***RAGGYD***
What do you get when you combine minimal reading experience,
a massive ego, and four fantasy characters who have no earthly business being
together? The answer is Raggyd, a medieval fantasy novel idea I had in 2004
when I took a creative writing class at Olympic College. As horrible as it
ended up being, it was also the launching pad for my poetry skills. Ergo, if it
wasn’t for Raggyd in 2004, I wouldn’t have published Confessions of a
Schizophrenic Savage in 2013 nor Necrograph in 2016. I’m halfway through
another book of poetry called Prophecy, so that’s in my near future.
With an underdeveloped plot, Raggyd was little more than an
excuse to use four characters I really had an affinity for. There was the pit
fighting barbarian Graf Lunge, the gothic samurai Eron Putris, the acrobatic
thief Baby, and the witch hunter zealot Futez Mysida. Somehow these four
characters were going to come together to fight a super powerful enemy
named…are you ready for this…Vine Wielders. That’s his name, folks. Vine
fucking Wielders. Sounds threatening, doesn’t it?
The first chapter I wrote for Raggyd was an interaction
between Baby and Futez. Futez wanted Baby to join his religious organization
and Baby declined by making a smart-ass remark about how the only thing Futez
plans on stealing is the altar boy’s virginity. Naturally, the witch hunter was
less than pleased and sicked an entire squadron of ball and chain-wielding
soldiers upon his would-be charge.
As much as the class enjoyed Baby’s dig about fucking altar
boys, Raggyd was a critical flop among the students. They had all criticisms
for me and no compliments. Other students had compliments for their stories,
but I didn’t and that put a huge dent in my massive ego. What really set me off
was when a fellow student named Patrick flat out said the story sucked. You
know you have a hair trigger temper when the words “it sucked” causes you to
blow a major gasket. Of course, I didn’t actually explode in the classroom, but
I was boiling over on the inside. I needed some kind of revenge on Patrick in
the worst way. Beating the piss out of him would land me in jail, so I needed
something a little more…legal.
Around this time in my life, I was watching a lot of WWE
(surprise, surprise). Since this was the autumn of 2004, John Cena was still
over with the crowd during his white rapper gimmick. I’ll always tell people
that hip-hop was the catalyst for my poetry career, but what a lot of people
don’t know is that John Cena’s battle raps were the biggest source of inspiration
for me. From those TV-14 insults, my revenge poem against Patrick was
formulated. I would go on a lengthy diatribe about how I would impregnate
Patrick’s mother, sodomize him, and give him up to the orcish horde (because he
looked like Frodo Baggins). I would have read this out loud during creative
writing class, but Patrick made a face turn and started being nicer to the
class, so I pulled back at the last minute.
As far as Raggyd goes, just for the sake of spiting my
critics, I wrote a 130-page movie script detailing the exploits of Graf Lunge
and Baby. Had I continued this series, there would have been a script dedicated
to Eron and Futez and there would have been another one after that dedicated to
the final battle with Vine Wielders. For the time being, Graf Lunge’s story was
about him getting kidnapped at an early age and forced to train as a pit
fighter under drill instructor-style conditions. Baby’s story was about him
being sick of his religious upbringing and joining the thieves’ guild, where
his training was much nicer by comparison.
Raggyd had a lot of potential to be something big, but I
eventually lost interest in continuing it due to the silence of my critics and
a growing interest in other movie scripts. That means Graf Lunge, Baby, Futez
Mysida, and Eron Putris are all orphaned characters. They’ll be used in other
stories, no doubt, but what stories and when? I particularly grew fond of Graf
Lunge because of his name (believe it or not) and his barbarian gimmick
(naturally). And now that I think about it, Baby and Eron have different
incarnations in other published stories. Over a decade later, Baby would become
a child’s doll come to life in “Nail Bomb” and Eron would take the role of
Floyd the sparring android from “The New Trainer”. Both of those stories will
be published in Poison Tongue Tales. That leaves Graf and Futez without a home.
When I look back on the origins of Raggyd and the hurtful
environment from which it came, a part of me wishes Olympic College wouldn’t
have allowed that format to go on for any creative writing class. Apparently,
this is a common occurrence for a lot of schools, not just OC. You read your
story or poem out loud to the class and stay silent while the other students
judge your piece. The other students can be as harsh or as nasty as they want
with no consequence. It’s always been my understanding that school was supposed
to be a place where students could grow and mature, not be taken down. But hey,
I’ve watched Pink Floyd the Wall millions of times before, so I should have
known better.
If I didn’t attend that class, I wouldn’t have written that
battle rap about Patrick and therefore, I would have no poetry career. While I
admit that my angry poetry got me in trouble more than once, I have no regrets
about any of it, because I’d like to think I’ve improved since then. Maybe
that’s why “Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage” holds a four-star rating on
Good Reads and Necrograph holds a five-star rating on the same website.
The lesson of this blog entry is to live your life with no
regrets, because if you change just one part of your personal history, the rest
of your life will be completely different. Without the negative experiences of
your past, you wouldn’t appreciate the positive ones you have now. Raggyd will
see the light of day again sometime in the near future. When that is, I have no
idea. Until then, adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!
***JOKE OF THE DAY***
Q: What do you call
someone who masturbates to Maid Marian while watching through her window?
A: Rubbin’ Hood.
