Explaining Stories: Carlos vs. Bryan

***EXPLAINING STORIES: CARLOS VS. BRYAN***

I’ve allowed this topic to float away in the breeze for far too long, yet it’s been rolling around in my head since college. At WWU, I had two different writing teachers who had opposite schools of thought when it came to authors explaining their own work. Carlos Martinez, my first multi-genre writing teacher, was of the belief that it’s okay to explain yourself while Bryan Willis, my dramatic writing professor, was adamantly against it and would discourage students from doing so during critique sessions. Today we’re going to look at both sides of that debate and see which among you is on Team Carlos or Team Bryan. Though there will be disagreements, I promise you this debate won’t be nearly as much of a train wreck as the 2016 US Presidential Debates. But that’s an argument for another day.

If you’re in a critiquing session and you want your beta-readers/editors to know what it is they need to watch out for, you’ll probably want to sign up with Team Carlos. That is information your readers need. It’s your work, so you should have full reign as to what your story is trying to say or do. Your editors can’t give you advice on how to best convey your message if you don’t explain yourself ahead of time. Being a member of Team Carlos also has benefits if your work is unintentionally offensive and you’re trying to do damage control. While it is true that there’s always someone out there who will be pissed off at what you do, it would help those people greatly if you put them at ease with a reasonable explanation. But when you give them that explanation, give them the sensitivity they were looking for this whole time and don’t be condescending.

But if what you want most is for your art to be a democracy, join Team Bryan. Art by its very nature is a subjective field. Everybody sees something different and it’s those many interpretations that give the medium the spotlight it deserves. It sparks debate, just like this blog entry is attempting to do. According to Bryan’s way of thinking, if you tell people what to believe, you’re taking away the creativity you yourself exercise so freely. I think this might be part of the reason why my current beta-reader Ashley Uzzell tells me not to put little disclaimers at the top of my poems. Of course, the other reason why she tells me not to do that is because it’s insulting to the reader’s intelligence if the lyrics are blatantly obvious. It’s like if an author says “green grass”, “red blood”, or “big elephant”. Duh! Remember, kids: show, don’t tell. Don’t tell your audience how to feel about your work. Show them and let them make their own decisions. The last time someone forced his artistic will upon his audience, it was in the movie Pink Floyd the Wall during the music videos for “In the Flesh” and “Run Like Hell”. You don’t want to do that.

So there you have it, folks: both sides of this debate presented in full. Both Carlos and Bryan have good points that should be carefully considered, but ultimately, my own personal loyalties lie with Team Carlos. My biggest reason for that is because I’ve been on the wrong end of offending an audience before and I know what it feels like to be rained down upon with hateful comments. In 2009, I wrote an opinion essay called “Class of ‘13”, which was supposed to be a humorously vulgar look at what life would be like if I became an English teacher. My readers didn’t think it was funny at all and labeled me an ageist (because of my views at the time on teenagers). The argument started with me hurling endless insults at the readers, which to nobody’s surprise escalated their anger even further. Only through explaining my work in a calm and collected manner whilst apologizing did the situation eventually cool off. I’ll be the first to admit that aside from my big gut and chubby cheeks, I don’t have much of a thick skin. Being diplomatic and having the ability to defuse a situation is a huge benefit to being on Team Carlos.

Now don’t get me wrong: just because I favor one teacher’s point of view over the other’s, doesn’t mean they’re right or wrong altogether. Both Carlos and Bryan were easily some of my favorite teachers at Western Washington University. They had everything a student could ask for in a professor: friendly personality, flexible rules, infinite wisdom, and an open door policy when it came to asking for help. I particularly liked Bryan because of how much of an interest he took in one of my theater scenes. He wanted to see more of that story come out, so he gave me alternative assignments from the rest of the class where I would add on to the ongoing narrative through different characters’ points of view. The original story was about a high school student named Kurtis who complained to his girlfriend about a D- he received in his history class. One of the alternative assignments I had was to write a monologue from the teacher’s point of view and the other one was an interaction between the girlfriend and the teacher. These new assignments were a huge ego boost, not that my arrogant ass needed one.

As far as why I liked Carlos so much goes (aside from his views on explaining stories), he was just an all around gentle human being even during moments when the students got under his skin. Even when one student openly admitted to not doing a reading assignment out of blatant laziness, Carlos never raised his voice when he reprimanded that kid. He was also delicate about how constructive criticism was handled amongst our stories. He insisted that we all be nice to each other, because at the end of the day, every author is sensitive towards critiques no matter how much they hide it. Carlos even told us a story about how he got pissed off as a kid when his fellow students told him to cut his lengthy poem down to four lines. Being hurt by critiques (whether they’re friendly or not) is universal and one-hundred percent natural. But the more you surround yourself with people who want you to succeed, the less painful those critiques become. Carlos wanted all of us to succeed and it showed in his friendly and calm attitude.

Not that this is a focal point of the greater debate at hand, but in case you’re curious, I ended up getting an A in Carlos’s class and a B+ in Bryan’s class. And to prove it’s not a focal point, I don’t hold any ill will towards one professor of mine, Katie, who gave me a C in my medieval literature class. She did everything she could to help me whether it was answering my questions or allowing me to visit her office for a one-on-one session. The blame for that C falls squarely on my shoulders since I had a hard time understanding the material. I went into that class thinking it was going to be like reading Dungeons & Dragons campaign, but instead all I got was religious zeal and purple prose, lots of purple prose! They call that period in literature the Dark Ages for a reason. That class was my version of the Dark Ages by virtue of how difficult it was to learn the material (despite having a good teacher).

But enough about me, let’s turn this debate over to you fine internet folks. Are you on Team Carlos (explaining your work) or Team Bryan (allowing your work to speak for itself)? Are there any points on either side of this debate that I’ve unintentionally neglected? Feel free to let me know in the comments section. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! And to show you my undying loyalty towards Team Carlos, I’m going to explain my signing off phrase. They’re lyrics from the Three Days Grace song “The Mountain”. Not only do I love the hell out of that band, but those lyrics can be surprisingly inspirational to someone who needs encouragement.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sailing along the river of time. Adrift on dreams through midnight chimes. Positively frozen crystal waterfalls. The mountain of hope is there to be climbed. The sea of serenity is rightfully mine. Step onto the water knowing what is true. The beat of my heart. The rhythm of love. The earth that’s beneath us. The heavens above. I can hear forever calling out to me. The changes we go through are making me strong. The shelter of friendship is where we belong. Look into the future knowing what we see. The whirlpool of doubt can spin you around. The wave of emotion takes you up, pulls you down. Leaving far behind us sweet young passion spray. And never blame the rainbows for the rain. And learn to forget the memories that caused you pain. The last whispered wish of age is to live it all again. And never blame the rainbows for the rain.”

-The Moody Blues singing “Never Blame the Rainbows For the Rain”-

Bent To Fly

***BENT TO FLY***

The last journal entry had to do with song lyrics that resonated with me and this one will be no different except for the song in question. As I was at the YMCA doing my water-walking today, the Slash and Myles Kennedy song “Bent To Fly” came up on my waterproof MP3 player. Until today, I never paid close attention to what the lyrics really were. Now that I’m home and I’m reading the lyrics online, I realize just how powerful this song really is. Like the singer, I too had aspirations of living independently from my parents. Not because it would actually benefit me, but because society told me that that’s what success looks like. And then I started taking classes at WWU and living in a dormitory with three strangers. I’d never felt so alone in my life. No animals, no family, very few people who were permanent friends, I went to Bellingham and had nobody to turn to. Because of my loneliness and isolation at WWU, I was constantly depressed, bored, and in a negative state of mind. My family in Port Orchard has always been my go-to place for love and friendship whether it came from my parents, my brother, his girlfriend, their daughter, or my pets. I don’t live at home purely out of financial stability. I live there because my family loves me and I love them. When I listened to “Bent to Fly” today and paid closer attention to the lyrics, they hit me almost as hard as the lyrics to “In Perfect Harmony” by Within Temptation. Take a look.


VERSE 1
Mama, don't you cry
Don't you worry
I cannot stay here any longer
The time has come to find
A distant calling
That only seems to get much stronger
And I know it's hard
To see the one you come to lean on make his way
Far beyond the womb
But I can't stay

CHORUS
I won't stop running
I'm only getting closer
To getting off the ground this time
The sky is calling
The wind is at my shoulders
Won't let this chance pass me by
Mama, I'm bent to fly

VERSE 2
Remember yesterday
Before the storm
Before the innocence was lost
I promised I would stay
Forevermore
But every boy in time moves on
Your wounds will heal someday
This I know
But I am restless and so torn
Mama, I can't stay here anymore

HOOK
I can feel it coming
A perfect storm is rising
Gotta say my last goodbye


Who would’ve known that such sensitivity could come from two hard rock badasses like Slash and Myles Kennedy? We’ve got tears, say beers! Wait, that’s not how it goes.


***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

SUSAN: If you see a girl you like, just ask her if she wants to get some coffee with you.

ME: I don’t like coffee.

SUSAN: She might like coffee, you ass! What are you going to do, ask her out for some cheese and energy drinks?!

My Cloudland Has a Sense of Humor

***MY CLOUDLAND HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR***

I’ve spoken candidly about my weird ass dreams before and I’m going to continue the tradition on this lovely Wednesday evening. I believe even the weirdest of weird dreams can serve as creative fuel. Marie Krepps, my beautiful beta reader, will definitely stand by my side on this one since she too has some weird ass dreams. Granted, these two I’m going to talk about make no fucking sense whatsoever, but that’s the beautiful thing about having a whacked out mind: it doesn’t have to. We’re going to start with dream number one.

　

I don’t remember too many of the details from the first dream other than it was a nightmare that made my heart race when I woke up at 11:00 in the morning. What I do remember was that it was about the clown from Brave Little Toaster and how he wanted to cut me up into little pieces. I tried to get away from him, but the only place where I could find refuge was with the Dust Witch from Something Wicked This Way Comes. Tarantulas scare the shit out of me, so I accepted my fate of being chopped up by the demon firefighter clown.

I had every intention this morning of getting out of bed and getting a buzz cut at Hair Masters. It didn’t happen. My hair is still shaggy and my dream world is still knocking at the door. I fell back asleep and started my second dream, which wasn’t necessarily a nightmare, but it was really goddamn weird.

I was doing research at the Western Washington University campus library, probably on graphic novels. I’m waiting for my study buddy to show up and when he finally does, he turns out to be French-Canadian WWE superstar Kevin Owens. He doesn’t try to beat me up or harass me like he usually does to his opponents in the ring. He does, however, offer to walk me home after the studying is over.

By the time we walk outside the library, we’re not in Bellingham, Washington anymore where WWU is supposed to be. We’re in Victoria, Canada, a favorite vacation spot of mine, but somehow different this time around. The Armenian Mafia was patrolling the streets of this normally crime-free city looking for people they could beat up. I guess Kevin Owens was supposed to be my bodyguard, because I was able to make it to my hotel room without being mugged.

Outside the hotel, there’s a large group of fat people doing exercises and being tired after the first few seconds. One of the exercise students was a woman so fat her entire torso was covered with a tool shed. She was sitting on a horse doing nothing and suddenly fell off to the side. The irony wasn’t lost on me when the class of exhausted fat people were laughing at her. But then they found it disgusting when a pair of disembodied legs wearing jeans walked by.

Me and my family minus Kevin Owens left the Canadian hotel and went down to the ferry terminal to catch a ride. We’re sitting on the dockside and there are these two cute British lesbians sitting across from us holding hands and being happy. Even though I know a relationship will never work between the three of us, I started feeling nervous around them anyways. So what did I do? I listened to Three Days Grace’s song “I Am Machine” on my MP3 player and picked my nose. When it doubt, be socially awkward. My social awkwardness has gotten me through everything in life.

The ferry arrives and we all get on to presumably go home. Except we didn’t go to Port Orchard, Washington. We went to London, England, where a horse and carriage was waiting for us. We’re on a two-way cobblestone street and somehow the different positions in the road lead to different countries. The right side will take us to Norway, the middle will take us to Germany, and the left side will take us to France. We get on the French side of the road and the carriage takes us there at a lightning fast pace.

Our destination ends up being a sandy beach with a lot of pollution and ducks in the water. I pull something mysterious out of my mouth and it turns out to be a baby black duck, which I throw into the water with its family. Reina asks me if this is a great vacation and I steadfastly agree.

I woke up at 1:10 in the afternoon and got on the computer to check my messages. No, this isn’t part of the dream, this is real life. When I was trying to read my Good Reads messages, the lines of text were all blurry, probably because I was still tired. I went back to bed and didn’t officially start my day until 2:20 in the afternoon. Still, no buzz cut at hair masters.

　

We’ve got ears! Say cheers!

　

***TELEVISION ISSUES***

Last night as I was watching NCIS: New Orleans, my flat screen TV burned out and stopped working. Prior to that, me and Reina kept smelling plastic and rubber burning, but we couldn’t figure out what it was. It was the TV this whole time. My other electronics work just fine, but not the flat screen TV. I originally wanted to review a wrestling match from WWE NXT Takeover: London, but without a TV, that’s not possible. I could watch it on my computer, but my internet connection isn’t always reliable. I’d have to find a way to download it onto my hard drive. Or I could buy another TV, that’d work too. Either way, I’ve already looked up the results online and I was genuinely surprised by them. Baron Corbin defeated Apollo Crews, Bayley made Nia Jax submit in order to keep her NXT Women’s Championship, and Finn Balor overcame Samoa Joe to keep his NXT Championship. I’m definitely going to have to find a way to watch this show.

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The last entry into this series was Debra Winter, a hero from Occupy Wrestling. The next entry will be Cameron Gillespie, a villainess from Watch You Burn. For my reference picture, I Googled TNA wrestler Awesome Kong, who is a 6’1”, 295 lb. black woman with a nasty attitude and a hard-hitting repertoire of moves. I originally wanted Cameron Gillespie to be tall and lanky, but Awesome Kong’s massive frame will do just fine. Be afraid, bitches!

　

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

RANDAL: Do you know how much money the average jizz mopper makes per hour?

DANTE: What’s a jizz mopper?

RANDAL: They’re the guys who clean up the nudy booths after each guy jerks off.

DANTE: Nudy booth?

RANDAL: Yeah. Haven’t you ever been inside a nudy booth before?

DANTE: Guess not.

RANDAL: Aw, man, it’s great. You go into this booth and there’s this glass between you and these chicks and they put on a show for you for like ten bucks.

DANTE: What kind of a show?

RANDAL: Think of the weirdest, craziest shit you like to see chicks do. These chicks do it all. They’ll insert anything into any opening on their bodies. Any opening.

DANTE: Can we not talk about this right now?

RANDAL: The jizz mopper’s job is to clean up the nudy booths after each guy shoots a load. Everybody does it right on the glass. I don’t know if you know this or not, but cum leaves streaks if you don’t clean it right away.

-Clerks-

Minnie-Moo

Most people went to places like Bellingham Forest to get away from their daily routines. For druid sorcerer Derrick Mango, the forest WAS his daily routine. He had his own log cabin in the darkest part of the woods where nobody could disturb his introverted microcosm. If they did, those people were met with scorn and violence. Derrick valued his privacy more than anything else in this world. One bright May morning, his privacy would be violated in the most savage way.

The sun shone brightly through the cracks of each individual log that made up Derrick Mango’s cabin. Not one single beam of light was enough to stir him from his slumber, which he could be found wearing little more than bearskin boots, wolf skin pants, and a rabbit skin blanket while sleeping on a bed stuffed with bird feathers. He snore was as quiet and friendly as a lethargic puppy’s.

If a mere sunbeam wasn’t going to wake him up, the loud thud against his cabin wall would. Derrick’s eyes snapped to life as he gazed into the crack that formed as a result of a pole axe strike. At first he was frightened, but then his brows furrowed into anger and he dismissed that first shot by saying, “Goddamn kids!” He threw the blanket off and stood up to confront the invader of his privacy.

And then there was another pole axe strike. And another. And another. Each smashing attack blew a gust of tree bark against the hermit’s body. Now was the perfect time for him to be scared. These weren’t just some damn kids. Whoever was defiling his cabin wanted him dead. But why?

Derrick looked around for a place to retreat, but all four walls were being pounded on while the sounds of animal grunting could be heard from outside. Soon the cracks in the wall turned into full-sized holes and the druid could see what was after him: demonic cows. He wiped his eyes just to make sure his vision wasn’t impeded from the sawdust, which it wasn‘t. There really was an army of cows with pole axes trying to break the walls down.

Chunks of the ceiling were falling down upon the forest warrior, which would have meant the end for him, but was actually his salvation. In one swift movement, he dashed towards the nearly demolished wall, leapt through the nearest ceiling hole, and scaled a tree that happened to be right next the cabin. Derrick climbed with such speed and grace that he made it to the top like the super athlete he was. It was a good thing he was so up high since his cabin collapsed after a few more blows from the demon cows.

“What do you freaks want from me?!” yelled Derrick from his treetop nest.

The cow warriors surrounded the thick tree and the leader of the pack finally gave him the answers he needed. “We know she’s here. She’s the one the Bellingham villagers refer to as Minnie-Moo. Such a disgustingly cute name for a disgusting creature.” The sound of a gentle meow caught everyone’s attention and there was the fluffy black and white cat Minnie-Moo curled up in the tree with Derrick. “That would be her! Throw her down here and I’ll spare your life!”

Minnie cried and pleased with Derrick not to surrender, the latter of the two already getting sick of all the bullshit surrounding his invasion of privacy. All he wanted was to be left alone and he had his chance right then and there as he glared at the frightened fluff ball. But instead, the loner needed more answers. “What did this little feline do to you and your clan of circus freaks?”

“She drank from the pool of our most sacred milk. We use that pool for holy rituals and Minnie violated those terms when she nearly lapped it all up. Gluttony is one of the worst sins this world has to offer and she shall be punished for it. Throw her down right this instant! No more questions!” shouted the leader.

Except Derrick couldn’t throw her down even if he wanted to; Minnie was already leaping from treetop to treetop. Some of the bovine warriors charged after her while others stayed behind and started rocking Derrick’s tree back and forth in an attempt to bring him down hard.

The normally nimble hermit tried to stand up and walk across the branch, but the trembling force of each shake caused him to lose his balance and land on his balls. Derrick Mango let out a shrill of pain while desperately clutching his last means of having children. He would have spilled off to the side and be at the mercy of these ridiculous, but fierce fighters.

Emphasis on would. Minnie was dashing across the treetops in circles and flew right into Derrick’s face with her claws stretched out. The agony of having cat blades in his cheeks caused the druid to temporarily ignore his ball pain and spring to a standing position in an attempt to shake off the rogue cat.

The previous shaking from the cow clerics loosened the tree so much that when Derrick danced around, it fell over and he and Minnie rolled down the hill together at a faster speed than the heavy cows could keep up with on their stubby legs. The screaming in pain and the firestorm of curse words would have been more audible if they weren’t vibrating off of Minnie’s stomach. The blasphemous animal dug deeper into Derrick’s face as a means of holding on tightly for this bumpy ride.

The crash and burn would eventually happen at the bottom of the hill, where they landed hard in a rapid river that began carrying them away underneath the water. Only at the threat of drowning would Minnie let go of Derrick’s face and doggie-paddle toward the surface.

The bloody wounds in the pissed off druid’s visage and his already aching testicles only pissed him off even further. Just when the bovines had reached the bottom of the hill looking for their prey, Derrick pulled Minnie underneath the water. Little did they know the bovines lost their trail and they were ready to give up.

Except Derrick wasn’t pulling Minnie underneath for her safety. He did it because he wanted to scream obscenities at her for putting him in this position in the first place. The bubbles in his lungs muffled most of what he was saying, but it was basically along the lines of this whole mess being Minnie’s fault because she led these “freaks” to his hideout and almost got the both of them killed.

He could have gone on forever ranting and raving while not caring if he or Minnie drowned. But luckily, they didn’t have to worry about being underwater indefinitely since the river dropped them off at a shallow part where Derrick could be on his knees and Minnie could swim to the surface. Both survivors of the bovine rebellion coughed, hacked, and wheezed until every last drop of water was out of their noses and throats.

By the time Derrick was done coughing, his testicle pain flared up again and he was screaming while banging the shallow ground with his fists. Meanwhile, Minnie was curled up at the edge of the river like she wasn’t in danger of dying just now. Typical cat behavior: always ignoring humans in their time of need.

Derrick stood up in the raging river and pressed his thighs together while basically tiptoeing his way to where Minnie was laying. His balls were almost ruptured, his face was still bleeding, and he was in a “don’t fuck with me” mood. Hell, his rage alone would have gotten him a victory over that entire squadron of cow people. But the only cow-like creature he had his flaring eyes on at the moment was Minnie.

“You sick little bitch!” shouted Derrick Mango as he inched closer to the shivering cat. “You nearly got my ass killed. You led those demons to my cabin all because of some stupid milk fiasco. Well, it’s a good thing all that milk made you fat, because I want some chow and you’re the only living thing here with meat on your bones!”

Derrick raised his hands in the air monster-style before his ball pain acted up again and he tumbled over to the side of the wet cat. He cried and bitched and moaned while holding his poor aching groin. “Why, sweet god, why?! What did I do to deserve this! Why me?! Why not somebody else?! I didn’t do no harm to anyone!”

Minnie stood up from her sleeping position and licked the salty river off of Derrick’s nose, which was pretty much the only part of his face that wasn’t soaking in blood. The druid said, “Oh come on! Stop making it so hard to be pissed off!” Minnie purred and licked him some more. “I’m serious!” More purrs, more licks. “Don’t make me go all lovey-dovey for you!” Even more purrs, even more licks.

“Ah, who am I kidding. You saved my life just by clawing my fucking face. I guess that squares things between us. That, and you are kind of cute. Cuter than those stupid humans in the village.” Derrick proved his affections by scratching Minnie behind the ears.

“Minnie-Moo, are you alright?!” That cutesy voice belonged to a village girl no older than seven years. She was dressed up like a doll with her thick white dress and wool boots. As soon as she saw Minnie, the cat ran up to the girl and jumped into affectionate, loving arms. The girl looked down at the wounded Derrick and said, “Thank you for saving my kitty!”

“Oh, no problem. If you wanted to pay me back, you could bring me a healer. I’m kind of in a lot of pain right now,” said Derrick.

“Okay!” said the village girl as she turned around and skipped away with Minnie-Moo in her arms.

Derrick rolled over and slowly removed his hands from his aching balls before saying to himself, “Saved by the fucking humans….damn it! Oh well.”

Tyler Cutty

NAME: Tyler Cutty
AGE: Immortal
OCCUPATION: Mummy Serial Killer
CANON: World of Darkness: Washington 2

You’re looking at Tyler Cutty’s occupation and are probably wondering if he’s goes around randomly killing mummies or if he’s a mummy who happens to also be a serial killer. The latter is what I was trying to imply. But why is an ancient Egyptian creature running around with the name Tyler? Cleopatra, Ramses, Xerxes, and now Tyler. Such progression, I know. Evolution couldn’t have come up with a better byproduct than a fucking American mummy named Tyler! With his invincible undead body and a sword bigger than he is, it’s more believable than it sounds.

Although the second installment of World of Darkness: Washington never came to fruition, the first one was a real thing at one point and now it’s digital dust. The idea behind each WOD:WA story is that three different kinds of undead creatures are tracked in three different cities in Washington state, my current home. In the first novel, mummies lived in Bellingham, vampires lived in Seattle, werewolves lived in Chehalis, and they all congregated to start life over again in Aberdeen.

In the second novel, which would have been Tyler’s home, mummies, vampires, werewolves, and hunters lived in Tacoma, demons lived in Port Orchard, and changelings lived in Purdy. Although Tyler is a mummy to the core, he would actually be a part of the third act in Purdy with the changelings.

If you’ve never been to Purdy before, don’t forget to bring your blanket and pillow; you’re going to need them in such a boring backwoods area. Purdy is so boring, in fact, that it’s a perfect place for a serial killer like Tyler Cutty to take residence. Nobody would ever think to look for him there. Granted, he has to actually go out and venture into the bigger cities to look for victims, but he’s more than capable of doing that, because he looks completely normal riding a city bus in his mummy wrap.

Unfortunately, because WOD:WA2 never got realized, Tyler Cutty never got developed past his name, race, and occupation. All we know about mummies from the first novel is that they become those creatures by allowing magical wrappings to snake around their bodies and turn their innards to dust. The only way to kill a mummy, as pointed out by Egyptologist Dr. Shawn Phoenix, is by cutting at their wrappings with a 12-inch knife. No more, no less. Only a knife of that length could ever possess the combination of strength and precision necessary to perform such a surgical strike.

Dr. Shawn Phoenix got the shit kicked out of him in the first novel, so those who actually know the 12-inch blade secret are few and far between, and they’re certainly not out in Tyler Cutty’s part of Washington state. Which means of course that Tyler is free to either slowly torture his victims by ripping their limbs off or slash them to bloody pieces with his oversized sword, which is far more than 12 inches, I can assure you that. If you’re a changeling, which is basically a kind of faerie in World of Darkness terms, how do you stop a guy with infinite strength and sadistic urges to back it up? You might be able to do it if you found out about the 12-inch secret, but even if you did, you still have to be a better fighter than a super powerful mummy. Good luck, little fairies!

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Maybe I should let her go, but not until she loves me.”

-Slipknot singing “Killpop”-

Garrison Kelly's Smash Words Interview

Q: Describe your desk.

A: It’s a hand-me-down from my older brother and has been in my possession since 2008. I have to be careful with it because it’s small and shakes easily. The upper tier has my computer screen, pencils, flash drives, and tissues on it. The middle tier holds my fan, house phone, speakers, tape player, keyboard, and sometimes a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew. The bottom tier is where my computer tower, printer, and power strips are located. In addition to writing stories and poetry, my rickety desk has also been used to draw some…interesting pictures.

Q: Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?

A: I’ve lived in many places over the course of my childhood, but the one place where reality hit me the hardest was when I was going to high school in Chehalis, Washington. My freshman year was best known for the verbal bullying I have endured and almost committed suicide over. Due to the crippling PTSD (and eventual schizophrenia) I’ve suffered, most of my writing is influenced by dark and disturbing themes such as death, bullying, mental sickness, sex, and violence. I do have lighthearted stories in my archives, but I will always be known as an R-rated author.

Q: When did you first start writing?

A: I’ve been writing all of my life, but the time when I started taking it seriously was January of 2002. My first writing project was a videogame idea called Final Fantasy Hardcore. It had the same magical premise and romantic leanings as the games in the Final Fantasy series, but it was set in a dystopian future and had tons of mature content. My two favorite characters from this series are a charismatic barbarian named Deus Shadowheart and a perverted scientist named Dr. Scott Cain. Ever since scrapping Final Fantasy Hardcore, I’ve been trying to find a story for those two to be a part of. I think I’ve finally nailed it with a dark fantasy novel I’m currently writing called “Fireball Nightmare”.

Q: What’s the story behind your latest book?

A: My most recently published e-book as of now is American Darkness, which isn’t really a novel, but a collection of emotional short stories in a contemporary setting. There are 22 different stories jammed in this anthology, but the pride and joy of this series is one called “Another Brick in the Wall”, which obviously takes its name from the Pink Floyd songs. It is a classic verbal confrontation between a strict US History teacher named Sid McDonnell and a stressed out student named Sam Keith. This is a scenario I have always fantasized about, especially considering I had some rather unsavory teachers in high school and college who deserved a tongue-lashing.

Q: What motivated you to become an indie author?

A: My circumstances were the reason I chose self-publishing over traditional. I live in a town called Port Orchard, where young adult writers don’t have an outlet for their creativity. If I wanted to go somewhere to fulfill that need, it would have to be either Seattle, Bellingham, or Tacoma, all three of which are big cities that are too hard to get to. I don’t have a car or a driver’s license, so I have to depend on others for transportation. The people in my family who have driver’s licenses have schedules of their own and can’t ferry me to the big cities on a daily basis. Instead of stressing myself out by traveling to the big cities, I choose to use the internet to make my presence known. I have a lot of work to do in order to market myself, but I wouldn’t have self-published if I didn’t believe I could do it.

Q: How has Smash Words contributed to your success?

A: I haven’t sold very many e-books yet, but when the money starts rolling in, it will be because I chose Smash Words. Simply having a place where my writing can be immortalized is good enough for me. I write regularly on Deviant Art, Good Reads, Blogger, and Face Book. Smash Words is different from these places because it gives me a platform to organize my writing into a tangible product instead of just bits and pieces. Sometimes people need to see the bigger picture in order to make a decision about whether to be a member of an author’s audience.

Q: What is the greatest joy of writing for you?

A: Exercising my creativity is always a fun part of the business, but my favorite part comes from the feeling of accomplishment I get after I write something. I have taken something from my screwed up psyche and made something beautiful out of it. I liken this to the scene in the musical Pink Floyd the Wall where the main character smashes his hotel room in a fit of rage and afterwards makes a piece of art out of the remains. It’s a creepy way to think of my accomplishments, but then again, lots of creepy things go on in my mind.

Q: What do your fans mean to you?

A: My fans mean everything to me. Every time they give me a compliment or critique on my writing, it helps me become a better writer. Even if it’s a short compliment like “very well-written”, it’s enough to boost my confidence to continue putting myself out there. I’m shy at first, but when I begin to get comfortable with a group of people, we do so much for each other.

Q: What are you working on next?

A: It’s a dark fantasy novel called Fireball Nightmare. The first act, which is known as This Is Violence, deals with a forest-dwelling barbarian named Deus Shadowheart who will go to extreme means to protect his home from city developers. The main reason he does this is because he is a servant of the volcanic mountain god Vahd, who will erupt into apocalyptic fire if his forest is destroyed. The second act is called Valley of the Damned, but I won’t get into it right now because too much of the plot will have been revealed.

Q: Who are your favorite authors?

A: This is going to sound ironic coming from a lifelong writer, but I didn’t actually become a bookworm until 2009 when I picked up a copy of The Cleaner by Brett Battles. The books I read in college were slow-paced and dull while The Cleaner was exciting and quick. It’s because of this drastic change in pace that Brett Battles will always be my favorite author. Others include fellow introvert Susan Cain, Sherman Alexie, Carl Hiaasen, and Stephen Chbosky. Realistically, I’ll give my patronage to any author who can dictate a fast pace with his or her writing. Bonus points to go to any author who can almost bring me to tears. I haven’t cried since 2007, but I came very close to doing so with many of the authors I’ve read books from, particularly Stephen Chbosky.

Q: What inspires you to get out of bed each day?

A: To be honest, I don’t have much of a professional or social life in my small town of Port Orchard, Washington. To put it bluntly, I’m unemployed and have very few friends. I don’t have much of a reason to get out of bed every day, so the closest thing to inspiration I have is walking to the grocery store to get three giant bottles of Diet Mountain Dew. Walking is a fun exercise that helps me clear my mind, but more importantly, it’s an opportunity to rock out to heavy metal music on my MP3 player.

"Last Train Home" by Pat Metheny

From September 2007 to June 2008, my main method of transportation between Bellingham (college) and Port Orchard (home) was the Greyhound Bus. The filthy, disgusting, degenerate Greyhound Bus complete with a urine and shit-scented bathroom and mentally unstable passengers who have an uncanny knack for breaking out of straightjackets. It was a miserable experience that I don’t wish to repeat anytime soon. One day in late 2008, my senior year of college, I was in the bus station with my mom and I told her in the saddest voice possible, “I hate this place.” It wasn’t hard for her to see why. Therefore, instead of taking the putrid and rancid Greyhound Bus with dirty diaper stains and beer-scented creeps, I took the Amtrak home on the weekends. The train is a much gentler experience than an intercity bus. The people are sane, the staff is friendly, the scenery is much more pleasant, the passengers get to move around at will instead of being cramped all the time, and best of all, they had a food lounge in a separate car. Such a joyous public transportation experience deserves a special kind of music and that song is called “Last Train Home” by Pat Metheny. I used to listen to this song all the time when I was a kid, but I didn’t know it until I asked my dad about it. My main question to him was, “What was the song with the train in the music video and the guy who looks like George Harrison?” It wasn’t much to go on, but dad came through for me when he told me the name of the song. It was a worthy quest for knowledge. Imagine these peaceful instruments coming together to make beautiful music: an Indian-style guitar, a grand piano, a snare drum with brush sticks, an upright bass, and maracas. You’ll be knocked out within the first few seconds of the song. That is, if you aren’t already relaxed by the orange and pink sunset followed by the starry night with the vanilla moon in your train window. And just for the hell of it, imagine a hotdog and diet soda on your food tray while you patiently await your next destination. If listening to this music with Bose noise-cancelling headsets, you get bonus points, because if there’s ever a disrupting noise such as children screaming or cowboys laughing, Pat Metheny’s gorgeous music will be all you hear. Simple pleasures such as these open up creative pathways in more ways than just getting schoolwork done. You could actually write novels under these conditions. Or you can do what I’m currently doing, that is edit the hell out of preexisting stories you’ve written in preparation for a new anthology to be released. If you have an imagination as vast as the stars in the night sky, you can make these beautiful circumstances work.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Washington: we’re left of Idaho. Then again, who isn’t?”

-John Keister-

"Like Nobody Else" by My Darkest Days

“September 7^th and she’s headed for school. She’ll probably leave me for some college fool, and I know that’s just the way it goes.” While I wasn’t in a romantic relationship during my college days, I still had people who I was away from for five days a week. Port Orchard may be a crappy town, but it still had the one thing I needed most in those days: my family. Mom, Dale, James, Susan, Reina, the animals, they were all a necessary part of my life. When I went to school in Bellingham for five days a week, my access to these people was very minimal. I had nobody in Bellingham who I could go to for help. My roommates moved out because I snored too loudly. The few friends I did have didn’t stick around long enough for a cup of coffee. I didn’t know of any therapists that were in Bellingham nor did I have a way to get to them. So here I was in this strange little town all by myself. Who would want this kind of loneliness and isolation? Isn’t that what prisoners feel every time they get locked up in solitary confinement? And what was it all for? Forced extroversion? A degree employers don’t care about? Hard-to-understand course material? Classmates who ignore me? I often wonder why I would put myself through this torture in the first place and the only answer that seems plausible is that it helped my writing. Actually, my experiences after college were more helpful to my writing than any class I could have taken. After college, I became a born-again bookworm and started reading fast-paced novels (as opposed to the boring literary garbage we were assigned). I also decided that the only critique I would ever accept from my audience was a hybrid of honesty and sensitivity. Constant reading and openness to gentle critique were what saved me as a writer in the end, not college. In fact, I learned more from joining writing groups on Good Reads than I did in those classrooms. Granted, I was highly immature in those old days, but immaturity eventually goes away with age and experience. So what does “Like Nobody Else” by My Darkest Days mean to me? It may have been the song that convinced me to come home if it was released earlier than 2010 (I went to college from 2007 to 2009). Now that I’m home with my family indefinitely, I still feel bouts of loneliness and depression, but these bouts don’t last as long as the ones in college did. I’m never going away again. Ever. If I do go away, there better be something or someone out there waiting for me. I shouldn’t need a high speed sports car to find whatever’s out there. If there does happen to be someone there for me, I still won’t forget where I come from.

　

***DR. SEUSS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“That Cat’s gonna suffer like never before!”

-The Grinch-