He created the most tender and visceral moment possible in the midst of what I had intended to be only death. And he looked at me, and nodded. You will know the part when you read it. He is my son, my prodigal, my bane, and my love.

Love yourself. Do not seek to write because you want to; do it because you must. I didn’t understand this, and it was why I could not write until recent years. Because if I don’t, I die. I crumble and fall into agony. Let it be your compulsion, but be honest in it. If nothing is coming, walk away. I don’t believe you must write everyday simply to write. Read Zen in the Art of Writing. You will not see a formula but a sickness that drive Bradbury to create a new story every week. For me to do the same would only sicken me. I circle my prey like a vulture, waiting for the stink to rise into the heavens. And then I slowly consume the rotten flesh until it fills me with vile, putrid disgust. Then, I wait.

They told me I couldn’t write. I believed them. Don’t do the same. When I watch my friend play her violin, I see the pressure in her chest that must escape lest she burst and spill her guts upon the floor. When I write, I feel sick and wretched, and then I feel complete and whole. The blank page used to scare the fuck out of me. It was clean and pristine, and too easily sullied by my ineptitudes. Like a goddess she shamed me and my inexpert technique. And like a shaved Labrador I spit and huffed upon her golden flesh; not even sure this was enjoyable. Certain that she would merely laugh at the lack of stamina and marvel at my blind groping. And then I would collapse in spasms and writhe about in my own bile. She is not a goddess. She is a whore. Tender and careful. When I moved beyond the illusion I found a muse; someone to guide my movements, to whisper slow instruction as I tried to burst forth.

You are the most interesting person in the world when you put pen to paper. That was how I did it. I took up a pen and let it splutter and spurt upon the page until was gross and disgusting. Then I could see it for what it was. Cheap makeup and plastic heals. The allure, the grandeur was gone. But in that filth, I found myself. A voice arose, and I let it speak. I could always tell when I had gone astray, because that voice, that charm was gone. It was a chore to work, and the paper seemed flat. I don’t know what will incite you; I just know it won’t be found on the shelves in a bookstore. Go there and find interesting trinkets. Carry them if you must; every witch doctor does what he must. Eventually you have to take off your clothes and start grubbing in the muck. Nothing compares to the sensual ecstasy of being filthy in the light of day.

Love yourself, be yourself. Lose yourself and let yourself go. Fall, die, turn over in your grave. But hold your characters, the pieces of your soul so tightly that all you have left is them. They are your breathe, your organ, your heart. Bend them over the earth and drink in their bitter taste. Then write, and never forget what they feel like on the inside, as they run across your skin and plunge themselves back into you. Then write.

Right now I’m experiencing the woes of publishing, but thankfully, I’ve done a lot of research to this point, and having worked in the book industry, I like to think I understand things a bit better now. The main question that’s been before me is, seek an agent/publisher or self-publish. Honestly, I’m leaning toward self-publishing, but I thought I’d explain the benefits and process for both. In the end, I saw many first time authors working their butts off to get their books out there, without any help from the publisher at all. Probably a smaller sampling due to my single location, but it stuck with me. I’ll try and be fair though, pointing out what each method is about.

An agent is perhaps the best option for adult fiction, and most non-fiction. This is a professional who knows the industry, has the contacts, and has done this countless times before. Getting on with an agent is worth it if you have the product they’re looking for. Disabuse yourself now, publishing is about money; what sells, and to whom. So the agents are picky, and niched toward what they know they can sell. This doesn’t mean that they don’t have open minds, or that first time authors need not apply. Acutally, there are some agents out there looking for first time authors. Check with the latest Writer’s Market, or Children’s Writer’s Market; it will detail who and what each agent or publisher is looking for. The key part of this is simultaneous or exclusive submissions. Top publishers and agents may want the first crack at your book, and won’t share the viewing priveleges with anyone else. On top of that, some agents and publishers may need a few months to process your manuscript sample. Thus you can spend a lot of time waiting to send it to someone else.

The key to getting an agent, or going directly to a publisher is the query letter. There are a large number of books available, so check them out. What matters is the bottom line, is this something that is going to sell. You have to do the leg work and know your market, but also know how yours is not just a clone of something else. The experts say read lots of books, and that can’t hurt, but I think you have to also develop a voice that’s interesting to others. It would help if you knew what the readers expect in certain areas, but just because they expect one thing doesn’t mean a truly original voice isn’t warranted. However, too original means unproved and may run you into trouble in the getting an agent/publisher process. Your entire book, and the reasons why it’s marketable get summed up in the query letter. It’s the key to success.

Specifically, an agent will make the submission process streamlined and tailored. Finding one can be as difficult as querying the publishers directly, except they have access to the major publishers who refuse to take direct queries, (called unsolicited.) They also charge a fee for their services. If you get an agent, you’ve got a pro to help you. If you go directly, you’re doing all the legwork and research yourself. Neither is particularly better, though I’ve heard from one young adult author, Erin Vincent, Grief Girl, that she had good luck going straight to the publishers. Children editors attend conferences, and it was there she met her eventual editor; managing to get published by Random House. Officially of course, they don’t accept non-represented authors, but she managed to get her foot in the door.

By going through a publisher you are looking at an advance, and then around 10% royalties, possibly a little more. That’s the tricksy part because you have to earn the advance back before you get more money. The average life of a new hardcover book is three months on retail shelves. There’s a limited window to get the sales going for your book. However, you do get immediate distribution to retail buyers, and while the publisher may not be able to give you specific marketing time, they do send out your book info to a lot of buyers, and you are published in their catalogs, as well as being submitted for review by major periodicals; Publisher’s Weekly chief among them. There is a machine behind them, and it can launch you ahead of the rest if you’re willing to put in effort as well.

The drawbacks to publishers are pretty well listed above. I should point out that having an editor is essential for either option, and that’s what a publisher really offers you. Someone who knows their stuff. I feel like this is why we are getting a lot of the same fare recently, but most of it is well written and well edited. Personally, I don’t see too many new things, interesting departures, and something to challenge the readers. But again, it’s about what sells, and Gossip Girl does, quite well. What you get with self-publishing is freedom to fly or fall. It means you put out the money, $299 at the least if you have an editor, artist and the know how to format your book, and $599 to $1499 depending on how much of those you’re missing. Royalties are much higher, and as most of Print on Demand publishing is sold online, you can get affiliate sales revenue as well just by selling your own book through Amazon or another online retailer.

So, why am I interested in self-publishing? The Xanatos series is different, it’s a chance in a new direction, and it isn’t exactly what agents and editors are used too. It’s kind of edgy with language and content. Cidne, my editor, calls it hormonally charged. But it’s real, it’s what a real boy would be doing and thinking. So my first concern is the content, and the control that I have over it. Nobody can really tell me no. If this doesn’t work, then that might have been a good thing, but I’m confident based on the feedback I’ve been getting. The cost is annoying, but 35% royalties over time mean a shorter return on investment. Also, a more stable income than the publisher structure. Not to mention I own the copyright. Didn’t mention that earlier, but with most publisher you sell the first run rights to them, and they may even take the reprint rights as well. It’s dependent on your contract. It’s also non-exclusive so if a publisher does become interested, I can still sell my book POD self-published, and contract for different versions with a publisher. Not that they’d play that well most of the time, but one can hope.

Print on Demand, POD, is different than most books you see. Publishers use the offset printing method and that is based on the very first printing press where they arranged the letters by hand. Most books are put onto master plates and then run off a line. POD is more like a high-end laser printer, so the pages are usually a little more glossy, and the text doesn’t have that stamped feel to them. Someone who reads a lot and is savy about the process can tell instantly, but your words are the same in either format. It’s more a snobbery thing to see one process as superior to the other. Actually, what you should be careful of is the binding. Make sure you pick a POD partner who actually produces a good looking cover, with a spine. Because the spine is what the customer sees on the shelf, and the cover is the second highest reason a book is sold. The good news for POD is that a friends recommendation is the top reason why people buy a book. Marketing through things like Facebook can get any author out there, POD or regular publisher. A high quality POD is different, but not necessarily less than a publishers offset book.

I don’t like rejection either, and the time frame that rejection takes is a year or more, and then usually another year before the book gets published. So over two years, if I sell 50 books POD then I’ll have my investment back and every book after is revenue. During which time, I’m proving my book’s worth, which can eventually make a publisher interested. I prefer them to come to me, but that’s the way I am. It would take about 600 books sold to equal the normal amount of an advance, but you have to sell about 1389 books to make your advance back from publishers; in the end it’s one return on invest model vs. another. Either way, don’t expect to be rich quick, or to survive on writing at the start. You’ll need a day job for a little while.

For a lot of authors, publishers are exactly what they need. But I’m a little different, and you may be too. You’ve probably heard, but the Inheritance Trilogy by Paolini started as a self-published book. It’s one way to prove your product out, to show that teens will read massive Tolkien like novels about dragons. Be true to your text, and recognize that an editors eyes are essential. There can’t be simple spelling and grammar errors, and you need to make sure the fat is trimmed and the story is robust. Be true to your voice, and get help to make sure it’s coming through. I’ll write more about that later. But I’m really looking toward self-publishing because I know what I have is good, well put together, and my friend is an excellent editor. If you have questions, please use my contact form to ask them. I’ll even read a first chapter and give you suggestions on whether self-publishing is a good option. I’ll gladly share all that I learned working at Borders. It makes me happy to see new authors succeed because I hope to do the same.

I have just this last week finished all twenty-two chapters of the first book in my series that I am writing with my little brothers. It’s been three very long years and many headaches. Currently, my friend is acting as creative editor, and I’m looking into self-publishing. It still has to be line edited, and my friend who is overseeing it as a managing editor has given me all the her notes. We’re both taking a short break from it so that we can get perspective when we read it again. Chris and Alex are going to be putting the cover art together, and also going over it to make sure it’s what we want.

The book is available on this website as a series of webpages, and I would love to have some more people read it before I put it into print. Email me if you are interested, and I’ll send you the password. It’s kind of cool to see it all put together. But now I have to format it for print, and that always takes tedious time. Still, I’m looking forward to seeing the final product. If all goes well, and I decide to self-publish, it should be available around the end of September, but definitely before christmas.

The story itself is definitely a hero’s journey, and part of a longer epic type saga. But we all really wanted it to be different from the standard fare; Harry Potter, Eragon. I have total respect for Rowling, and enough for Paolini not to dismiss him, but Xanatos is more anti-hero than hero, and overall a more gritty, more realistic telling of late adolescence and fantasy. Definitely written for an older teen to college age crowd, I wanted people who have grown up with these fantasy series to have something that’s not the standard adult fantasy which I really can’t stand to read myself. In the end, I still laugh at my own jokes, so that’s a good sign to me.

I’ll be putting the website together for the book itself, and posting a link when it’s done. The more people that read it, and talk about it, the better for me; so please let me know if you’re interested.