I Didn't Mean to Bore You

VERSE 1

What do I do to earn my glorious payday?

More like what I do to pass the time away

I create magic universes for others to see

Create 3D characters who eventually bleed

Write it all down and let the printer’s ink dry

Which is more than I’ll say about your eyes

Ask more questions, go ahead, I implore you

I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you

VERSE 2

One word answers are all that I’ll give

Code of silence is how I choose to live

Resting Bitch Face so photogenic

Photoshop’s got nothing on this edit

Blunt affect voice, my weapon of choice

Groaning and grunting, my only noise

Don’t take this as a sign I’ll ignore you

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you

BRIDGE

No common ground between the two of us

No longevity of friendship or moment of lust

Nothing to do but milk the grandfather clock

I can tell you’re more excited picking out socks

VERSE 3

Did I do anything fun on Valentine’s Day?

Sat on my ass and watched time tick away

Waiting for exhaustion to pass over my mind

Looking for inspiration anywhere I can find

Did I do anything fun on the fourth of July?

Just lay in my beddy-bye and ask myself why

Mandatory fun? I’d never even force you

I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you

FINAL VERSE

Until next time when we’re strangers again

Remember me not as your favorite friend

Remember me not as the one who rewards you

I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you

We Need to Talk

Sorry to bother you, but we need to talk

Grab your coat and let’s go for a walk

You’re not in trouble, of that I’m sure

I swear my intentions are good and pure

But something you did upset me so

It’ll be a while before you finally know

Let the quiet tension build within you

Run the gamut of drama old and new

Anxiety weighs heavily on your soul

Head is swimming, blood runs cold

You already forgot you’re not in trouble

Let your stomach acids boil and bubble

Remember that thing you did days ago?

Remember what you said with angry flow?

It hurts when you do that, don’t do it again

I actually reconsidered us being best friends

I’ll put it behind me, no question about it

But even you are beginning to doubt it

You’re red in the face, damp in the eyes

The next word from your mouth is a cry

You hold it in, let your eyeballs ache

Let your mind circle, your heart break

We had a good talk, though you never spoke

You desperately wanted this to be a joke

You won’t accept a hug from my arms

You won’t accept my sweetest charms

When we get back home, you stew alone

Glued to your computer or smart phone

Anything to get away from the awkwardness

And the guilt and shame on top of this

Until next time when you do it again

Solitude and blankets, your only friends

Make no mistake, we needed this talk

But when I’m gone, you’ll change the lock

I Don't Need an Out

***I DON’T NEED AN OUT***

While it is true that there’s no age limit for success in the world of writing, some days it can feel like you’re running out of time. Maybe it’s been a while since your last session. Maybe real life got in the way of what you love the most. Maybe the burnout bug bit you a little too hard on the ass. Whatever the case may be, the longer you delay your project, the more pressure you feel to get it done. You don’t necessarily want an out. You’re trying desperately to find an in. And yet, procrastination takes over anyways. You’ve been locked out of heaven and you’re desperately banging on the gates to get back in. I’ve been there. You’ve been there. Anybody who’s ever picked up a pen or pounded on a keyboard has been there.

It wasn’t always this way, but I’m definitely a procrastinator whether I want to admit it or not. From third grade all the way to eighth, it used to be that I’d do my homework right when I got home from school and not a moment later. I turned in my assignments on time and got the good grades I wanted (mostly). And then starting in my freshman year of high school when the bullying was at its worst, I waited until nightfall to start my homework assignments. I purposefully delayed my work because I was afraid the PTSD would interrupt me and cause me to fuck up. While I eventually overcame the bullying and mental trauma, the habit of delaying my schoolwork stayed with me until I graduated from college in 2009. It could have been the onset of schizophrenia that kept the habit alive, but it follows me well into the prime of my writing career.

Whether I consciously or subconsciously do it, I keep looking for an out from my creative duties. I don’t want to look for an out. I don’t need to. I’d love to storm the gates of heaven and climb over the top. But some days, I can’t tell if I’m legitimately too exhausted to work or if I’m looking for an out. Maybe the reason I keep looking for an out is because I’m afraid of being interrupted by what the fuck goes on inside my head. While it’s a terrible idea to write while mentally slogged, I agree, it has gotten in the way of progress and as a result I feel awful about doing nothing for the rest of the day. Yes, lots of good writers procrastinate and proudly so, but this is a habit I don’t want. I’d love to quell my anxieties before knowing for sure if I’m tired, but it hasn’t happened yet and here we are.

When I get right down to it, there’s really nothing to be afraid of other than being afraid of shit. When I edit a long-term project, there’s nothing to fear because my beta readers and editors are friendly people who give wise critiques. When I write a short story or novel chapter, there’s nothing to fear because I’m getting in my practice and keeping my skills sharp, first draft or not. When I’m writing a review, again, not much to be afraid of because I’ve already rehearsed all of my talking points in my head and I’m ready to go well in advance. I don’t want to use the tired old phrase “it’s all in my head”, but there really is no reason for all of this fear. If I fuck up badly, so what? That’s the beauty of writing: you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike a brain surgeon or a police officer.

Back in 2017, Texas rock band Nothing More released an album called “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” and it has many dialogue tracks in between their original songs. One of those dialogue tracks is from philosopher Alan Watts and he describes how the only way to master fear is to allow yourself to be afraid. When you’re constantly fighting fear, you’re only setting up a vicious cycle of being afraid of fear and being afraid of being afraid of fear. When you relax your defenses, you realize you’ve got nothing to defend and there’s no reason to fight in the first place.

I practiced Alan Watts’s mantra many times on the nights before I attended a rock concert. There was always the lingering fear of something bad happening at the show or transportation to and from the show being stressful as hell. I allowed myself to be afraid. I let the anxiety wash over me and it worked. I mastered my own fear. Can this method be applied to my writing? If I try hard enough, I suppose. The next time I feel anxious about being critiqued or whatnot, I’m just going to let it happen. Let the fear do its thing and then sort out the logic later. Will I stop procrastinating? Maybe not, but at least acknowledging my own fear will feel better for me in the long run than undeserved guilt.

I’m not saying that Alan Watts’s mantra or my own life experiences will work for everybody else. There is no one-size-fits-all solution when it comes to psychology because everybody is different and everybody has their own set of obstacles. My obstacles are schizophrenia, burnout, and the anxiety that comes with both of those things. Being aware of your own mind and your own circumstances will come a long way, though. Once you know what the problem is, you can relax long enough to find a solution that works for you and you alone.

Try it. If it doesn’t work, try something else. Stay curious and keep looking for answers. Don’t look so hard for answers that you add to your anxieties. We can do this. We can overcome procrastination together. Or if procrastination is what you naturally do and it doesn’t interrupt your work schedule, it may not be a problem to begin with. Like I said, no one-size-fits-all solution. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

After twenty days of wrestling with procrastination and self-doubt, chapters seven and eight have been revised. Chapter nine will have to be rewritten entirely to accommodate for Tarja Rikkinen’s suggested character changes. Instead of being a Mary-Sue who talks like a therapist and fights like a goddess, she’ll crack jokes at inappropriate times as a way to mask her own trauma and then feel internally guilty afterwards. Also, there’s got to be some reason why Shelly Atwood’s voice keeps appearing in her mind, right? After all, those two characters look similar to each other. Hmm….

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

As much as I love Final Fantasy VII, they fucked up badly when they named one of Cloud Strife’s swords the Hard Edge. It’s a weapon that can be stolen from one of Shinra’s soldiers. But instead of saying that, my brother’s girlfriend at the time named Angela told me to, “Make them give you a Hard Edge”. I was only fifteen years old at the time, but I laughed like someone a fraction of my age when she said that. Those jokes just write themselves.

Oswald

I see you everyday sleeping your life away

Losing time again, can’t convince you to stay

Your legs are so weak you can’t stand up

Is this your way of saying you’ve had enough?

I’ll miss you dearly on the day that you pass

I’ll miss your chubby belly, so much mass

I’ll miss you rolling over on your back

I’ll miss you munching on a chicken snack

Miss your precious face, expressions so sweet

Miss your pretty eyes, close them as you sleep

The Rainbow Bridge is waiting for you

Make lots of friends for me, old and new

I hope your life was one worth living

My love for you was well worth giving

One of these days, we’ll cross paths again

Even in death, you’ll be my sweetest friend

Until next time, my Buddha-bellied feline

Until next time, my little oinking swine

Soon you will be free of your elderly pain

You’ll be missed so much, our eyes will rain

Losing fuzzy friends never gets easier

Reincarnate one day into someone beefier

"If Only You Knew How Much I Smell You" by Roy Blount, Jr. and Valerie Shaff

BOOK TITLE: If Only You Knew How Much I Smell You: True Portraits of Dogs

AUTHORS: Roy Blount, Jr. (text) and Valerie Shaff (photography)

YEAR: 1998

GENRE: Picture Book with Poetry

SUBGENRE: Dog Portraits

GRADE: Extra Credit

It’s not often that I give perfect five out of five grades to whatever I’m reading at the time. When I finally do, you know it’s a special occasion. You know that the book touched my heart in some special way or changed the way I think about the world. This picture book did the former of those two. Sure, you’ll always win me over with precious puppy-duppy pictures. But these aren’t just ordinary snapshots of dogs. They’re expressive. They’re artistic. Valerie Shaff takes special care when selecting which ones go in the book. Some of the dogs have pouty expressions. Others are playing outside. Even the simple act of lying on the couch is enough to touch the coldest of human souls. These are the sweeties we’ve come to know and love throughout our many years of owning dogs. You want to reach through the pages and give hugs and belly rubs to these precious critters. But alas, this book was published in 1998 and many years have passed since then, which means these pups have crossed the Rainbow Bridge. By the looks of these photos, you can tell that the time they spent on this earth was well-lived. That’s really all we can do in the end: give these doggos the best life they can possibly have.

But of course, Valerie Shaff’s excellent photography is just one half of this formula. You also have the simple, yet effective poetry of Roy Blount, Jr. to accompany these beautiful pictures. These poems make the dogs come off as sweethearted and lovable rather than diva-like and spicy. They do have their diva moments, but those moments don’t overstay their welcome. There’s also a little bit of toilet humor, but it too doesn’t overstay its welcome. The one poem that really hit me the hardest was the one about the owner going off to college and the dog assuming that the would-be student is dead. This poem is accompanied by a sad expression on the dog’s face and rightfully so. This gave me war flashbacks of going to study at Western Washington University and being depressed all the time about not being able to see my animal babies. The rules of my dorm room specifically stated that pets weren’t allowed, so that hit me even harder. In the introduction to this book, Roy wonders what kinds of thoughts his dogs have and what rhythm they would use to express those thoughts. I’d say he got them down perfectly, no questions asked.

Everyone could use a little sweetness in their lives, but this book goes the extra mile in securing that sweetness for potential readers. Valerie Shaff and Roy Blount, Jr. didn’t just create a photo album; they created art. This is the kind of representation that precious puppies need, especially when it comes to adopting them from shelters (don’t shop, adopt). This book does a good job of building up older doggies as well, which is important since they need love just as much as their younger counterparts. Like I said earlier, five out of five stars is what this book gets. That’s a lot of “aww’s”!

"They Called Us Enemy" by George Takei

BOOK TITLE: They Called Us Enemy

AUTHOR: George Takei

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Political Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

In 1942, over 120,000 Japanese-Americans were taken away from their homes and placed into dingy prison camps all over the US. They did nothing wrong, but had none of the legal means to prove it to the racist authorities. They were paying for the sins of their home country after the Pearl Harbor bombing. Classic ignorant thinking at its worst: because a small minority of the group committed the crime, the entire group is guilty. George Takei spent most of his tender childhood living under this kind of oppression as he and his family were among the Japanese-American families locked up in internment camps. Reading about this shameful experience through his eyes makes everything that much more heartbreaking. His young mind couldn’t comprehend the ignorance of those in charge. He tried to make sense of the barbed wire enclosures, deplorable conditions, and abusive army guards. Fast forward into adulthood and George Takei does everything in his power as an equal rights activist and Hollywood actor to make sure this terrifying history doesn’t happen again.

This graphic novel is nothing short of a brutally honest look into the politics of fear. Powerful politicians will use their influence and charisma to rile up their supporters into believing that the less fortunate are what’s wrong with this country. We saw it with the Japanese internment in George Takei’s book and we’re seeing it today with the Muslim ban, the family separation policy at the Mexican border, and black people getting harsher treatment from law enforcement than whites. The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. But it doesn’t have to be this way. This book has the power to educate its readers. When you familiarize yourself with your fellow world citizens, you’re less likely to judge them. That’s what “They Called Us Enemy” means to me and that’s one of the reasons it’s getting a perfect five out of five stars. The more educated we are, the better off we’ll be. That means leaving behind comfortable bigotry and thinking about what it’s like to be the other guy, which is often a horrifying reality.

But of course, there will always be those contrarians out there who say, “It wasn’t all that bad!” These same people say it about black slavery, they call Mexican border detention centers “Summer Camp”, and they’ll no doubt say it about Japanese internment camps. Having guaranteed living conditions doesn’t mean those conditions are necessarily good. Did I mention the barbed wire fencing around the camps? Did I mention the abusive treatment from the soldiers? What about the fact that George Takei’s family had to live in a horse stall that smelled like rancid feces? What about the infighting among Japanese prisoners who joined the military to prove their patriotism and the prisoners who stayed in the camps to protest? Had enough harsh reality? But wait, there’s one more juicy detail: institutionalization. Some prisoners were so familiar with the routine life of the camps that they couldn’t imagine getting back on their feet in a normal society. Now imagine a child as young as George Takei feeling that way upon leaving the camp. You get to see all of this through the author’s eyes whether you want to or not. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll be a necessary kick in the butt for the apathetic and fearful.

Despite the shortness and quick pacing of the book, you will feel as though you’ve taken an entire US history course in one sitting. Let this be a message to you all. Treat your neighbors with kindness and respect. Treat your inferiors with the same level of understanding and love. If you see an injustice happening, don’t stay quiet. Be the activist you were meant to become. Be a passionate enough voice in this battle for equality that those in power will have no choice but to listen. Let your words haunt them like schizophrenic ghosts. Will this change anything? Let me put it this way: we don’t have a choice but to activate our activism. The world can’t survive without making progressive leaps and bounds. That is the nature of time. Any questions?

"Tales of the Siblings Not-So-Grim" from Hollow Hills

BOOK TITLE: Tales of the Siblings Not-So-Grim

AUTHORS: Aurora Styles, Marie Krepps, David Quesenberry, Jennifer Quail, Larry Fort, and Jacob Mahurien

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Fictional Short Stories and Poetry

SUBGENRE: Sci-Fi/Fantasy Anthology

GRADE: Pass

Choosing favorite stories and poems from this anthology wasn’t an easy task. Everybody who was fortunate enough to be published in this book deserved to be there. There’s no such thing as choosing a least favorite, because that option doesn’t exist. Sure, there are a few noticeable typos here and there such as misplaced quotation marks and paragraphs without indentations, but it’s not enough to keep this reading experience from being enjoyable. And yes, your heart will break many times even though the title has the words “not-so-grim” at the end, but it’s a welcome heartbreak that’s a sign of well-written literature. I encourage all of my fantasy-loving audience members to buy a copy and read it from cover to cover. It’s a decision you can’t regret no matter how stubborn you might be.

While choosing favorites from this collection wasn’t easy, it could be done. One of them is Larry Fort’s contribution, a science fiction short story called “Eigenlicht”. One of the protagonists, a punk rock intellectual named Stephen Langer, resonated with me more than any other character. He rebels against society without fully contemplating the consequences of his actions. He feels with some justice that he’s disenfranchised from his peers and that he’ll never earn the respect he desires. The more he listens to the schizophrenic demons in his head, the more he becomes seduced by his darker urges. Ouroboros, the dark matter being that transcends space and time, is the one planting these ideas in his head. Will Stephen snap out of it long enough to see the good in the world again? That’s a question that can only be answered by reading through this beautifully-written piece of prose. You don’t even have to agree with Stephen all the time to relate to him in some way. That is the nature of flawed three-dimensional characters, after all.

Yet another favorite story in this anthology is Marie Krepps’ contribution entitled “The Blacksmith’s Quest”. When you see Blacksmith and Mara take on the world together, you’ll root for them to finally make their relationship official. It’s a slow burn with many ups and downs. Blacksmith can’t forgive himself for his violent rage when he’s protecting others. Mara can’t forgive herself for not seeing through her former master’s lies. There’s a vast difference between two characters completing each other and complimenting each other. Completing each other means becoming codependent. But that’s not how Blacksmith and Mara’s friendship works. Though vastly different in skill sets, they see each other as equals. They save each other’s lives not just physically, but also emotionally. They can do all of this while finding their own places in the world. This is what a healthy, strong relationship looks like. Will it become official? We can only hope and pray. And when you do pray for this to happen, make sure the villainous Priest isn’t holding a knife to your back. Seriously, that guy is worse than a Catholic pedophile.

If you’re looking for something awesome and imaginative to read, look no further than Tales of the Siblings Not-So-Grim. Hollow Hills, the book’s parent company, is notorious for pumping out lovable pieces of fiction. The CEO’s know exactly what they want in their characters and won’t settle for anything less than three-dimensional people. We’re all human beings with our own flaws, strengths, interests, and opinions. Then again, so are the characters in this book and every other Hollow Hills book out there. A passing grade will go to this collection! Hooray!

Secretary

MOVIE TITLE: Secretary

DIRECTOR: Steven Shainberg

YEAR: 2002

GENRE: Erotic Drama

RATING: R for language and sexual content

GRADE: Fail

When you notice that this movie is an erotic drama and you see that James Spader’s character’s last name is Grey, your mind probably jumps to a decade later and a certain novel from E.L. James that generated controversy. Maybe this movie was a prophecy of sorts. I don’t see why not. Spader’s character’s first name is Edward and yes, that name also sounds suspicious considering where E.L. James got her inspiration from. Edward Grey is a sharp-dressed attorney who hires secretaries for the sole purpose of inflicting BDSM punishments on them whenever they make even the smallest of mistakes. He’s a well-to-do employer who takes full advantage of the power he has over his employees. Sound familiar? Not exactly a healthy relationship that’s built to last.

The imbalanced power dynamic is most evident when Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character, Lee Holloway, becomes his latest charge. She starts the movie by exiting a mental hospital after struggling so long with self-harm. While the act of cutting and bandaging herself is a realistic behavior of someone with her mental illnesses, it plays a little too well into the BDSM relationship. Edward Grey spanks her repeatedly and she gets off on that. Let me repeat that back to you, not unlike a secretary typing a letter for a powerful attorney: a woman who finds psychological healing in harming herself finds sexual pleasure in being harmed, by someone with too much professional power, no less. I’ll let that sink in for a little while.

But perhaps I’m reading too much into this. After all, one of this movie’s thousands of subgenres is comedy. Comedy shouldn’t be taken too seriously, right? I’d agree with that sentiment if it wasn’t for the fact that I didn’t laugh one single time throughout this movie. I could have watched an orphanage burn to the ground and it would have made me laugh harder than this movie. Was I supposed to be impressed by the over-the-top portrayal of BDSM culture? Was Lee Holloway’s awkwardness supposed to make me chuckle? Maybe it’s just dry humor and belly laughs weren’t necessarily required. Maybe I’m too dumb to get the punch line. Whatever the case may be, I think the word “comedy” can be removed from this movie’s list of subgenres and it wouldn’t suffer much.

Up until the ending, this movie had loads of potential. It could have been a dark story about the power imbalance between boss and subordinate. It could have been a struggle with mental illness. Edward Grey’s small moments of guilt could have encompassed the entire story and I would have been fine with that. While I won’t spoil the ending, I will give away the fact that as the movie draws closer to it, the overall tone becomes happy and romantic. That’s right. Taking advantage of a vulnerable, mentally ill woman is seen as a healthy relationship dynamic. Maybe this movie was a prophecy after all. Thanks, but no thanks. This movie gets a failing grade because it reminds me too much of Fifty Shades of Grey. And for the record, the sex scenes are just as vanilla.

My Response to "Noise" by Nightwish

***MY RESPONSE TO “NOISE” BY NIGHTWISH***

I’ve been a fan of Nightwish’s music dating all the way back to 2002. It started with “She Is My Sin” from the Wishmaster album and it snowballed from there. I was heartbroken to learn about Tarja Turunen’s firing from the band in 2005. I also crushed on her and Anette Olzon throughout my college days. I talked with Tuomas Holopainen on My Space (if that was really him). I wrote several creepy essays about Nightwish to cope with my loneliness. Okay, that last part was on a need-to-know basis, but you get what I’m trying to say. And I’ve accepted the fact that my heroes and I are going to have disagreements from time to time. I don’t agree with Roger Waters’s fox hunting. I don’t agree with Daniel Bryan’s anti-meat agenda. I don’t agree with George Carlin’s hatred of fat people. Disagreements happen and that’s a part of life a lot of people are going to have to get realistic about.

A few days ago, Nightwish released a new single from their latest album and that song is called “Noise”. If you’ve watched the video for it or have read the lyrics on Google, then you’d be blind not to notice the strong technophobic themes. You’ve heard these messages before from Baby Boomers and Gen Xers. Staring at your screen all the time will make you mentally ill. Social media will brainwash you into becoming a mediocre zombie. Young people need to wake up. Yada, yada, yada, you get the point by now. There used to be a time when I blindly agreed with these sentiments. But knowing what I know about today’s world and how my generation has been derided for far too long, I’m afraid I’m going to have to crack my knuckles for this post. Tuomas, Floor, Marco, everyone in the band, I love you all dearly. I wouldn’t trade you for anyone else. But you wanted a conversation and you’ve got one.

In case I haven’t whined about it enough online, I live in a small town called Port Orchard, Washington. I’ve lived in small towns for pretty much all of my teenaged and adult life. These small towns all have something in common: they’ve got…and I’m not exaggerating…a whole lot of jack shit. The most entertaining thing one could do in Port Orchard is go to a grocery store or fast food establishment and pig the fuck out on junk food. You can also do drugs and alcohol if you’d like. Me? I could probably go to a bar and meet strangers. There’s just one problem: I don’t have a car nor do I want one. I’ll leave it to someone else to fly through the windshield and plow into a ditch. With no car and with constantly pouring weather, I can’t exactly go out and do whatever the hell I want without someone giving me a lift. Even if I did trust myself behind the wheel of a car, I wouldn’t be able to meet people anyways because I’m too fucking shy. I hate being rejected and I hate embarrassing other people as well.

More often than not, the only form of entertainment I can consistently count on is social media. Whether I’m watching a You Tube video, surfing Deviant Art, interacting with other readers on Good Reads, or boosting my own career as an independently-published author, social media has been there for me. That’s right. Without social media, I’d have no writing career. I could go the traditionally published route, but that would mean getting past gatekeepers that never gave a shit about me in the first place. The reason it’s called social media is because it’s, you guessed it, social. In a town with a whole lot of jack shit, I can go online and talk to other people who are feeling just as lonely as me. Are they online all the time? No. But it’s better than wandering the rainy streets of Port Orchard looking for a whole lot of nothing. What am I supposed to do, knock on random doors in my neighborhood and ask people if they want to be my friend? Please.

Does social media have drawbacks? Yes. Is it unhealthy to compare yourself to the perfect versions of other people? Yes. Should I be looking for other hobbies? Yes. But do I have much of a choice in the matter given my circumstances? Absolutely not. Cars are expensive as hell and they’re fucking dangerous too. Real life people would rather avoid and ignore me than see my vulnerable side. Being a lower class weirdo doesn’t matter on social media because strangers will be there to comfort you and come together for you. Do I still feel lonely sometimes? Yes. But do I blame it all on social media and my generation growing up with it? Hell no. Blaming my generation for everything is a lazy copout for fixing systemic problems within our society.

But this is just my experience. I’m sure there are people out there who do just fine without social media. Hell, I know some old people who are glued to their phones and nobody kicks up a fuss about them. We all have our way of coping with boring lives. We all have a distraction of some sort. Some people snort cocaine. Some people chow down on Kentucky Fried Chicken. Me? I use social media as my escape. Why? Because I don’t have a fucking choice. Do I want choices? Absolutely. But are they going to present themselves to me in a way that’s considerate of my circumstances? No.

Like I said earlier, I love Nightwish and will always cherish their music no matter what. I don’t want you all to think I’m putting the boots to them over a minor disagreement. They’re entitled to their opinions just like I’m entitled to mine. I’m sure Tuomas and I can sit down and discuss this over a nice lunch at That One Place (a diner here in Port Orchard with enormous fucking pancakes). I’m sure Floor and I can share a few plates of chow mein from China Sun Buffet (also in Port Orchard), and no, that’s not me asking her out on a date. Remember, I don’t like embarrassing other people with my flirty behavior and that includes Floor Jansen.

The point is, Nightwish wanted to get a discussion going and that’s exactly what happened. I see a lot of people agreeing with “Noise’s” message on social media (the irony is killing me), but I don’t see a lot of opposition. I can promise you one thing, though: if Nightwish ever comes to my home state of Washington for a concert, I promise I won’t shout “OK Boomer!” after they’re done playing Noise. That dishonor is reserved for Nonpoint and their song “Generation Idiot”. I’m joking, of course. Nonpoint did a hell of a job opening for Hellyeah back in December, though I was secretly doing my happy dance when they neglected to play “Generation Idiot”. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“The days were brighter. Gardens were blooming. The nights had more hope in their silence. The wild was calling. Wishes were whispering. The time was there, but without a meaning. The days departed. Gardens deserted. This frail world my only rest. The wild calls no more. Wishes were hollow. The barefoot boy weeping in an empty night. Cherish the moment. Tower the skies. Don’t let the dreamer fade to gray like grass. No falling for life. A gain for every loss. Time gathered me, but kept me flying. Away, away, away in time. Every dream’s a journey away. Away, away to a home away from care. Everywhere’s just a journey away.”

-Nightwish singing “Away”, which as you can see is not a technophobic diatribe-

"What I'm Not" Officially Canceled

***”WHAT I’M NOT” OFFICIALLY CANCELED***

It’s not often than I scrub a piece of creative writing I did off the face of the internet. The last time I did it was in 2014 with a PG-13 erotica short story called Tainted Love. Six days after my 29^th birthday, this stinker managed to piss off the entire world with the way I objectified the lone female character and glorified her Stockholm Syndrome. I own that black eye on my track record and promise never to do those horrible things again. So what could I have possibly written this time that would deserve such a thorough cleansing from the web? I’ll tell you what it was: the first and final episode of What I’m Not.

I’ve had the idea for What I’m Not for as long as I’ve been fantasizing about having a You Tube channel. Many of my closest friends encouraged me to do my own You Tube project and I’ve been hesitant to give it a try, for fear that the ungodly amount of stress would send me into a schizophrenic hell all over again. But let’s say for instance that I had the guts to bare my soul to the world in front of a phone camera. What I’m Not was supposed to be a vlog series detailing all of my worst mistakes as a semi-professional author. In other words, it was a cautionary tale to rookies to not fuck up as badly as I did. I made the mistakes so nobody else would have to.

In theory, this would actually be a good idea. I don’t have much in the way of writing expertise except for what not to do. I still can’t craft a 3D character worth a damn. I still don’t know what the fuck a “character-driven story” is. What I’m Not would have been a comedic and lighthearted look into my worst decisions. So when I wrote the first episode, which was about admitting unemployment to strangers, audience members, and bosses, I decided to have a little fun and pepper in some jokes here and there. I was so excited to have this episode written that I didn’t even proofread the damn thing before posting it. That in and of itself would have made a fine idea for a What I’m Not episode.

When I finally read what I had written (twice), I was frozen with horror. There’s no way in hell writing this awful could have come from my imagination. I’m not even talking about first draft standards, because let’s face it, all first drafts by their very nature suck. This episode was by far, no exaggeration, the WORST thing I had ever written. It was so bad, in fact, that I scrubbed it from the internet before it had the chance to be critiqued. At least with the first draft of Beautiful Monster, it had potential despite the glaring flaws in the way I handled the subject of rape. At least with the first draft of Silent Warrior, it was…well…something! This episode of What I’m Not was a disaster from the get-go. It had no such potential. My big fat ass cat Oswald could have written a better episode than this and all he does is lie around and piss himself while waiting to die.

The tone of this episode could only be described as a whiny rant. I whined about my job hunting past. I whined about classism in dating. I ranted against people who were just trying to be nice and make small talk with me. All of this was supposed to be done in a comedic tone, but trust me when I say there was nothing funny about what I had written. A burning orphanage is funnier than this. Childhood cancer is funnier than the garbage I had written. Lily Singh’s “comedy” is funnier than…eh, you get the point by now. Wouldn’t want this blog entry to be a whining mess either, so I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

After I had wiped this episode from my social media pages and taken a few deep breaths to chill my anxiety, I questioned whether or not future episodes of What I’m Not would be just as bad as this one was. Fearing the answer might be an emphatic “fuck yes”, I decided going forward that the What I’m Not series had to be permanently canceled. I’m sure there’s a market for advice on what not to do as a writer, but I’m not the salesman. Not anymore. But did these episodes have to be funny? In my mind, they did, because that was the only thing they had going for them. If I tried to make the episodes serious, it would have sounded even whinier than before.

While my social media accounts have a small audience, You Tube would have had a lot more eyes on it. Can you imagine if I translated my writing into a video and a gajillion people saw it? I consider myself fortunate that I can toe the line between a private citizen and an internet personality. This is not a microscope I want to find myself under. This is not a hill I want to die on. If I ever decide to do a nonfiction series again, I’ll need a different topic and it’ll have to be a topic that doesn’t require a comedic edge. I can be funny from time to time, but not all the time. I don’t have the charisma to keep my funny streak going forever and ever. Drama is much easier than comedy, but whining will not be tolerated.

Will I ever create a You Tube channel given that What I’m Not turned out to be a dud? I think I’m more comfortable writing my nonfiction out instead of being in front of a camera. Yes, I know that staying in the comfort zone is supposed to be a bad thing, but then again, so is falling so badly on my ass that I can’t recover. My You Tube audience wouldn’t have let me hear the end of it. At least on Deviant Art, Good Reads, and Blogger, I don’t have to worry about supreme failure, because the audience for those platforms is smaller. But a small audience won’t bring me a great deal of success. Then again, success doesn’t always amount to fame and fortune. Everyone’s idea of success is different and sometimes it doesn’t mean being glared at under the world’s most powerful electron microscope.

If this blog entry sounds too whiny to keep my message consistent, I apologize profusely. I don’t know who was really looking forward to the What I’m Not series, but it’s been officially canceled as of now. My main priorities at the moment will be editing Beautiful Monster, reading my books, drawing my pictures, and watching my movies. Drawing and movie watching in particular are both excellent ways to get away from the writing grind and restore some of my lost energy. Sure, I write reviews for every movie I watch (Star Wars Episodes VII-IX be damned), but at least I have the energy to do those by the time the movie is over. Funny how that works out. As far as Beautiful Monster is concerned, I still have chapter seven staring me in the face, but that’s okay because it’s not a time sensitive project. Editing jobs aren’t supposed to be. Slow and steady wins the race. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I want to go home, take off this uniform, and leave the show. But I’m waiting in this cell, because I have to know: have I been guilty all this time?”

-Pink Floyd singing “Stop”-

Ted

MOVIE TITLE: Ted

DIRECTOR: Seth MacFarlane

YEAR: 2012

GENRE: Comedy

RATING: R for language, violence, and sexual content

GRADE: Pass

If you’ve watched any Seth MacFarlane cartoons over the years, you know exactly what you’re going to get from anything else he does: crude jokes, ridiculous fight scenes, pop culture references galore, and a belly full of laughs by the time you’re done watching. You’ll get everything you’ve come to know and love when you watch Ted, except this time without a TV-14 restriction holding Seth MacFarlane back. Oh sure, it starts out as an innocent friendship between a boy and his stuffed bear. But the bear has to eventually grow up too, which pretty much gives him a license to engage in whatever degenerate behavior he wants whether it’s snorting cocaine, beating people up, or having sex in the produce section of a grocery store. The whole movie is full of over-the-top moments made even funnier when they come from a Peter Griffin-sounding teddy bear. Growing up is overrated. Thunder buddies for life!

And because this is a Seth MacFarlane production, that means a lot of the jokes are going to be politically incorrect. And you know what? Even watching this in the present day, I don’t care! The more offensive, the better, I say. At least these disgusting jokes have substance to them. And hey, as long as it gets a laugh from the audience, all bets are off. Seth MacFarlane knows what he’s doing when it comes to comedy. None of the jokes come off as lazy or ham-fisted. It’s not like he scrolls through 4Chan every day just to dig up new material. He doesn’t need to do that. He’s got enough talent on his own whether he’s joking about taboo subjects or not. I won’t spoil any of the jokes here in this review, because I want you to watch the movie for yourself and enjoy the experience with a fresh and open mind. If you can watch Family Guy until the end of time, I think you can handle Ted just fine.

But do you know what’s even more unsettling than raunchy humor? Donny and his son Robert, two of Ted’s “biggest fans”. And by biggest fans, I mean obsessive serial killers and torturers who stalk Ted everywhere he goes. If you took Donny and Robert and put them in any other genre of movie, they could be convincing villains all the same. They’re deranged, abusive, creepy, controlling, manipulative, and pretty much any other adjective that will make you want to turn and run. Yes, Robert is a little on the chubby side and can’t run very fast, but trust me, you can’t get far enough away from that psychopath or his father. I jumped for joy when Mark Wahlberg’s character punched Robert in the face and knocked him out cold. But can he do the same to Donny? I’ll just leave that question hanging for as long as your anxiety will allow it.

Yes, this movie is a comedy that’s not meant to be taken seriously, but there is a good story in here about love and friendship. There are lessons to be learned underneath all of the belly laughs. Is it really necessary to “grow up”? Is one friend really more important than the other? Should friendship come easier for lonely kids? Not to sound too philosophical over a Seth MacFarlane movie, but getting hit in the feels is a common occurrence throughout the movie, especially near the end. Okay, maybe your feels won’t get hit nearly as hard as Mark Wahlberg and Ted hit each other in a cheap hotel room, but still, it’s something to consider when deciding on a final grade for this movie. In my case, I’ll give it four out of five stars. It’s not a perfect movie, because the laughs don’t come THAT frequently, but just frequently enough for some good old fashioned enjoyment.

Low Bar

You’re still nicer than a murderer in prison

You’re still tougher than a newborn kitten

You’re still smarter than dirty toilet paper

Still more put-together than a meth taker

Still wiser than a screaming kid on a plane

You’re still a better brother than Cain

You’re still a better writer than E.L. James

Still more tolerable than hemorrhoid pain

Still more beautiful than a razor-fanged demon

Still more innocent than a pedophile’s semen

Still healthier than grandpa on his deathbed

Still less ironic than a rapist going to heaven

Still younger than the corpse of Cleopatra

Don’t let these low bars become a distraction

You wanted some good news for once

This is all I’ve got and it was what it was

I’m sorry the universe is working against you

I should say that for the whole earth too

We’re all in this together, are you in or out?

If you do nothing, there’s no reason to shout

Bad days will come and go like everything else

If you’re up for it, let’s storm the gates of hell

Good news won’t come unless we make it so

This opportunity is yours to claim or to blow

Not Reading Your Own Reviews

***NOT READING YOUR OWN REVIEWS***

If you’re an author or creator of any kind, there’s one universal fact that you’ll have to blindly accept right off the bat: you will have critics, you will have bad reviews, and there’s nothing you can do about it other than keep on keeping on. It took me a LONG ass time to accept this, but I’m in a better position in my life because I did. Everyone in your audience has a unique point of view and that’s the way it should be. You don’t get to be a ruthless North Korean dictator just because you have sensitive feelings. But having said all of this, while you’re required to accept the fact you will be criticized, you are NOT obligated to read your own negative reviews.

That’s not the same thing as accepting feedback from your inner circle. Beta readers and editors are there for the sole purpose of giving you constructive feedback and advice on how to fix your manuscript’s worst flaws. You should welcome these people into your life because that’s how you get better as a writer. But reviewers are an entirely different animal altogether. Once your book is published, all bets are off. Reviewers are not obligated to be kind or constructive. Their job is to give an honest opinion of the work in question, nothing more, nothing less. Reviews are not written for the benefit of the author. They’re for the benefit of future readers, whether it’s advice to stay away from the published work or gravitate towards it en masse.

But just because someone is entitled to their negative opinion of you and your work, it doesn’t mean you have to force yourself to read what they have to say. That should be reserved for the beta readers and editors. Getting negative reviews is stressful. I know this because I’ve gotten a few of them myself (surprise, surprise) and haven’t brought myself to read what they actually say. You could argue that I’m a special little snowflake who gets easily hurt and you’d be right in that regard. Having a litany of mental health issues weakens my defenses when it comes to receiving harsh words. I want desperately to be a superhuman badass in the face of adversity, but I don’t get to have that choice. It seems as though every one of my author friends is secretly Superman or Wonder Woman, but I forget that they too have bad days when it comes to criticism. The only difference is, they have the ability to endure more than I can and it shows in their marketing schemes.

I’ve been watching a lot of Book Tube lately and had a nice little marketing strategy in mind: sending copies of my already published books to them and having them make videos about their honest opinions. I enjoy watching creators like Krimson Rogue, Rachel Oates, and Jordan Harvey work their magic. They’re entertaining, they’re thoughtful, they’re wise, and they’re the perfect candidates for reviewing my books, right? Well, that’s where my overactive, anxious imagination comes into play. I’ve played out tear-jerking scenarios in my head where these Book Tubers create videos bashing the shit out of my works and sending their viewers over to my social media to mob me out of existence. I know full well they’re not mean people. In fact, most of them don’t believe in cancel culture. But the thoughts have crossed my mind nonetheless and they’re maddening.

If they hypothetically were to give my books negative reviews, it’s not like they’d be entirely wrong in their opinions. Over the past decade, I’ve written some disgusting, nasty, overbearing shit and it’s only a matter of time before someone’s head explodes from reading it all. It could be Mitch McLeod coming off as a Gary-Stu. It could be me having a laugh at the expense of people from the south. Hell, one scenario I’ve imagined (but not realized yet) is Krimson Rogue jokingly calling one of my poetry books Confessions of a Schizophrenic Misogynist. For Christ’s sake, the book starts off by saying, “True blue, I don’t need a 62, your wife’s sweet juices will just have to do.” I don’t want to say that’s a red flag, but…well, it’s a red flag. A BIG fucking red flag.

Yes, my writing career has stagnated due to my lack of marketing prowess. Yes, I know what I need to do to fix that. But am I prepared for the consequences of doing so? Far from it. I’ve been mobbed online before and it’s not fun. Hell, I’ve gotten sad and angry when the harsh criticism was delivered in a gentle way. Like I said, I long for the day when I can be an ultra-tough superman, but I also know that day is never going to come, not in my condition. I firmly believe mental toughness is something you’re born with. Sure, you could sign up for the army and grow accustomed to having a drill instructor scream in your face 24/7, but if you’re not already mentally tough, that won’t build you up; it’ll knock your ass down for the count. I was born sensitive and I’ll take that to the grave with me several decades down the line.

So…if I were to follow through with my plan to allow Book Tubers to review what I’ve got and give an honest opinion, I should include one condition to the deal: that no matter how offensive the content is, we will still be friends. I’ll gladly agree to my end of that deal. If they give me one and two-star reviews, I will still think of them as my favorite friends. But will they feel the same about me? Yes, I consider some of these Book Tubers to be friends despite not knowing them well enough. Maybe I’m just a fan of their work and don’t want to be cast down by my own heroes. Maybe this condition isn’t necessary at all. But no matter if I include this provision or not, I still remain firm in my belief that reading my own reviews and watching my own response videos will only do more harm than good. Yes, I’d get the exposure I need, but like I said earlier, reviews are not for authors; they are for other readers. True critiques will come from your beta readers and editors. Hannah Lee Kidder, the author of Little Birds, agrees wholeheartedly with me and she’s more successful than I am at the moment, so if you can’t take my word for it, take hers.

If you want a copy of any of my books and you want to give an honest review of it, don’t be afraid to reach out to me. Your opinion matters. Nobody can take that away from you. Here’s my bibliography:

1. Occupy Wrestling (pro-wrestling urban fantasy novella)
2. American Darkness (contemporary micro-fiction collection)
3. Poison Tongue Tales (sci-fi, fantasy, and horror micro-fiction collection)
4. Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage (poetry and songs)
5. Necrograph (more poetry and songs)
6. Lunatic Justice (even more poetry and songs)
7. Still Standing (anti-bullying anthology alongside other authors)

Which one of you wants a nice reading adventure? I’m all ears! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

It’s been a long time in between edit jobs, but as of today, I’ve completed a chapter-by-chapter synopsis, a prologue, and six opening chapters. Chapter seven will be the one where Shelly Atwood and one of her minions give Windham Xavier a bath. What could be so exciting about that, you ask? First of all, as I’ve already established, Shelly Atwood has no business touching Windham on any part of this body, much less when he’s butt naked in bath water. Eventually, he’s going to have to make a break for it. And he just fucking might!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“This world asks for so much. Despite what you give, it’s just never enough. Then you’re left cold, tired, and alone. Searching for something that’s already gone. You try not to be afraid. Bound down by all of these things that they say. And you feel like you’re all by yourself. But I’ll be right here when there’s nothing left. Your fears, they know that you’re scared. Wherever you go, they seem to meet you there. And you face them all on your own. Never the weak, always the strong. And you win most of the time. Never once claiming that victory’s mine. And you carry this burden alone. But this candle’s burned at both ends for so long. Lay down. Rest here in peace in my arms now knowing you’re safe from the storms and the rain and from all of your pain. And I’ll be here when only the silence remains.”

-3 Doors Down singing “The Silence Remains”-

Inglorious Basterds

MOVIE TITLE: Inglorious Basterds

DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino

YEAR: 2009

GENRE: War Movie

RATING: R for violence, language, and sexual content

GRADE: Mixed

With all the political tension in today’s world, who wouldn’t want to escape into a world of Nazi-slaying fun? Cutting off their scalps, beating them with a bat, shooting them up, burning them down, if there’s a way to kill a Nazi in World War II, Aldo Raine and his troops will make it happen. You know who else will make it happen? A lone Jewish woman named Shosanna whose family was slaughtered by the Nazi war machine. That’s a lot of vengeful desires from anybody not involved in the Third Reich. There’s no possible way that this movie could be anything but perfect, right? Well, that’s where Quentin Tarantino’s biggest fault comes into play: sometimes his movies drag on for an excruciatingly long time. Inglorious Basterds was no exception to that rule. I realize a movie can’t be all action and no drama, but the reverse is also true if the idea is to make a revenge flick: it can’t be all drama and too little action. Some of the chapters could have been cut short and it wouldn’t have hurt the movie in any way, especially the chapter where the Nazis play the card game at a bar. If you want your bloodthirsty fun, you’ll have to get in line like everyone else.

But when you get exactly what you wanted out of this film, it’ll be exactly as you expected. The outcome of the story was never in doubt for even a second. Aldo Raine and his troops are overpowered in spite of the fact that some of them get killed along the way. Shosanna’s own plans for revenge are so brilliant that detailed that no German soldier could possibly crack her code. Everything that could go right in this movie did go right…except for the element of surprise for the audience. I guess when the genre is described as a “revenge flick”, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination. No serious detective work has to be done. But can I at least believe for one small minute that the good guys have a chance of losing? Having a few of their soldiers killed vulnerability does not make. I want to see some flaws. I want to see some cracks in the world’s most impressive plot armor. Maybe if the German propaganda machine took these kinds of notes, their films wouldn’t look so ridiculous on screen.

If you think this review is going to be a nonstop bash-fest, you’re wrong. It was enjoyable for what it was. Quentin Tarantino’s dialogue will always deliver no matter what the genre of his movies. The subterfuge his characters engage in is also an impressive feat that required an extraordinary amount of creativity. Above all else, however, I must give my highest praise to the character work of Hans Lander, the Nazi colonel nicknamed the “Jew Hunter”. No, I’m not condoning his belief system, just his villainy. Whenever he interrogates someone, he knows he’s got his victims by the throat. He purposefully tiptoes around the answers he receives to give his liars a false sense of hope. I’d call this a perfect game of cat and mouse…if the cat had drill bits for fangs, battleaxes for claws, and venom for drool. I’d dare say that Hans is even more intimidating and dangerous than his boss Hitler himself. He’s so believable as a villain that he can almost negate my earlier point of the outcome being too predicable. Key word being almost.

It wouldn’t be fair to call Inglorious Basterds my least favorite Quentin Tarantino movie, because all in all I did enjoy it. Having a least favorite Tarantino movie is like having a least favorite flavor of ice cream: in the end, it’s still ice cream and it’s still going to be more delicious than the creamy strudel Shosanna and Landers shared in the high scale restaurant. This movie gets a mixed grade from me, but it’ll be a high mixed, which means three-and-a-half stars out of five. In the interest of being decisive and honest, I’ll round it down to a solid three. Being average doesn’t have to be a bad thing, right?