Cat R. Scott vs. Garrison's Autism, a Common Opponent These Days

 

Larck Fontana, Arguing Wife from "Happy Fun Land"

 

Kesha Rosales, Caleb's Daughter from "Virtuous"

 

Dr. Jody Iron, Principal of Paiten's High School from "My Favorite Magazine"

 

Upcoming Character Drawings

Well…you guys saw my political cartoons and hopefully you’ve enjoyed them so far. Now I’m going to start uploading drawings of my characters, particularly ones who will appear in my two novelette collections Lysergic Fairytales and Tacky Tuesday. When I’ll finish the damn stories, I’ll never know, because schizophrenia’s been fucking with my energy and my general wellbeing. I’m drawing characters as a way of keeping hope alive. I will finish my writing someday, even if I have to take forever to mentally heal. Until then…meet the cast and crew!

Mary Shelley: Matriarch of Science Fiction (Happy International Women's Day!)

 

I know I accidentally made her look like J.K. Rowling, but trust me, that's Mary Shelley. History owes her a debt of gratitude. Everyone else owes J.K. Rowling a middle finger.

"Filthy" Tom Lawlor vs. Nick Aldis

 

Juliet Birdwing

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THE BASICS

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Name: Juliet Birdwing

Nicknames: Big Bird, Mother Ruth

Gender: Cisgender Female

Age: 32

Birth Date: 468

Birth Place: Xavier Village

Currently Living In: Atwood Queendom

Species: Elf

Ethnicity / Race: Green Skin

Citizenship: Atwood Queendom and of their territories

Religion / Beliefs: Brainwashed Cultist

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FAMILY

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Father: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Relationship: Absent

Mother: Betsy Birdwing

Age: Unknown

Relationship: Abandonment

Sister: Bijou Birdwing

Age: 27

Relationship: Betrayal

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PHYSICAL FEATURES:

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Height: 5’7”

Weight: 115 lbs.

Frame / Build: Skinny

Hair length: Shoulder Blades

Hair color: Brown

Eye shape: Wide

Eye color: Purple

Complexion: Green

Face size: Heart-Shaped

Voice type: Gentle High Pitch

Foot size: Women’s 9

Tattoo: Heart with sword going through it (forearm)

Scar: Bruises on her knuckles

Other notable accessories: Nose ring

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SOCIO / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL

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Political Affiliation: Conservative

Economic Class: Upper-Middle

Social Class: Green-Collar

Occupation: Soldier

Income: Rich

Residence: Atwood Queendom and all of their territories

Transportation: Horse

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INTERESTS

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Favorite Food(s): Chocolate and funnel cake

Favorite Sport(s): Amateur Wrestling

Favorite Book(s): Romance with toxic characters

Favorite Show(s): TV isn’t a thing yet

Favorite Music: Flute

Favorite Color(s): Purple and Red

Clothing Style / Preferences: Atwood Queendom robe and hood

Hobbies: Gambling, shooting clay pigeons, playing with dolls

Role Model(s): Shelly Atwood and Torger Manson

Likes: Comfort, money, winning fights, lusting after Windham

Dislikes: Her own race, Magetan theology, poor people

=========================================

PERSONALITY

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Good Qualities / Trait(s): Good fighter, loyal, persuasive

Vices / Negative Trait(s): Backstabber to elves, reckless with money, blinded by “love”

Habits / Idiosyncrasies / Quirks: Twirling hair and inappropriate touching

Phobia / Fears: Going back to poverty, having to face Llewellyn’s wrath, permanent abandonment

Select one personality type below that best describes your character:

[X] Supporter (ESFJ) – Popular, and most sociable of all the types. Respects authority and values traditions. Has a strong desire to be liked, and therefore tends to want to serve others’ needs, sometimes at the expense of their own.

Define your character’s personality based on the following aspects:

a. Physically: Pleasant to look at (when she’s not wearing her robe)

b. Psychologically: Manipulative and cunning

c. Spiritually: Mocks Magetans whenever she has the chance

d. Emotionally: Goes from sweet to angry in seconds

e. Socially: She’s respected among her peers, feared by ordinary people

=========================================

HISTORY

=========================================

1. Describe the character’s childhood. She and her sister Bijou were abandoned by their parents and left to raise each other. But when Atwood cultists and Shelly Atwood herself started love-bombing Juliet and brainwashing her, she jumped at the opportunity to abandon Bijou for wealth and power. She’s been living well ever since while Bijou is a psychological wreck.

2. Name the good incidents that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? She and Bijou played with dolls often, which was what made Juliet’s betrayal all the more hurtful.

3. Name bad experiences that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? As I’ve said, Juliet’s parents abandoned her, so she jumped at the chance of being loved again when Shelly offered her a better life.

4. What is the character doing when first introduced? What are her goals at this point? Do these goals change at any point in the story? She’s helping Shelly shave Windham’s chin after he grows some stubble during his imprisonment. Her goal is to live as comfortably as possible while also manipulating Windham. She’s only around for one chapter, so that’s not enough time for her goals to change.

=========================================

STORY DEVELOPMENT:

=========================================

CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: (Put an X on all applicable boxes)

[X] Antagonist (Opposing View, not necessarily the Evil Bad — see also Villain)

[X] Bully (Coward)

[X] Femme Fatale (Black Widow, Flirt, Siren, Circe, Seductress, Enchantress)

[X] Gambler

[X] Hedonist (Bon Vivant, Chef, Gourmet, Gourmand, Sybarite–see also Mystic)

[X] Trickster (Puck, Provocateur)

[X] Turncoat

[X] Villain / Shadow (Big Bad of the story; see also Antagonist)

[X] Warrior (Soldier, Crime Fighter, Amazon, Mercenary, Soldier of Fortune, Gunslinger, Samurai)

1. What are the motivations for the character’s actions? Abandonment issues and a deep need for family, even if she’s just a useful idiot to them

2. What are the character’s goals / ambition / dreams? To eat as much candy and live as comfortably as she can. To that end, she’s living her dream right now.

3. What external conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? She wants to hold Windham down and shave him, but after he learns that she’s a Mother Ruth elf, he refuses to cooperate.

4. What inner conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Constant need for Shelly and Torger’s affections, which is made difficult by the fact that they’re never satisfied.

=========================================

AUTHOR’S NOTES / MISCELLANY

=========================================

Character theme song: “Our Love Will Always Remain” by The Aquadolls

Celebrity / IRL lookalike: Daniela Ruah from NCIS: Los Angeles

Succubus Creek

Battered mashed potatoes on a stick couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than plebian carnival food…which was why Wendel Pompeo munched on it while scrolling through his phone at the Carnival De Garrison. Not a single text from his date. Not an LOL. Not an LMAO. Not even a winking emoji. Lifelessness flashed across the smart phone screen. Wendel sighed. “What’s the fucking point?”

Despite not knowing what the “fucking point” was, he continued eyeballing his phone and snacking on fatty carnival food. He was smack bang in the middle of merry-go-rounds, rollercoasters, dart games, and the occasional freaky sideshow…and all he cared about was the blue light burning a hole in his own baby blues. As far as he was concerned, an actual flame could consume him and he wouldn’t give a damn either way. Maybe such a fitting death would finally warm up his icy heart. Maybe it would give him warmth that not even his ugly Christmas sweater could. But nope. More scrolling. More scrolling. More scrolling. And then…

“Step right up!” The sudden belting voice smacked Wendel across the eardrums and pulled him out of his self-loathing stupor. The voice belonged to a raven-haired lady in a top hat, one-piece bathing suit, and fishnets, using her cane to indicate a small creek going through a dark tent. “Step right up and sail down Succubus Creek! Take a load off! Relax!” She smiled and winked at Wendel. “Live a little!”

He gulped and looked down at his brown leather shoes. “Eh, why not? Can’t be any worse than being stood up.” He reached in his jean pockets and pulled out a five dollar bill from his wallet.

The lady pointed her cane at Wendel and said in a flirty voice, “I like you, but not enough to give you a discount. That’ll be TEN dollars, boy.”

“But…your sign says five dollars per person. I’m the only one here.”

“Do you honestly believe you’ll be all alone in that boat? It’s called Succubus Creek for a reason. If nobody was there, it’d be called Sad Single Guy with Shitty Brown Hair Creek.”

Wendel fluffed his own hair, rolled his eyes, and sighed. “I guess you got a point there.” He fished a second five dollar bill out of his wallet and put his total fare in the lady’s top hat after she held it out for collection. As sure as the December air made him feel colder than a dead body, he was guaranteed a seat in his own boat. The lady handed him some wooden paddles, blew him a kiss, and sent him on his way down the chilling creek.

And there he transitioned from the darkness of a star-filled night to the emptiness of a pitch-black tent that seemed to expand for miles. After a few strokes of his paddles, Wendel was covered in ghostly shadows, left to his own devices…his own wandering thoughts…his own isolation…He really was all alone in this world, as if the constant doom-scrolling before the ride wasn’t enough of an indication.

And then…a creepy orange light glowed from beneath the waters. Wendel’s heart started pumping as the light expanded to reveal the head of a demonic woman, singular ponytail, devil’s horns, brown scales, and all. Even creepier than the orange light was the amber haze radiating from her eyes as they stared bullets into Wendel’s quivering soul. He desperately darted his own eyes around looking for an escape, but it was just him and the frigid waters, no sign of the carnie who sent him down this cursed creek.

The demonic woman crawled inside the boat and sat across from Wendel, her legs crossed together and her blade-fanged smile sending more chilly weather across his skin. And then she morphed into someone who had Wendel’s heart racing for a much different reason: a familiar pretty face from his past. “Hi there, cuddle bear. Remember me?”

How could he not? The long brunette hair and college emblems were unmistakable. “Katie?”

“Yep! It’s me. You picked a lovely place for our next date, didn’t you. Oh wait…this isn’t a date, is it? I figured as much. You know why? You dumped me, that’s why!” That last burst of anger almost made Wendel jump backwards into the creek. “Here’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask, and not for a friend, either. Why did you dump me, anyways? Hmm? Was I too much for you? Did I come over too many times? Did you not like me calling you all the time?” She heightened Wendel’s heartbeat as she leaned closer with evil eyes. “Was I just another one of your…conquests?! Is that what you do with women?! Do you just fuck them and leave them?!” No answer, only icy sweats. “Answer me, asshole!”

He spat in the creek next to him. “I have dreams of my own, you know! I can’t schedule my whole life around you, okay? That’s why I went to college in the first place. That’s why we all go to college. I went there to get A’s and B’s. What were YOU doing this whole time? Why are you even wearing those clothes in the first place?”

Katie languidly rubbed her thumb and forefinger over the fabric of her college sweater. “You don’t like these clothes on me?” she asked in a subdued voice. “Fine, I’ll take them off.” When she did, she revealed another girl underneath: a blond in a cheerleading outfit. “Do you like this version of me better?” Wendel’s eyes bulged with fear as this new transformation smiled at him. She laid on her stomach and swung her feet in the air. “I never did thank you for helping me with my homework and helping my mom carry groceries when she was laid up. That was really sweet of you.” Uncomfortable silence. “And then you fell off the face of the earth…AGAIN!”

Wendel furrowed his brows. “Charlie…you’re sixteen years old! It was never going to work out! EVER!”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “But…but…you weren’t in any real trouble! The age of consent is…”

“I don’t care what the age of consent is! It’s fucking gross! Get out of my boat!” Wendel whacked her into the creek with his paddle and tried to catch his breath after that dramatic exchange. His breath became shorter no matter how many times he huffed and puffed. The darkness and isolation of this creek was suffocating him like a pillow over his face.

“You’re not going to get rid of me that easily,” said the titular succubus as she crawled back into the boat with a new transformation, this time of a brown-skinned lady in a ripped Metallica T-shirt and knee-high leather boots. Wendel clutched his throat as he continued to fight for oxygen. “That dance floor was all ours. I could have taken you home with me. But you just kept staring at me…and staring at me…like I was some kind of freak. Are you really that shy? Were you really that scared of dancing with me?” She grabbed hold of Wendel’s hand only for him to jerk it away.

“Don’t touch me, Bailey. Don’t. Touch. Me.” Her face grew solemn as he emphasized those words with a pointed finger. “I don’t know what kind of drugs you did the night of the concert, but I didn’t want you dragging me down with you. Like I just got done telling Katie, I have dreams of my own! And they don’t involve…”

The succubus morphed again, this time into a silver-haired cougar. “Don’t involve what? Actual commitment?” She morphed into a southern redhead. “Actual love?” She morphed into a black lady in dreadlocks. “Actually giving a fuck about who you’re with?” The demon changed shape multiple times in succession while demanding answers from Wendel, who was curled up at his end of the boat in the fetal position. Would he risk jumping into shivery waters just to get away from this creature? Was hypothermia really preferable to confronting his own romantic failures? Yes. It was.

But before he could dive in, the succubus grabbed the waist of his jeans and yanked him back in. “You don’t want to do that, Wendel.” She said in a multi-layered, monstrous voice. “It’s cold out there. It’s lonely. Besides, you have someone waiting for you at the end of the creek.”

“I don’t need anyone to wait for me! All they want are free meals and alimony for life! How am I supposed to afford all of that?! I have dreams, damn it! I want to make movies! I want to be rich! I want to be…”

“You can be anything you want to be, Wendel! But don’t do it at the expense of those who care about you! Stop leading them on and tell them how you feel!” Wendel finally relaxed in somberness and the succubus let go of his jeans. “Why did you sail down my creek tonight? To get away from your responsibilities to these women? If you’re shy around them or are not interested, you need to tell them! If all you want is sex, you need to let them know beforehand! You can’t keep getting away with shit like this!”

He brought his knees to his face and tucked his face between them, hiding in shame yet again. “I’m sorry…It’s just that…if I tell them…I might…”

“You might what? Lose them?” No answer. None was needed. “You can’t have it both ways, Wendel. Pick one or the other. Do you want to fall in love or not?” Still no answer. It was still unneeded. “Listen to me. Give me your heart and all is forgiven.” He picked his head up and gave a confused look. “Give it to me, Wendel. You’ve used your heart for abandonment and selfishness. Now I want you to use it for love. If you love them, say so. If not, then letting them down is the best love you can give them.”

As the succubus glared at him for an answer, Wendel sat there and pondered these points. He could swim away to the end of the creek and dodge his responsibilities once more. He would be safe. He would be happy. And his dreams would continue. But…just because his heart was broken, didn’t mean the women in his life had to have broken hearts too. He reached inside his chest and gently removed his heart, which he played hot potato with due to how cold and frosty it really was.

The succubus rescued the heart from his hands and inspected it. “That certainly explains a lot. I’ll put it over there with all the others.” She dipped into the creek and stored the frozen heart in a heated treasure chest, where the ice melted and warmth spread across Wendel’s body. He could smile again. It had been so long since he’d done it. His face muscles thanked him for the moment of bliss.

The succubus swam back to the boat and reappeared as another woman from Wendel’s life: a green-haired nerd in a hoodie and thick-rimmed glasses. This time Wendel didn’t shake in his skivvies. He stared at her life seriousness in his eyes, like he actually had an answer for this puzzle.

“Sorry I didn’t text you back. I should have told you…” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I had to put my dog down today and I just…I couldn’t…”

Wendel wrapped his warm hands around his current girlfriend’s arms, touching her with the softest grasp and the purest intentions. “Kayla…do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

“No! I want chicken nuggets!”

He smiled at her and held her head against his chest while she cried in his wool sweater. “I could use some chicken nuggets too. To tell you the truth, it beats the shit out of this carnival food.”

IDK

We’re not damsels in distress. We’re not Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. We’re not femme fatales. Whether we see each other this way or not, everybody in this lifetime is a three-dimensional character. One of the many things that make a character three-dimensional is a goal or an ambition, more than one, in fact. Why do you think we’re so prepared at job interviews whenever the boss man asks us where we see ourselves in ten years? It should be a piece of cake for me to know where I want to go with my writing career. I’m living in this body, so I know where all the brain neurons lead to. Therefore…my ultimate goal for my writing career is…uh…actually, it’s…(sigh)…

IDK, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how often you listen to Gemini Syndrome. As a burned out, low-energy sad sap, IDK is something I say quite often when confronted with questions ranging from the most difficult to bare-bones simplicity. “What are your plans for the day?” IDK. “Where’s your brother?” IDK. “How come you don’t know?” IDK. “What do you want to do with your writing career?” IDK. That last one is how we got to this essay. There are many reasons for wanting a writing career and all of them are valid. But the trick is finding which one suits you the best. I used to think I had a grip on it all, but then expectations vs. reality gave me the world’s hardest kick in the nuts. What once were good reasons for me don’t seem logical in today’s life, especially when factoring in mental health and financial resources.

So…what’s one common reason why people start a writing career? Fortune and fame? Sure, why not. If Stephen King can build an empire of cash, surely I could too. If JK Rowling can build a throne of bones that came from transgender people…wait a minute, bad example, never mind. Surely my skills could skyrocket me into the stratosphere and have me floating in space like Major Tom from a David Bowie song. Right? Well, I hate to burst your space man bubble helmet, but the authors who do go on to become legends are in a tiny minority. Everybody’s heard of Stephen King, but hardly anybody I talk to has heard of Brett Battles, a thriller author whose work inspired me to become a born-again bookworm. Brett Battles can crank out bangers, so why isn’t he Scrooge McDucking a pool of gold coins? Because meritocracy is a myth, that’s why.

But even if I could achieve worldwide fame where everybody knows my name like a Cheers character, not all of those people are going to love me or what I do. In fact, there are going to be a lot of trolls lurking in the shadows waiting to plant suicidal seeds in my head which eventually sprout into full-on schizophrenic hallucinations. There could be thousands of five-star reviews for one of my books, but if one hideous creep tells me I should get sodomized in prison, then my brain will self-destruct and spiral into ashes. Take that one bastard’s words and multiply them across billions of people. My head could explode just from the stress alone and so could my heart. Sensory overload isn’t good for an autistic brain with multiple mental illnesses. They call it meat with electricity inside for a reason, though it’s closer to soggy bacon or tapioca pudding.

And of course, that much fame surely has to come with billions of dollars, right? I should be able to buy Twitter with that much money and tell Elon Musk to eat a dick that looks like a space rocket. But when I think about it, do I really need that much money? Is it not enough just for me to live comfortably and occasionally travel so that I can see my online friends up close and in person? Do I really need five thousand yachts and eight hundred rocket ships that look like dildos? Do I really need a limousine when a normal car driven by one of my family members would do just fine? Do I really need to attend parties full of hookers and blow, double entendre definitely intended? What about the homeless population who are struggling to stay alive? Shouldn’t they be getting low-cost housing? Shouldn’t people in general eat three meals a day and not have to worry about whether they’ll be there or not? I don’t need to be a billionaire. Nobody does. I need for the world to be happy and healthy. I need for children to have their needs met without worrying about dying. Not really a controversial stance, is it?

Okay, so fame and fortune aren’t realistic expectations for me as an author. Maybe I should focus on the love of the craft or having a positive influence on my audience. But in order for those things to happen, I have to have a bigger audience than I do now, which means opening myself up to swarms of trolls who overrun me like little zerglings from Starcraft. But if I stay in the shadows, then my work will reach nobody at all and I’ll never know if I’m having a positive influence on my audience. Yes, I could create my art and not share it at all. I could do it all just for me. But what’s the point? What kind of permanence will it have if nobody knows about it but me? Where’s my digital footprint? Where’s my immortality? I don’t want to take my writing to the grave with me, because I don’t see the point in writing it in the first place if it doesn’t immortalize me in some way. I want it to be for something. I want to make a difference in this world. Otherwise, why am I here in the first place? No, zerglings, this isn’t an invite for you to swarm me with death threats and pictures of my house.

Are there any reasons left? Did I cover them all? There could be more, but I don’t have access to them right now. I could take a quick trip to Google and find more, but we’d be here forever and a day and I don’t have that much time in my schedule. But even if the answers were readily available to me, I’d still give my typical IDK answer, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how badly my mind is rotting on any given day. I don’t know what I want to do with my writing career. There are pros and cons to every available reason. There is no one size fits all plan for me. But does this mean I want to give up and do something else for the rest of my life? Hell no. I want to continue. I want to keep shouting into the void with my literary skills. Even if the entire internet hates my guts because of a cave painting I created in 7 Million BC, fuck it, I’ll continue my career anyways.

But is it okay for me to have an aimless direction? Is it okay for me to be completely rudderless and constantly in zombie mode looking for the next brain to munch on? Is it okay to prioritize my mental health over fame and fortune? Is it okay to ignore the marketing part of my job knowing that the abyss will never respond to me in a meaningful way? Where do I go from here? I could just finish writing my current novel, but even once it’s over, then what? Do I write another hoping that one will rejuvenate my career? Do I write another poetry collection? Another short story collection? Do I just keep writing and writing in hopes that something will change? Do I even want things to change? Will I be happier when things change or will I stagnate some more? Say it with me now: IDK. Does it mean I Don’t Know or I Decay? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely yes.

"Sunstone, Vol. 1" by Stjepan Sejic

BOOK TITLE: Sunstone, Vol. 1

AUTHOR: Stjepan Sejic

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: BDSM Erotica

GRADE: A

People generally don’t mind sexualized characters as long as they’re three-dimensional beings and not cardboard cutouts. Lisa and Ally are definitely not in the cardboard cutout category. In addition to being lesbian friends with benefits, they’ve got hobbies, lives, and ambitions of their own. Lisa wants to be a successful author and Ally wants to play videogames and destroy her opponents (button mashing aside). Their biggest flaw as characters is their shyness and awkwardness around each other, which is something we all can relate to at some point or another. They want so badly to become more than just friends, but they tiptoe around the issue so much that it seems impossible. You know what else makes them three-dimensional? They’re good people any reader would want to hang around with. They have funny banter, deep conversations, and they actually know not to exceed each other’s limits when it comes to their adult fun time. Which leads me to my next point about the graphic novel…

The BDSM is portrayed as a healthy relationship dynamic rather than as toxicity masquerading as romance. The author of the Fifty Shades trilogy desperately needs to take notes from this book. Lisa has a safe word (where the Sunstone title comes from), she establishes boundaries (which are respected by Ally), and after the adult fun time is over, they have something called “after care”, which is basically lovey-dovey cuddling to bring the emotional rollercoaster to a halt. Either the author is a BDSM nerd himself or he’s a fantastic researcher. Regardless, he knows exactly what he’s doing when it comes to his craft. I don’t get that sense when I read Fifty Shades of Grey. If you can’t write what you know, then at least put the time in and do your research so that you don’t sound like a doofus when you put words to paper. Yes, I realize I’m a massive hypocrite for saying that considering I’ve been called out for poor research techniques myself, but it’s all part of the learning process. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way. But it appears as though Stjepan Sejic is an expert in what he’s talking about, so I trust him to put together a cohesive story, three-dimensional characters and all.

And of course, if an author is going to write an erotica story, it better be hotter than Hawaiian weather. Thus, we have another thing that the author nails perfectly. It isn’t just that the MC’s are lesbians or that they love BDSM. It’s that despite their awkwardness, they manage to have a good time with each other, to the point where they keep seeing each other despite their shy tendencies. I won’t go into detail how these sex scenes play out for obvious reasons, but rest assured that you won’t forget what you see, and I don’t mean that in a traumatic way. On the contrary, these scenes are very much welcome in the human brain and can stay there for as long as they’d like. It doesn’t come off like a raunchy video you’d find on the darkest parts of the internet. It feels legitimate, which is another indicator that Sejic knows exactly what he’s doing. I like authors who know what they’re doing. It’s so refreshing. Again, take notes, E.L. James!

While characters can be as flawed as the authors want them to be, I couldn’t find a single flaw in the story itself. There was nothing overly offensive or grammatically inept in this book at all. Maybe the only people who would find this offensive are pearl-clutching puritans, but that’s not the target audience and I wouldn’t want to read a story where they are. Everything is healthy, everything is sane, and I walked away from this story in a much better place than before I went into it. This graphic novel gets a perfect five stars out of five. It definitely makes me want to read the rest of the Sunstone series, however many volumes there are.

Get a Hobby

VERSE 1

Get a hobby! Any kind will do

Go for a jog underneath the snow moon

Slow it down to a walk if you’re too heavy

Or go for a ride in your old school Chevy

There’s a world out there beyond it all

It can’t be separated by border walls

When you stop obsessing over nunya business

You just might feel some lovey-dovey kisses

VERSE 2

Get a hobby! Any kind you like

Put it down, pick it up like riding a bike

Read epic fantasies across several novels

Or write them yourself ‘til you become a fossil

Play videogames, swing axes at dragons

Go on more adventures than Bilbo Baggins

When you curl the finger you point so much

You’ll find there’s nobody left to judge

BRIDGE

Get a hobby! You don’t have to get a life

Make friends! You don’t have to get a wife

Make memories! You don’t have to get a knife

Unless you’re cooking dinner, chop those onions right

VERSE 3

Get a hobby! Don’t hurt nobody else

Ain’t nobody in sight that needs a living hell

Keyboards are for chatting with buddies

Not for slinging shit so goopy and muddy

Get a hobby! I don’t care what it is

Don’t declare yourself the King of the Cis

Crowns are for cosplay at the Comic Con

Not for telling people that their culture is wrong

FINAL VERSE

Get a hobby, little Bobby

Have fun, you son of a gun

Create anything but hate

Get a hobby! Get a hobby!

All You Ever Gave Me

If the stack of papers on Rosalina Grayson’s desk got any higher, her apartment would need a sunroof. Her grading assignments would be even more repetitive since her students insisted on using the “raindrops on the window” device every…single…time. In her mind, the definition of insanity wasn’t doing the same thing and expecting different results. It was grading the same papers and expecting a reprieve. “I need a bottle of beer. I need one now.”

She strolled down the street to El Segundo Convenience not giving two shits or a flying fuck if her fleece pants and wool sweater gave off an air of laziness. She washed her long brown hair that morning, so that was a plus. Hopefully, the smell of deodorant would cancel out the booze odor that was about to float from her mouth like an acid rain cloud. Being single and having no roommates would have made masking the beer stench obsolete, but still…

She adjusted her glasses and trudged through the entrance of the convenience store, bell clinging, but nobody calling out to welcome her. Then again, being welcome wasn’t a feeling she was used to among students she gave a shitty grade to. The more she dwelled on the inevitable, the more appealing that bottle of Olde English was. In fact, it seemed to have a heavenly golden glow the closer Rosalina got to it. When she untwisted the cap and took a sip, it was like liquid heaven soothing her dry throat.

“You can’t drink beer in the store,” said the clerk behind the counter.

“Sorry about that. How much do I owe you?” Rosalina approached the counter and her eyes lit up just a little bit when she saw who was jockeying the register. “Raf? Rafael Ortiz? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Miss Grayson.” Underneath his puffy black hair was a facial expression that reeked of tiredness and disappointment. His ratty gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans showed that he gave even less of a shit about this job than he did before. “That’ll be three dollars for the beer.”

Rosalina dug a five dollar bill out of her pocket and paid for the beer, continuing to drink it now that it was accounted for. “How’ve you been? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Congratulations on getting that degree.”

“Eh...” Rafael crossed his arms and rubbed his temples like he was trying to send a subtle message wanting to be left alone.

“So…what are you writing these days?”

“Nothing.”

Rosalina chuckled. “No, seriously, come on, what are you really writing these days? You’re an English major. You’ve got to be writing something.”

Rafael’s tone was slightly amplified when he placed his hands on the counter in frustration. “That’s what I said, I’m not writing anything. At all.”

Rosalina gave an awkward frown. “Oh…I see…So let me see if I’ve got this straight: you spent all that money getting an English degree and you don’t write anymore? Raf, you had potential.”

“I had all the potential in the world, but all you ever gave me was a fucking C+.” He went back to folding his arms and sulking.

“Wow. Do you talk to all women like that or just the ones who give you legitimate criticism? See, that’s your problem, Raf, and that’s what a lot of students these days don’t get: whenever a teacher gives you a mediocre grade, it’s never personal.” Rafael gave her an incredulous look. “Okay, maybe not with all teachers, but for my class, it was never about getting personal. Just because I gave you a grade you didn’t like, doesn’t mean I didn’t think you had potential.”

“Potential doesn’t pay for groceries, Miss Grayson, much less for a bottle of Olde English.”

“That’s true. And that’s why you have to keep working on your craft, so that you don’t get mediocre ratings anymore. The more you do something, the better you’ll get at it. If nothing else, you’ve got a degree that you can wave in people’s faces whenever they give you a hard time.”

Rafael slammed his palms on the counter, leaving a tiny scratch in the glass above the lotto tickets. “A degree? A degree? You mean the world’s most expensive piece of paper?”

“Okay, I’ll admit that college is way too expensive for my liking. I’d love nothing more than to have progressive politicians do something about this, but…”

“It wasn’t just you, Miss Grayson.”

“…Pardon me?” She took another sip of beer hoping he wasn’t going to say what she thought he was going to say.

“You weren’t the only one who thought of me like that. You want to know what my GPA was when I graduated from college?” Rafael leaned in closer. “Two…point…five…”

“…Ouch…yeah, that stings…”

“It does sting. And I happen to be allergic to venomous stings.”

In the middle of sipping her beer, Rosalina gave an approving, “Mmm!” Once she had a clear mouth, she pointed at Rafael and said, “See that? That’s a good line. That shows you have potential. Personally, I would have taken out the word venomous, but other than that, you could use that line in a story someday. Or a poem, either way.”

“Miss Grayson…listen to me…” Rafael’s voice lowered to an intense hush. “I don’t have potential. I never did. That’s why I work here now: because it’s the only job that will let me make at least a little bit of a dent in my student loan debt. Nobody would pay a penny for the words I’ve written. In fact, one teacher said I should be the one paying him.”

“Okay, that’s a little overboard, I agree, but…”

“Miss Grayson…I’m going to die behind this counter. That’s not a suicide threat. That’s not a prediction. That’s a prophecy. This is the only job I’ll ever be good at…what? Something wrong?”

Rosalina sighed in disappointment. “You forgot to give me my change for the beer.”

Rafael opened the register and gave her two bucks. “I guess that doesn’t make me a very good clerk, does it. Almost worthy of a C+, right?”

She tucked her head and almost missed her pocket when she put away the change. “Actually, I was thinking more like a D-, but they’re practically the same thing…at least in your mind, anyways. I’m sorry that my class was a waste of time for you. Have a nice life, Rafael. If you ever want to change your mind…I’m in the directory…maybe…I don’t know…” She sighed in defeat. “Goodbye, Raf…I’m sorry you don’t believe in yourself…”

“It was bound to happen one way or another.”

“I guess so.” Rosalina trudged out of the store sipping her beer the entire way. The more she thought about that conversation, the bigger her swigs became. She didn’t even care if she was stopped by a cop for public intoxication. Maybe she belonged in prison for the crime of denying an entire generation their dreams. She crossed the street, not caring about the honking car almost hitting her. She was lost in her own world as she continued sipping her beer.

At first she thought nothing of the screaming going on in the convenience store. Something about opening the “goddamn register”? Something about not being a “hero”? None of those things mattered nearly as much as the sound of gunfire, which caused Rosalina to drop her beer bottle on the ground and retreat for cover behind a garbage can. She held her knees to her chest and shivered while the robbers fired even more bullets and swore like sailors. The crash of the register echoed in her ears and made her tuck her head further into her knees. Her only saving grace was the sound of gangsters laughing and driving away with their stolen loot.

Rafael was right. He was going to die behind that counter and he just did. He never did have potential because corpses didn’t pen the next great American classic. Rosalina wanted to think that a necromancer in somebody’s story would bring Rafael back to life and make his memory immortal again…but immortality was never meant for mediocre students. All that promise…gone. His soul was crushed by his 2.5 GPA and his body was crushed by a hailstorm of bullets.

All Rosalina had to say about this was…”I need another beer…”

She could have just as easily went back into the store to grab a freebie, but she didn’t want to see Rafael’s body mangled by bullets. She couldn’t even hear him breathe. All those grating noises…and then there was just silence. No spitting up blood. No shallow breaths. He was gone. All gone. But in reality, it was the college, Rosalina included, who pulled the trigger, not the robbers.

“I definitely need another beer…”

Destroying the Earth

Whether you’re watching your Saturday morning cartoons or playing your favorite Super Nintendo game, sometimes you just have to ask to nobody in particular: “Why does the villain want to destroy the earth?” Doesn’t matter if the villain is a robot, an alien, a monster, or an ordinary human with extraordinary powers; chances are good he wants to destroy the world for no fucking reason other than to flex his muscle. You hear him cackle like a madman. You hear him barking orders at his minions even though he’s capable of doing a much better job. But that’s about all you hear. No motives, no thorough planning, and if he does have the latter, it’ll be explained in intricate detail to the protagonist rather than using that precious time to murder the motherfucker. All you know about the villain is that he wants to destroy the earth, but you don’t know why.

Do you realize what happens when the earth is destroyed? There’s a very real possibility that the main villain lives on planet earth, so if he destroys the whole fucking thing, where is he going to live? He’d better have a spaceship handy. If he does, what planet is going to take him in whilst being able to support human life? Even if the planet did support human life, why would they willingly want a genocidal maniac as part of their world population? Does the villain want to destroy his new home world too? Is that all this asshole does on his spare time? Just destroy worlds haphazardly without thinking about the consequences of mass genocide? At least Freiza from Dragon Ball Z had a motive. He wiped out the planet’s population and sold the planet to the highest bidder. He was a businessman. A ruthless businessman, but as we’ve seen with corporate America, that’s really a redundant phrase at this point.

I suppose any villain could use the CEO excuse to destroy random planets, but people who have seen Dragon Ball Z would know where the motive came from and accusations of plagiarism would be louder than a Super Saiyan screaming before he throws a Kamehameha wave…out of his ass…after eating a hundred dollars worth of Taco Bell food. Yes, I know, there’s no such thing as an original idea. Everything comes from somewhere. But surely there are more motives for committing genocide on a planet’s population than just dollars and cents, right? Yes, dollars and cents are very enticing to villains with a shallow point of view, or even a desperate debtor. But it’s hardly the only reason why someone would want to destroy a whole planet.

Destroying the earth seems to have lost its luster over time due to the backwards logistics of it all. But it doesn’t have to be. Part of the fun of being a professional author is spinning tropes on their heads. Maybe the threat of global destruction is part of an ultimatum. “Give me a gazillion dollars or I’m going to blow up a major world city every hour on the hour.” We’ve seen that in movies before, but why would a genocidal lunatic need a gazillion dollars? Climbing out of poverty? Buying a vacation home in somewhere other than a targeted city? Clinging to an expensive cocaine and hooker addiction? These are all solid reasons for world destruction. They’re shitty things to do, but as far as character arcs go, they’ll go a long way in giving villains all three of their much-needed dimensions. The audience will laugh at villains for being cheesy and one-dimensional. Why not make them blackmailers of the most disgusting kind?

But why is it just blackmail? Can a villain want to destroy the earth just for the satisfaction of watching the world burn? Dead bodies can be very satisfying to a villain with a constant Joker’s grin. But after one dead body, he’d have to keep achieving that high in order to maintain satisfaction. When the bodies run out, then what is he going to do? But maybe he will find satisfaction in worldwide genocide, because he sees his abusers in every person he meets. Or maybe he was raised with a Nazi ideology and sees himself as the purest human. Maybe the parents who gave him his Nazi ideology were abusive themselves. In the bloody war between nature and nurture, nurture wins hands down.

Can a villain be born evil, though? Certain genes could allow that to happen, like a predisposition for psychopathy, sociopathy, and narcissism. Maybe the villain is beyond help and can’t help himself when he kills large numbers of people. Maybe he legitimately doesn’t see the consequences of his actions and kills just because. But when he’s criticized or punished for his heinous crimes, he suddenly plays the sympathy card like a little coward. We’ve seen that in movies and TV shows before, because it continues to work. Hell, we see this shit in today’s world news with certain politicians, pundits, and bullies in general. I’m sure they’d love to watch the world burn just because.

What if a magical voice tells the villain to commit worldwide genocide and will only give him relief from his mind-fuck when he completes his task. Where is this voice coming from? The depths of hell? A sorcerer long believed to be dead? A bug implanted in his ear? A caterpillar that crawls up his nose and infests his brain? A psychoactive drug with micro-insects swimming through it? But if you as a writer choose to go down this route, you’ll want to remove it as far as you can from actual real world schizophrenia. Schizophrenics have enough stigmas attached to them as it is. The magical voice has to be purely from a magical or science-fiction standpoint. You can even take a page out of the Cyberpunk 2020 playbook and have the cyborg lose his humanity after overusing his mechanical limbs.

There are thousands of reasons why a villain would want to destroy the earth. Pick one and stick with it. You could have a laughing skeleton in a dark cloak carrying a fiery battleaxe, but unless you give him some reasons for doing the things he does, he’s going to come off as cheesy and clownish. Imagine if Darth Vader, one of the most iconic Star Wars villains of all time, destroyed worlds willy-nilly and had no real reason for it. He lusted for power, above all else. It’s a simple motive, but power is enticing to psychopaths who need to be in control of their environment at all times. Is the lust for power over-used? Could be. But if everything else about the villain clicks, whether it’s the dialogue, the presentation, or the power he already has, then the audience will forgive you if you use the power-hunger trope one more time.

I’m currently in the process of rewriting a fantasy novel called Beautiful Monster for the third time in a row. For the first couple of drafts, Queen Shelly Atwood had no real reason for being a sex-crazed rapist who wanted to get as much power as she could. But in this current draft, she likes having the power and influence of a queen because it turns her on. The money she makes selling brainwashed sex slaves affords her pleasures, comforts, and conveniences she wouldn’t have had as a poor peasant. Power is addictive and so is the one-percent lifestyle. She’s gotten so used to being powerful that she must have things her way all the time. She doesn’t want to lose even a smidgen of that power to anybody. Whether she gains it from raping a future sex slave or making shady business deals, she’ll take it where she can get it. With this much power and money comes possessions that she wouldn’t otherwise have. Scary artwork, pornographic novels, ice cream ingredients, fine wine, powerful drugs, she’s like a spoiled brat on Christmas, but every day is Christmas and every night is Halloween for the ones she steps on.

Any goofy character can be made into a convincing badass as long as there are layers and dimensions to their personality. Any atrocious act of genocide can be justified in the mind of the villain as long as that justification is made loud and clear. Evil for the sake of evil comes across as hokey no matter what the story is. Evil has a purpose. Evil has a background story. Evil has personality. The villains themselves might even insist that they’re the good guys of their own story. They’re destroying the earth to put the miserable population out of their respective misery. They’re committing genocide because the population is somehow responsible for shunning him from all forms of society. The villain is killing at random because he has a heightened sense of alertness that won’t allow him to be taken by surprise even by the most mundane human being or animal.

The table is set, fellow authors. Flesh out your villains, flesh out your stories, flesh out your worlds, and make sure your audience notices all the hard work you put into your craft. Even the most random occurrences happen for a reason despite the reason not being readily available to the victims. They should be available to your readers, though. They’re not stupid. They see right through laziness. You don’t want to be the author who gives them a whole lot of nothing, right? Show us why the villain is evil, don’t just say he wants to destroy the earth. Any clown in a spaceship can destroy the earth. But a true villain can haunt the minds of his audience while he’s doing it.

Immune to My Own Edge

 I might be the only person in the universe who feels this way…but when I’m writing a controversial scene in either my prose or poetry…I sometimes forget the weight of my own words. I’ve become immune to my own edge, if you will. A cowboy obliterating his opponent with a gatling gun and splashing his guts like a tidal wave? A leonine samurai decapitating a ninja with his katana before sucking the poor bastard’s insides out with the spine as a drinking straw? A femme fatale seducing a man into bed with her before she bites his penis off and shoves it between his ears? These things may be shocking to my audience, but they’re normal to me. They’re so normal to me that I wasn’t even trying when I wrote those descriptions. Now it’s time to crack my knuckles…

The other day I wrote chapter 21 of my fantasy WIP Beautiful Monster. In this chapter, an imprisoned elf reaches through the bars of his cell and grabs a mercenary by his facial hair. He then proceeds to pull this mercenary’s face into the steel bars as hard as humanly possible, getting more aggressive with each tug. The mercenary’s eyeballs pop out, his teeth shatter and roll on the ground, his nose gets plastered to the back of his skull…to put it as delicately as possible, this mercenary is fucked. Too graphic for you all? Well, that’s funny, because this is just another day at the office for me. This is easily as brutal as it gets in my novel and I didn’t even flinch. I’m immune to my own edge.

How did it get to be this way for me? Too many mental illnesses and pills numbing my mind? Too much brainwashing via the television? Not enough flinching when I watched movies like Saw and Hostel? It’s one thing not to care too much if it happens in a fictional setting, but in a documentary or news story? My god, does that shit hurt. I’m not immune to other people’s edges, just my own. If there’s a news story on TV about police brutality (which has become commonplace in America, unfortunately), I’ll get so pissed off that my jaw will be sore from all the clamping down I’m doing. My mind will do more hundred mile an hour laps than a NASCAR track. But if I write about it in one of my stories? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Why is this happening? Is it because I’m in control of my stories and poems and therefore already know the outcome? But what if the outcome is negative? What if a character is so haunted by their PTSD that they hang themselves from the ceiling fan with a chain whip? Will I be immune to that as well? If I’ve written it, yes, I will be. But only if I’ve written it. If I imagine it in my mind, then I’ll cycle through every harmful emotion I can think of, be it sadness, anger, or depression, which coincidentally spells the acronym SAD. Imagining scenes is much more fun than writing them, even with the harmful emotions.

That’s why I never understood it when people say that jokes can only be funny if you, the comedian, are the first to laugh about it. Sometimes I laugh at my own jokes, but not all the time. And yet, whenever I tell a joke I don’t laugh at myself, my audience laughs at it all the same. Want an example of a really disgusting joke? Okay, here it goes. Where do necromancers go to adopt children? An abortion clinic. You may laugh at that joke, you may not. Did I? Maybe a little bit at first, but I don’t hee-haw at it every single time. I must be immune to my own edge again. Here’s a joke I definitely didn’t laugh at, but other people found fucking hilarious. What do you call a Viking who saves people from drowning? Leif Guard. Not the most offensive joke I’ve ever told, but it’ll probably get more laughs than my necromancer joke, and that’s only if you pronounce Leif like you would “life” instead of “leaf” or “layf”.

Okay, so I’m immune to my own violence and comedy, but what about sadness? I can safely say that I’ve never cried at my own scenes before. I’ve had characters rape each other, attack animals, and die by the hundreds. Not one single tear. Then again, it takes a lot for me to cry these days. Well, it used to, anyways. I used to talk about having a 2007 benchmark for the last time I cried and that was because I blew my chances at signing up for Evergreen College. I can safely say that as of 2020, that record has been shattered. It’s not just the American news or the depression of being cooped up in my own home due to Corona Virus. Those things tax the fuck out of my mental energy, sure. But if you want to know what made me cry alone at night with nobody watching…I repeated the words “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again. Who was I declaring my love for? I don’t know. Who was I apologizing to? I don’t know. It could have been anybody. Hell, it could have been my entire audience because I felt like I let them down in some way. I wasn’t immune to that. But writing about the experience? Not one tear drop.

While I feel nothing when I write my own controversial scenes, my audience feels everything. I’ve had people tell me they cried at my sadder stories. I’ve had people tell me they had chills up and down their spines at my lovey-dovey poems. I’ve had people cringe in pain as they read my more violent poems and stories. I say these things not to brag, but as a warning to anybody reading this piece of nonfiction. You have no idea how powerful your words can be to another person, for better or worse. A simple, “Hi” can be the difference between isolation and a pick-me-up. A tweet can be the difference between connecting with your audience and losing them forever. If a salutation and a tweet can have that much impact on someone’s life, imagine how a whole book can make them feel.

You know…maybe that’s why I was crying and apologizing that one night I broke my 2007 record. Maybe I felt like my books were having a negative impact on people’s lives. I know that’s not true since book sales have been piss-poor since I became a pro. But what if my sales spiked one day and my audience was angered by what I had written? What if Debra Winter’s characterization in Occupy Wrestling was deemed unintentionally misogynistic? What if my poems bored my audience to tears because of how the lyrics resemble corporately-produced rock songs? What if my depictions of rape and assault in Poison Tongue Tales were done in an insensitive way? Can I do anything about these problems now that the books are published? I could, but Amazon is making me jump through hoops just to make cosmetic changes to one of my poetry books. But even if Amazon was 100% cooperative, that would mean redoing six published books and always being behind because I’d be overwhelmed with work. It seems like a lazy copout, but it’s reality. I don’t have the energy to micromanage every single book I’ve published, especially when they’ve been on the market for so long.

But…what if someone didn’t see my writing in an offensive light? What if somebody loved it regardless of all of my negative thoughts? Art is subjective, after all. What’s disgusting to one person could be bliss to another. Yeah, I’m immune to my own edge, but I’m not immune to my own worrying after the fact. Maybe that needs to change. Maybe I should start holding my head high. But in the middle of the cluster-fuck known as 2020? That won’t be easy. But that’s one advantage to having immunity to the most controversial parts of my writing: I can get lost in the process and escape from the world, even if only for a little while. Maybe I can find that nugget of joy among the sea of diarrhea. Isn’t that why we write in the first place? Isn’t that why people say, “Write drunk, edit sober”? Don’t worry about the technicalities now, just barf onto the page and be happy for just a little while. I guess I’m not an uncaring sociopath after all. I’m just looking for joy where I can find it. If that joy includes evoking strong emotions from my readers, then goddamn it, I’ll embrace that shit until the day I die.

Couch Potato Salad

Running late to a party where I don’t belong
What’s the fucking point in staying so strong?
What’s the point in coming out of the shadows?
Small talk never got past the point of shallow

Laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling
Forgetting about my brokenhearted feelings
Forgetting that there are strangers all around me
I’d enter their social circles if they allowed me

Couch potato salad is what I’ve become
Lazy, dead inside, and comfortably numb
I didn’t have to suck down a single beer
To feel like sleeping forever in here

There’s a Denny’s only a few blocks away
Hopefully they’re open twenty-four hours a day
Pancakes and syrup to kill the loneliness
My body’s a temple and I’m his holiness

Nobody noticed that I got off the couch
Not a “goodbye” or “wait up” out of their mouths
That’s okay, they’re invisible to me as well
What about the waitress? Can she even tell?

Walking down the street with my head hung low
Keeping my pace so agonizingly slow
I don’t notice when someone tells me to move
To impatient strangers, I’ve nothing to prove

Another night of waffles and emptiness
Another night of squandered friendliness
Another night of being socially envious
Another night of depressive endlessness

When will I learn to stay home for the night?
When will I admit that I could never be right?
No more philosophy, just syrup and batter
It’s not like any of this even fucking matters

A happy Buddha belly and a frozen heart
This is how the next morning will start
Another day of wishing for bravery
And chowing down on steaks so savory

Intimate Psychotherapy

***INTIMATE PSYCHOTHERAPY***

I’d like to be able to stand on a mountaintop with my electrified staff raised high and yell, “I AM HOPE!” to all of my dearly beloveds. But in order for that to be taken seriously, I’d have to have some kind of god complex. Because I’m a writer who makes mistakes often and isn’t afraid to talk about them, I can’t afford to have a god complex. Part of the reason why I continue to fuck up from time to time (aside from being human) is because all of the romantic tropes from my favorite movies, books, and TV shows don’t work to my advantage the way that I thought they would. Manic Pixie Dream Girls? Gone. Changing other people through romance? Out. Damsels in Distress? Only if the trope is subverted somehow, which I guess could be said for any tired old trope.

But we’re not talking about those today, no, no, no, no. Today we’re talking about something even more controversial: Intimate Psychotherapy. You might know this better as the “sex cures everything” trope. Are you feeling depressed? Have some sex. Are you feeling anxious? Conquer your shyness and then have some great sex. Victim of sexual assault? Never fear, because the good sex will make you forget you’ve ever had bad sex. Well…to quote Theory of a Deadman, “All those flavors of the rainbow, too bad that shit don’t work, though.” I can’t confirm this due to my own virginity, but great sex releases an assload of endorphins in your brain. Masturbation does that too, something I have a little more direct experience with. But does this rush of endorphins cure everything? Hell no, not even a little bit. If you’re a victim of sexual assault, the “great” sex won’t erase your shitty experience. It’ll trigger you to where you can’t function anymore.

So where did I first hear about Intimate Psychotherapy? I do have a clear answer, but I don’t want anybody to misinterpret it as the sole reason why. Keep in mind that I don’t know the meaning of the term moderation. Every piece of creative fuel I absorb, I take to the extreme without questioning it. Not questioning creative fuel was my first mistake, especially since that fuel came from a movie called The Sessions. In this movie, a sex surrogate played by Helen Hunt is hired by a physically disabled poet to help build his romantic confidence via sex. Sex surrogacy is a legitimate practice, but when interpreting it as creative fuel, it shouldn’t be blown out of proportion. Yes, exposure therapy has benefits. Yes, being exposed to great sex can help awkward people overcome their fears. But is it a one-size-fits-all solution to everything? No!

If I, a socially-awkward schizophrenic, flew out to Reno, Nevada tomorrow morning (Corona Virus be damned) and visited a legal brothel to lose my virginity, I wouldn’t also lose my mental illness. It’s not like I could bust a nut and then suddenly flush my meds down the toilet. Remember, masturbation has the same benefits as far as endorphins go. If masturbation doesn’t cure mental illnesses, great sex won’t either. I’m sure there are prostitutes out there who have crippling depression. I’m sure there are strippers who have severe PTSD. I’m not saying every sex worker hates their own job, but what about the ones that do? You think they’re finding healing in what they do? What about victims of child trafficking? Now, we’ve gone too far down the rabbit hole, but hopefully everything is clear to you by now.

The Intimate Psychotherapy trope in its most extreme forms could be disproved over and over again and there would still be instances of books and movies carrying on the misinformation. I will admit that it makes for a tempting story, albeit a misleading one. Sex can be enjoyable. Masturbation can also be enjoyable. The prospect of sex on its own can be very alluring to any consumer of media. Yes, I know Intimate Psychotherapy doesn’t work in the real world. Yes, I know how offensive it comes across in fiction. But what if there was a way we could subvert a trope or otherwise make it fresh? Don’t say, “This doesn’t work.” Ask, “How can we fix this?”

What if you’re writing a fantasy story and the white mage of the party a.k.a. the healer used sex as part of the magic? What if there’s an alien race in a sci-fi story that has medicinal properties in their semen? What if prostitution was seen as a vital part of the healthcare industry and the prices of which were jacked up to phenomenal proportions? You know, just like in the healthcare system we have today? What if sex was used as a truth serum? What if condoms were laced with healing salve? The possibilities are as endless as your imagination. The trope can work as long as you don’t blow it out of proportion and as long as you put your own spin on it. By itself, it’s offensive as hell. But under the watch of a truly creative soul? Wow…

Isn’t that how we should be looking at old tropes to begin with? Don’t get rid of them altogether, just put your unique touch on them. Manic Pixie Dream Girls could be femme fatales in a heartbeat. Or there could be an opposite of a femme fatale, where the seducer brings the mark to greatness and healing instead of danger and death. What about Damsels in Distress? We’ve seen that trope hundreds of times, but what if the kidnapper was a female and the victim was a male? Or what if the damsel was a dead body with a restless soul? The key word in creative writing is creative. If you recycle the same shit over and over again, your audience is going to notice. But if you freshen things up with that old creative fuel, they’ll notice it even more and might even love you for it. If they love you enough, they can cure your Impostor Syndrome with Intimate Psychotherapy! Just kidding! Or am I? Hmm…

I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Prior to writing this blog entry, I wrote chapter ten of Beautiful Monster and I didn’t have nearly as many problems doing so as I did chapter nine. The writing process went fairly smoothly. Maybe not so much in the beginning, but it didn’t take long at all to find my grove again. And by the end of the chapter, a slave-trader’s head was blown to bits and her brains were scattered all over a wooden stage. This message was brought to you by the Smoke Wagon XT, the same gun that was used to murder the slave-trader. Why does it have an XT at the end? Who knows? Who cares? Orphaned acronyms are a thing. But where does that leave chapter eleven? Well, after all the hoo-ha in Devon Bay dies down, Windham and Tarja finally get a room together. Shut up, that doesn’t mean what you think it means. Although sex is indeed a theme in this chapter, there’s nothing romantic or hot about it. It’s disturbing as fuck. It’s the reason why the story is called Beautiful Monster. Ugh…

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away from the pain that you drive into the heart of me. The love we share seems to go nowhere. And I’ve lost my light, for I toss and turn, I can’t sleep at night. Now I know I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away. You don’t really want anymore from me. To make things right, you need someone to hold you tight. And you think love is to pray. Well, I’m sorry, I don’t pray that way. Once I ran to you. Now I’ll run from you. This tainted love you’ve given. I give you all a boy could give you. Take my tears and that’s not nearly all. Tainted love. Oh, tainted love. Don’t touch me, please. I cannot stand the way you tease. I love you, though you hurt me so. Now I’m going to pack my things and go. Tainted love. Touch me, baby, tainted love.”

-Soft Cell singing “Tainted Love”-

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.

Latent Maturity

***LATENT MATURITY***

So…whenever a public figure fucks up beyond belief, it can usually be linked to how old they were at the time it happened. This is especially true when the perpetrator is a teenager and in some cases in their early twenties (not all cases, but some). The younger you are, the more forgivable you are in the eyes of the public. But what about fucking up badly in your later years? Suppose you do something horrible in your late twenties and apologize for it in your thirties or forties? Only then do you not have an easy way out of your predicament.

Whenever a teenager writes horrible fan fiction that accidentally glorifies monstrous behavior, they can be easily forgiven. But if that author was older and allegedly wiser, then the criticisms become harsher. An example of this is Anna Todd, the author of the One Direction romantic fan fiction After. The book got a lot of heat for lionizing abusive relationships, cheating, and overall deplorable behavior. Anna Todd wrote that book’s first draft when she was in her early twenties. Because she should have “known better” at that age, many of the attacks on After were lobbied against her as a person. Is this fair? Does she legitimately not know how the human experience works or is this some part of an evil conspiracy?

As many of you are painfully aware, I have my own experience with writing awful and tone deaf first drafts. Beautiful Monster, anyone? I didn’t figure this out on my own, but the first draft version of Tarja was manipulative as hell and incredibly nosy when it came to being therapeutic to Windham. Yes, you heard that right. Somebody else had to point this out to me. As a bonus to this juicy backstory, I just celebrated my thirty-third birthday when I completed this first draft. As someone with that much life experience, I should have known better than to make Tarja Rikkinen a super-creep. But that’s the thing: I DON’T have a wealth of life experience. I DON’T have a treasure trove of wisdom. In today’s world I’m thirty-four years old and I’m still taking too long to mature.

But when it comes to first drafts, authors should be given as much permission as possible to fuck up badly. First drafts are NEVER perfect when they’re barfed onto the page. Even well-established authors will tell you this. If you see a first draft of a novel and you want to point out mistakes, be forgiving and nonjudgmental. Every author deserves the benefit of the doubt. But the thing with Anna Todd’s book is, from what Book Tubers have said about it, it reads like it never made it past the first draft stage. It has so many typos, so many plot holes, and so many shitty characters. No sane editor would have allowed any of those mistakes to stand. And yet, here we are in 2020 and After not only is a published novel, but a fucking movie. By the way, I’m using the F-bomb as an adjective, but the movie could very well be about the act of fucking.

Here’s my stance on latent maturity. Fucking up badly is not exclusive to any age, whether you’re a teenager, an adult, or shit, let’s extend that to the elder years. My only concern is, did the offender grow as a result of this mistake? Did they change their ways? Did they learn the lessons they were supposed to learn? If the answer to these questions is yes, then that person should be forgiven, provided the crimes committed weren’t overly serious. Donald Trump and Jeffrey Epstein don’t deserve forgiveness. I rest my case.

So if I really do lack the necessary life experience to make rational decisions about my first draft, then why am I a writer? Isn’t wisdom a requirement for being successful in that industry? It is indeed. In fact, I have just enough wisdom to know that I need help crossing the street from time to time. I certainly don’t want to be offensive when I write first drafts, but it does happen and I need people to point this out to me without holding a blade to my throat.

I used to hate criticism so much that I’d reject all of it no matter how reasonable it was. Now that I’ve gained just a little bit of wisdom, I know that criticism is vital to my success as an author. I can’t have a career without it. Does it hurt sometimes? Absolutely. But does the criticism come from a place of love? Hell yeah it does. That’s something we as creative people owe each other: a place of love, forgiveness, and growth. If we’re being judged all the time for our worst mistakes, we’ll never get anything done. That’s not productive in the least.

Beautiful Monster is hardly the most offensive first draft novel I’ve written. In 2018, I wrote two others named Silent Warrior and Incelbordination, both of which are about school life. Because they are first drafts by their very nature and I don’t trust my wisdom one single bit, there are things going on in both of those novels that I don’t know could be offensive as fuck. Is Scott George from Silent Warrior a creep because of who he’s dating? Am I sending the wrong message by having his girlfriend heal him? Did I also create a bratty protagonist that nobody wants to cheer for?

What about Incelbordination? Is Oswald Crow a whiny bitch? Do I overplay the fact that he has dwarfism? Does he have any real dimension to him other than smoking pot, being short, and listening to heavy metal? Is having him pine for romantic love a sexist trope? It’ll be a while before I’m ready to have those two first drafts critiqued. I’ve got my hands full with Beautiful Monster and Emilio & Marigold. And goddamn, do those stories have some SERIOUS fucking problems!

To cap off what is already a very rambling blog entry, I just want to tell each and every one of my dearly beloveds out there to be kind to each other and don’t judge each other too harshly. Does Anna Todd deserve forgiveness? What about E.L. James? Or Stephanie Meyer? Is being naïve really an excuse or is the damage done too overwhelming? These are all reasonable debates that you can have among your friends and audience members. But when you have these debates…please be kind and if necessary, rewind. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

I’m certainly taking my sweet time with editing the shit out of my novel. It could be the creative burnout. It could be general tiredness. Or it could be that my slowness has been right all along and that I should take more time to think about how I’m going to fix these longstanding problems. As of this blog entry, I’m getting ready to edit chapter five, where the readers are first introduced to Tarja Rikkinen, the token female mercenary at Shadow Asylum. Or as Commander Rinehart calls her, the “diversity hire”. We know right away that she’s an excellent fighter, but being insanely violent doesn’t necessarily make for a likeable character. She needs something extra. But what will that extra nuance be? Her love for animals? Her penchant for cracking jokes at inappropriate times? Or maybe…Shelly Atwood will invade her thoughts and implore Tarja to…spill her secret! What secret is that? Well, if I told you all, it wouldn’t be a fucking secret! Stay tuned. Or as Lindsey Doe says on You Tube, stay curious!

***QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Love is one of the most intense feelings felt by man; another is hate. Forcing yourself to feel indiscriminate love is very unnatural. If you try to love everyone you only lessen your feelings for those who deserve your love. Repressed hatred can lead to many physical and emotional ailments. By learning to release your hatred towards those who deserve it, you cleanse yourself of these malignant emotions and need not take your pent-up hatred out on your loved ones.”

-Anton LaVey-

Large Groups of Characters

***LARGE GROUPS OF CHARACTERS***

“The Way-Back Machine is all warmed up, Mr. Peabody!”

Good boy, Sherman. Now let’s go back to the late 1990’s in Chehalis, Washington, where I was a pre-teen playing Dungeons & Dragons with a large group of my brother’s friends. Pay close attention to the “large group” part of that last sentence. It didn’t matter if I was a level one human fighter with a true neutral attitude. It didn’t matter if my character was destined to become a badass somewhere down the line. That prophecy never came to fruition in this particular role-play. You want to know what my character did? You want to know what his big contribution to the experience was? Smashing a whiskey barrel over somebody’s head. That’s it. End of story. The rest of the role-playing session was a whole lot of jack shit. Whenever the DM asked me what I wanted to do next, I’d just languidly say, “Go with them.”

From that day forward, I only agreed to D&D sessions with small groups of people or strictly one-on-one with the DM. When too many characters invade one story, there’s not enough room for them to get their shit in. They get shoved to the background in favor of others. There’s no room for development. Or in my case, all I got to do was smash a wooden barrel over somebody’s head…and not a goddamn thing more. Whenever I write novels, I always make sure to keep my protagonists down to a manageable number like two or three. That way, everybody gets a chance at character development in the relatively small space that constitutes the word count benchmark for novellas. Bigger adventuring parties are designed for works that are longer. Me? I don’t have the mental endurance to write something long enough to include an army of three-dimensional characters.

This heavy burden of characters is something often seen in professional wrestling as well, not just with books and movies. It’s one of the reasons why the WWE Divas Revolution was so poorly received in 2015. Nine women had to share X minutes of TV time, which means nobody got developed, nobody had any real motivations, nobody had personality, and there was no real end game to it all. To put it bluntly, it was a cluster fuck that resulted in the Wrestling Observer Newsletter giving it a Worst Feud of the Year award. It also placed second in that year’s list of Most Disgusting Promotional Tactics and third in the list of Worst Gimmicks. There’s only so much TV time to go around, which means smaller groups take priority if there’s ever a chance at character development.

Of course, not all characters have to be three-dimensional. Some characters were designed to be extras and that’s okay. But if you’re going to make a character an extra, be prepared for the lack of emotional investment that comes with it. A mass slaughter of innocent civilians doesn’t hold nearly as much weight in a Marvel or DC movie as the death of a character the audience actually cares about. The more you care, the more it will hurt. Why do you think people in real life get choked up about family members dying, but won’t blink an eye at an elderly celebrity passing the pearly gates? Celebrities are nice, but they’re not as connected to us as our truly loved ones. The same logic applies with stories where there’s a large number of protagonists.

Having said these things, I can still think of a few examples where it’s okay to care about big groups of people. In “The Savior’s Champion” by Jenna Moreci, there are twenty combatants in the Sovereign’s Tournament. You know they will eventually die per the rules of the game, but when they do, it’ll hurt worse than a Kaleo knee to the ribcage. Then again, that novel is at least five hundred pages long, so Ms. Moreci has given herself a lot of space to work with. Same thing with the old SNES videogame Final Fantasy VI. It takes weeks to beat, which means a large group of playable characters can thrive in that environment. You’ll care about Sabin Figaro. You’ll give more than two shits about Mog. You’ll give lots of flying fucks about Cyan Garamonde. Please do play that game if you’re into the classics. What about Lord of the Rings? Well, each movie in the trilogy is three butt-numbing hours long. You think that’s more than enough time to develop a big ass group of characters? Fuck yeah it is!

But if it’s really dependent on the length of the story, then why don’t I just write longer stories? Why can’t Beautiful Monster be 100,000 words instead of 45,000? Because a story’s completion has nothing to do with how long it is. Yes, it’s a shorter novella, but it’s a complete story. Even in its early draft phase, it has a beginning, middle, and end. The two main protagonists, Windham Xavier and Tarja Rikkinen, are only two people, which means they get lots of time to develop and grow as characters. Everybody else can claim the spotlight for themselves because my main character roster isn’t that big. But why not make my story longer and include more characters? Does it really need more characters? Can the few that I have not carry the story on their own? Besides, like I mentioned before, I don’t have the mental endurance to write longer stories. I’d be nice if I had it, but superpowers aren’t really a thing yet, so I’ll have to stick to the short stuff.

So the moral of the story is, if you want people to care about your large group of characters, make sure your medium is long enough for their individual developments. It can be done, but not by me, because I don’t feel the need to stretch myself beyond my means. The same will apply to any Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run in the future: the smaller the group, the smaller the headaches. Everybody will get their shit in. They’ll mean more to my fictional world than smashing a whiskey barrel over somebody’s head. This isn’t a WWE battle royal with a bloated roster full of tainted characters. This is creative writing. Although, if Vince McMahon (who gets the last word on WWE’s creative processes) wrote a novel of any kind, I’d want to read it just because I can’t avert my eyes from a train wreck. I’m Garrison Kelly! Happy Thanksgiving! Eat lots of turkey! I know I will!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(Circa 2013)

JAMES: Hey Garrison, why are you being pissy?

GARRISON: I’m not!

JAMES: You’re being pissy.

GARRISON: I’M NOT!

JAMES: Yes, you are, you’re being very pissy.

GARRISON: I’m not!

JAMES: Come on, Garrison, be happy, get excited.

GARRISON: About what?

JAMES: I don’t know. Life.

GARRISON: Can I be excited about that cardboard box over there?

JAMES: Sure, why not?

***POST-SCRIPT***

True story: I told my Face Book followers that I was going to the Regal Cinemas today to watch A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. I backed out at the last minute, because the entire day I was feeling grumpier than usual. I snapped at everything and expended a lot of physical energy screaming at little shit. But that’s okay, because it’ll still play Saturday night when all of the Thanksgiving and Black Friday hoo-ha has died down.