The myth of Originality

I thought about writing about "writers block" today, but my mind got swept up into this topic, as it is wont to do.

I don't believe in originality, and right now, thousands of writers across the globe hate me.

I just don't believe with all the Jungian archtypes in the world, that an Original concept is possible, especially with the numbers that humankind have risen to.

My first thought into this came from the realization, that I have a few stories with heavily common threads between them:

Man finds a violent women tied to something in a desolate area, frees her, and they travel.

In one story, it's a romance novel following a wild pict, and a displaced farmer, trying to get home. In another, she's a ghoulish creature in a post apocalyptic wasteland, and he's basically a henchman sent to find her. In another, he's a mercenary, and she's an imprisoned goddess.

Wildly different stories, but similar concepts. To make matters worse, if you replace "woman" with "Male" you get a Conan story. It's a simple thing really, I read Conan as a child and loved it, it inspired me in ways I'll never fully comprehend. It rears its head in nearly everything I write, just like everything else I've seen, heard, tasted and felt.

Probably one of the least Original artists of all time, is van Goph. Again, thousands of people hate me.

But it's true, he drew what he saw. Not special things, not events that would never happen again, he simply looked at things, and painted them. Why is he considered possibly the greatest painter of all time? Because of one word:

Presentation.

That's the difference between everything in the world, how it is presented. In all the thousands of years of human history, presentation is the only thing that changes.

We love certain things, we have fetishes and weird ways of looking at the world. That's the point of writing, to show the world how we stand where they stand, but we see something else.

"What's the difference between a villain and a Super villain? Presentation!" Megamind.

The Irish is Strong in this One.

(Two posts in one day? Don't get used to it.)

I'm Irish, and when I say that, I don't mean I was born in Ireland. I don't wave the green, orange and white around, I don't pretend to have an accent to get laid. I'm married now, she knows.
But, I come from a very Irish family, with Irish traits. Dear God... we practically bleed green. To drill this home;
Fathers side: I'm the fourth Gen from Ireland, so yeah...
Mothers side: South Boston Irish Catholic mother, recovering Alcoholic.

Yep, if Irish was a job, there's a winning resume.
Someone brought up the whole dumbass controversy of "Merry Christmas" as opposed to "Happy Holidays", which I will sum up in this next sentence.
December has Twelve Holidays, it's not sacriligious, it's efficient.

Anyway, this is about the Irish way of greeting people, or seeing them off. Because I've noticed, we do it sort of differently than most. When I worked at the Chinese place, my boss used to stare at me for how I replied to him. I would head out on a delivery, he'd say "bye" or "hurry back", someone else would go, I'd say "good luck". As if it was some sort of challenge.
Part of me wonders if this is because of that most Irish mentality of telling things to fuck the hell off. I've noticed that my family, and my Irish friends, tend to look at weather, problems, or daily tasks, as a bold face challenge from whatever we have to do. It's personal now.
Like the drive itself is out to get you, we're wishing you luck on kicking that drives ass with your car and appropriate sense of direction.
Another common one was the "have fun" and its' like. While it's not so much a parting farewell to someone who's going to an arcade, it's sort of us telling them that they should enjoy what they're about to go do. It's not even sarcasitic, but a bit sadistic. We're telling them to find some sort of enjoyment in what they have to do.
Remember every stereotypical Irishman in every movie you've seen one in, they always have the same response to things; "Fuck'n hell man, that was an intense gun fight! I've only been shot twice, God I hope there's more of 'em!"

I wonder if this preinclination to challenging inanimate objects and desire to find enjoyment in everything, leads to our bred-in violence. I remember talking to a guy I work with about my nephew Kalen's first fight.
Kalen was on the slide, big kid was being a dick, pushing the other kids off, including Kalen. Finally, he "done goofed" and pushed the girl Kalen decided was cute enough for his attention, and this angered him. So Kalen went back up the slide, threw the kid off, and beat him on the ground.
To every Irishman out there, Kalen just got a salute, and possibly an offer of a beer. To the guy I work with (Louisianna French... didn't know that was a thing), this was horrible, he actually vilified Kalen, praying he'd never see the kid in school because he "obviously over reacted". To me that just seemed stupid, the kid obviously hit first, and Kalen did what ever PSA ever said "just walked away" and WHOA! The big kid did it again! It was almost as if he was rewarded for being violent, and it made him do it again! I'd go further into this subject, but I don't have the time for a ground breaking thesis in the field of psychology.

Basically, this post really doesn't have any meaning behind it... it's my day off and I'm bored, read me rant.

Ponderin' the Normies

So, it's early, and I'm wondering something: what's it like for normal people?

Now, I'm not saying I'm not normal, I'm not a guy, and I don't do guy things. Whole other concept here. Because I noticed something a day or so ago; people listen to music for the music.

Mind was blown.

I don't think I've ever listened to music because it was, in fact, music. Usually when I hear music, I immediately start creating a scene in my mind that fits the music. Some of my favorite things have been written this way.

Now, this got me thinking... what do they think about all the time? If you look at me, at any given moment, I'm most certainly thinking of a story. Be it a new one, or one I'm working on, or just going over an older one in my head. If you see me, I'm daydreaming about a brand new story. Whether I'll save it, write it, or just store it away in my brain.

No matter when, where, or what I'm doing. It's probably why I tend to forget things, I'm never really fully focused on anything. I remember playing Zelda, and making up my own lines for Link, his own reasons for why he did anything. Everything was being written in my own head as I played. When I played games like Elder Scrolls, or really any RPG that you make your own character, I didn't just play along with the story; I made the story.

So, it's weird is all I'm saying. Thinking about how people might think... are they thinking of what they'll do today? What they did yesterday? What about laundry? I can't be bothered to focus on that, I've got this great idea in my head that's bursting at the seems about a sniper...

... who hunts vampires...

... after the apocalypse...

Yes, this happened...

So, I leave work after a terrible day, one that solidified my vendetta against AT&T. Those bastards.

Anyway, I'm heading out to my car when I realize the unavoidable truth: I can't find my keys. I search on the car, around the car, me and Jared search from the car to the break room and back. Neither hide nor hair of them, not even a mechanical dropping.

Nothing.

What's a man to do? Call the wife and admit I failed completely? Not unless I can scrounge up a story about ninjas. Call AAA with the money I don't have? Not... well that sentence explains itself. Luckily for me, Jared's friend arrived with a trunk for of seemingly irrelevant items.

"Sorry Tom," Jared said, trying to contain his good humor, "Kevin's trunk is basically just filled with irrelevant items."

"Jared" I said to him, because it's his name, "items are only irrelevant to those that can't see the links between them."

Yeah, sometimes, this shit just comes out of me, I swear.

So, newfound determination in stock, I take what I'll need from this trunk: a plastic coat hanger, a Nerf gun bandoleer, and a flashlight. Then, like any true man, I start to hum the theme from McGuyver.

Five minutes later, with the adaptation of a hairtie, I've got a passable hook on a cord flat enough to make it through the slightly open sunroof. Let's kick this pig.

Sadly, it's impossible to see through the sunroof, except for a tiny spot where the flashlight shines, and then only when it's from the sides not the top... So I'm flying blind. The bandoleer also can only go in on one spot, which is about a foot from the cup holder where the keys are. Also, the sunroof has some give to it, but I can't hold it up evenly, and still use the hook... unless I had some seemingly irrelevant item that could do that...

... like a box of industrial paper cores, perfectly sized to fit there. Fuck yes, bacon for fucking all.

Ten minutes later, to the cheers of the two men next to me, I'm pulling up a set of keys to a car. To hell with AAA, to hell with calling the wife, to hell with things that were not exactly what we just did.

Moral of this story: nothing is impossible if you look deeper into it, to see that tiny things that connect to make a whole...

End Tally:
Man Card: +5
Nerd Card: +3 with permanent +3 to Dex rolls.

Tale of the Iron Rose

So, while part I of the Iron Rose has been shipped off to my friends and family for test reading, and I sit here eagerly (read: terrified) awaiting response... I've arrived at the thought that they may just have the slightest confusion as to how someone like me, ended up writing a coming of age story of a small feral girl in a post war fantasy world.

Here's how:

Originally, Rose wasn't Rose, she didn't have a name. The book was to go through the entire first part, never naming her, because at the end she died. She was not the feral race she is, in fact her race was never clearly defined. It was a book about the eventual outcome of racism (not color, but non-human) in fantasy worlds, that this girl would either end up someone's fetish in a brothel, or dead.

This all changed one day at the art museum.

I came across a sketch, one I've searched for during all the years since and have yet to find. It stood next to a large painting by the same artist. The painting, was a long mural of a dance hall, in it were dozens of girls around eleven years old, as well as their matron. All of them wore cat masks, and they prowled and played on a stage.

While this would have simply been a charming picture, there was one more thing, another girl. She looked older, possibly about thirteen or fourteen, more mature than the others. She wore a dress, and held her mask in her hand. She leaned against the pillar, and smiled at the viewer in a sort of shy and coy way.

It showed the tranisition from playful child, to young woman in a way that transfixed all who walked past. The girl was small, thin, but the way she held the mask, sort of like being stuck between two worlds, wild youngsters and mature adults, just clicked for me.

Then there was that sketch, like Esher had gotten drunk while watching anime. A world set in the sky, populated by beastial people (furry ears, eyes, tails) dancing wildly naked in the possible night. All of them looked feral and dangerous, yet they danced like children.

Seeing the two of them changed the way I wanted to portray my girl, I wanted some of that in her. That wild demure, crazy calm. I also liked the color of the girls hair in the painting, so Rose became a redhead, hence the name "Rose".

Even the name of her race changed, Cho'tahn, which is found out in another book "Joker and the Thief", which takes place in the same world, but two-hundred years earlier on the other continent (River's End, that place), to roughly translate to "Children of the Moon". Showing that in this book, her people are the children in the dance hall, and the creatures in the floating forest, and Rose is between the two.

The conflict was never Rose trying to fit in with her new people, but Rose trying to fit in with herself. If -anyone- figures out the secret behind the story... you literally win at everything.

But in order to do that, you'll have to think really hard about figuring it out.

Dear Grammar,

I know we've been together for a long time, but you need to realize that sometimes, I need my space. On occasion, I don't want to be confined to just "your needs." I'm a writer, I've got needs of my own.

I love your ways, your comma's and dear God I love the way I can make a sentence turn into a senseless ramble by simply placing things in their perfect order. Or not. It's beauty, it's fun, it's what I do.

But... sometimes I want to do things that don't always meld with you. Like maybe I want things to be awkward, maybe I want them to be short. Some days, I want to start a sentence with "and". And not have to care if it's correct.

So what if you take it out of context it makes no sense, just don't take it out of context. If you take it out, you lose context no matter what. A single sentence from the Iron Rose could be used to make it sound like erotica, or gore porn. Or incredibly boring.

Once in a blue moon, I want preposition for a sentence to end in. And I just can't take you getting all controlly on me. You have to live a little, get out there and let someone try something new, it's what made you the balance of words and dots you are today, up from cave paintings.

I still love you,

~Tom

P.S., spelling is still a given, unless I need to make a new word.

Now what...?

To start this one off, allow me to say this: I'm not a Democrat, haven't even been, doubt I'll ever be.

But in light of the events of the past four years, I doubt I'll ever vote Republican. Here's why:

Years ago, I was in school when Bush won the office, we were cool with that, the smear campaigns ended and we all went on with our lives. Remember you adults out there; I was a teen, TV and internet (new as it was) were my life. I saw every commercial, every add, every chain letter.

When things went down on 9/11, and the man stood up and took action the world would later give a resounding "Well... alright, not bad", we all stood behind him. Even the Democrats I knew. Did they like him? No. Did they devote their existence to hating him? Not remotely.

Then, we he proceeded to basically become what would be considered for my generation the embodiment of evil by: destroying out economy, crushing our standing in the world, revoking rights in a way not seen since Alan Moore penned "V for Vendetta", sending thousands of our friends to die in a war he couldn't give a straight answer as to why, we got a little pissed.

Then he was voted back in, we threw our arms up and collectively got angry. After another four years, we went out and voted and turned the wheel over to Obama. This is about when I lost faith in Republicans. Not for the actions of Bush, but their actions post-Bush.

They never stopped the anti-Obama war, like some sort of internet dick measuring contest, they kept going way past the point of everyone standing around awkwardly with their pants off.

To quote my mother during the Bush administration; "It doesn't matter who he is, what party he's from, you always support the man in charge. If you don't like what he's doing, vote him out later, but you don't disrespect him."

Same woman who now refers to him as "Nigger in Chief".

Then, they stonewalled him, refusing to let any of his ideas even see light until they had hacked them to bits, or refused them completely. They refused to report on anything he did that was positive.

In essence, they basically have had a four year streak of the worst bad sportsmanship in history.

Obama has not been the best president, obviously, but he's better than his predecessor... which isn't really a way we should be judging our president. "Not as bad as the guy we associate with Hitler and Trump." Yeah... not the best standard of measurement.

So, I'm not a Democrat, nor a Republican. I'm also not naive enough to ever believe we'll get in a third party candidate until the baby boomers die off. Basically, my choice is.... well non-existant.

My vote means little, considering that while I'm an educated, mildly level headed person who can go week to week without maxing six credit cards or setting my house on fire, there's someone out there, who's done all that, and is going to vote as well.

I have no say besides shouting as loud as I can along side the entire population of America as well... and neither do you. I could get a sign and protest, or to support a candidate, but that only converts the clergy as it were, I've never known anyone to drive by a bunch of supporters and go "Well, if those guys who have nothing better to do on a saturday than stand here shouting for a man they've never met, well damn I'll just have to vote for him!"

So now I stand, with my choices being somewhere between Anarchy and Apathy, and I wonder...

... now what?