"We're All Fine Here, Now, Thank You. How're You?"

"We're All Fine Here, Now, Thank You. How're You?" — Blue Ink Alchemy

So Balthazar, my desktop PC, is currently bricked, awaiting a new power supply. My laptop, or more appropriately, "Craptop", has officially crapped out once and for all. I'm hammering this post out on my iPad, using a tiny bluetooth keyboard, which is not ideal for extended periods of typing. I'm still writing out notes and thoughts for the new novel, awaiting feedback from test readers of the novella, and on the hunt for a day job. In other words, I'm fine, but my equipment isn't. Early - very early - tomorrow morning, I am flying back to Allentown to spend the holidays with my family. I will be back after New Year's, and I'm hopeful that I can finally lay out the changes I want to make to Blue Ink Alchemy to further promote my business and grow my brand - things I never thought I'd say with a straight face. It will make for an interesting new year, that's to be sure! Until then... yeah, yeah. Boring conversation anyway.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

"We're All Fine Here, Now, Thank You. How're You?"

"We're All Fine Here, Now, Thank You. How're You?" — Blue Ink Alchemy

So Balthazar, my desktop PC, is currently bricked, awaiting a new power supply. My laptop, or more appropriately, "Craptop", has officially crapped out once and for all. I'm hammering this post out on my iPad, using a tiny bluetooth keyboard, which is not ideal for extended periods of typing. I'm still writing out notes and thoughts for the new novel, awaiting feedback from test readers of the novella, and on the hunt for a day job. In other words, I'm fine, but my equipment isn't. Early - very early - tomorrow morning, I am flying back to Allentown to spend the holidays with my family. I will be back after New Year's, and I'm hopeful that I can finally lay out the changes I want to make to Blue Ink Alchemy to further promote my business and grow my brand - things I never thought I'd say with a straight face. It will make for an interesting new year, that's to be sure! Until then... yeah, yeah. Boring conversation anyway.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Fit To Write

Fit To Write — Blue Ink Alchemy

Writers don't get days off. I mean, staff writers and salaried folks tend to work certain hours. If you're writing freelance or working towards a goal in fiction, you can and should be cramming words into every spare moment available. Even when a writer is sick, or dealing with external issues, time must always be carved out for the writing. I've been trying to do that lately, and I keep running into issues or out of energy. So I am turning to you, hivemind, for your help. Writers: how do you push through the negative things between you and your words? It is just a matter of writing through the pain? What inspires you? What makes things better when it feels like they're getting worse?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

From the Vault: "What do you mean, I'm doing it wrong?"

From the Vault: "What do you mean, I'm doing it wrong?" — Blue Ink Alchemy

Still on the hunt for a dayjob, still struggling day to day, and still encountering more failures than successes. In light of that, here's a post from 5 years ago about dealing with failure.

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Human beings, being mortal creatures, are bound to mess things up sooner or later. This is true in every endeavor an individual undertakes. And sometimes, it falls to others to inform us that we're incorrect in the manner with which we've been proceeding. In other words, sooner or later, you're going to be told you're doing it wrong. Marital disagreements, family drama, storytelling, cheeseburger construction, you name it. It's going to go pear shaped on you. It could be because of outside influence or because of your direct actions, but the bottom line is the end result is going to be a mess. In writing terms, maybe your protagonist is more annoying than you think. In family terms, you could have maybe timed or worded something a bit differently. Regardless of how you arrived at this point of failure, the question is not so much how you failed but how you recover from it. First, of course, you need to realize you've failed. Sometimes this is obvious in the moment of value - those "oh shit" moments when your sphincter tightens as you brace for the physical or emotional impact that comes on as a result of the events that've been botched. Other times, you could be cruising along happy and content, and it's pointed out to you that something isn't working out the way you imagined. You might rail against the idea, but when you calm down and re-examine the situation, you'll see what they've pointed out and agree with them. But rather than dwelling on the failure itself, a more constructive goal is: how do you correct the failure? Just like admitting you're wrong, fixing the problem isn't always easy. A workplace misstep can haunt you for quite a long time depending on the nature of the management. Some family members may be forgiving but others might have long memories that focus especially on slights. And finding a failing in a work may be as simple as excising a line or going back and doing a complete rewrite. Funnily enough, this post is turning out to be something of a failure. It's ambling a bit more than I expected and seems to be talking about things in a very broad sense rather than having the tight, narrow focus required for good writing. Hopefully upcoming posts will be a bit more cohesive. In the meantime, here's a parting bit of advice: When I realize I've hit a wall of fail, at times I picture getting the bad news from Carla Gugino. Somehow, that helps.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on Goals

500 Words on Goals — Blue Ink Alchemy

Shut up, Blerch. A lot of people have long-term goals. Finishing school, meeting a deadline, saving up for a house or car, starting a business, the list goes on. But there are short-term goals, too, and they are just as vital. Like long-term goals, these take a variety of forms. Write a number of words. Run a certain distance. Spend less than a given amount in total, or just at the grocery store. Beat a personal record in exercise or leisure activity. When long-term goals seem out of reach, or silence is the answer to questions addressing them, short-terms goals are even more important. There are a lot of things that can happen over the course of a day. Plans can change. All sorts of events change the schedule of a given timeframe. And changes can be detrimental to goals. Factor in things like fatigue, sickness, distraction, or emotion, and the completion of goals can be thrown into question. I struggle with this quite a bit. I used to be on a regular schedule for exercise, and have been attempting to regain some momentum in that along with meeting daily writing goals. My body isn't quite up to a daily regimen of running yet, and my legs are doing quite a bit of protesting. And then there's the Blerch to consider, pictured above. I recently picked up The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons I Run Long Distances, and I feel an odd kinship with Matthew Inman. I'm not an artist, nor is my comedic timing as good as his, but I have a similar habit of treating myself like a circius animal. When I do a "trick", my inclination is to reward myself. And when I fail, my incination is to get angry with myself. This is probably not the most healthy of reactions. I know, logically, that a body not used to regular cardiovascular exercise needs time to adapt. I also know that there are emotional and mental complications to consider. I am often fighting through a wall of white noise, in my own head at least, which can make keeping myself focused on my own goalposts difficult. External ones, like hard due dates and deadlines, are much easier to clearly work towards. Those I set on my own tend to give me more difficulty. In my rational mind, however, I know that my difficulties are born from inside myself, and therefore, they can be beaten. Just like outrunning the Blerch, I can, in essence, outwrite the white noise. This weekend is going to be a busy for me. I hope to get the site refitted, work more on things worthy of Patreon and your attentions, and get back on track with things like this solid blog schedule and maintaining a consistent word couunt on a day to day basis. The holidays are fast approaching, as well, and I will be travelling to my parents' home at the end of the month. Hopefully, by then, I will have a better handle on my goals.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

From The Vault: PT: Handling Rejection

From The Vault: PT: Handling Rejection — Blue Ink Alchemy

This is as relevant today as it was five years ago. Also, I've been running this blog for over five years. Yikes.

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Maybe you got a letter. It could be something you received electronically. One way or another, a submission or entry upon which you've spent time and energy has been rejected. Now, I'm not talking about receiving constructive criticism. That's always a good thing to get. Iron sharpening iron and all that. What I'm on about is the cold shoulder, either in the form of a bland photocopy of a generic letter or a complete and total lack of recognition for your efforts. It's like fancying yourself a comedian, telling a joke and waiting for the laughs which never come. It breaks the heart and erodes the soul. If you're anything like me... well, you might need a shave. But in terms of this sort of thing, after a few rejection letters or seeing a publication for which you wished to contribute which doesn't include what you sent, you probably went back over your submission with a fine-toothed comb. What did I do wrong? What could I have done differently? The questions inevitably leave to negative emotions. Maybe you'll feel put out by the rejection, thinking your work isn't good enough. There could be some frustration at the difference that ended up existing between what you envision and what you submitted. And maybe getting rejected for whichever time you've just been brushed off just pisses you off. Good. Not to re-tread old ground, but I've said over and over that negative emotions do not need to lead to negative outcomes. There a lot of things you can do with your feelings. One thing you should not do, however, is sit on your ass. There's work to be done. Pop the hood on your work. Strip out parts that rattle or shake. In other words, take a look at your creation and figure out the parts that work. Maybe you have a character or two that really connect with readers, or you've gotten some feedback telling you that a particular passage really hammers home the good things about your writing. Maybe there's that one shot in your portfolio that really jumps off the page. What about it works? Why does it connect while the rest of the work falls away? Step back and examine the situation, the environment and the construction of the parts that work. Once you recognize what makes those portions successful, strip out everything else and rebuild the work around that core of goodness. This might mean you only need to make a couple small changes, or it might mean you need to all but start from scratch. Don't fret, though: declaring a do-over could very well be a step in the right direction. One thing you don't want to do is rush. There's no need. Take a deep breath. Make some cocoa. Instead of tearing down what you've done and smashing it around with a wrecking ball, lay it out and take a scalpel to it. In the course of doing so, you'll find things that you're proud of in spite of the rejection and you'll also likely find something that makes you smile and shake your head in that "What the hell was I thinking?" sort of way. It might also be the case that you can't bear to look at the project that's been so callously rejected. That's understandable. But you still have a bunch of bad feelings that need to get vented. You have the old stand-by responses of games, movies, booze and cocoa but the best thing to do, in my opinion and experience, is to do something in the same creative vein to get you thinking about what your next step will be. It could be back to what caused you to feel this way or it could be in a new direction entirely. You won't know, however, until you take that step. Whatever you do, no matter how many things you find wrong with your work, no matter how much cocoa you drink, no matter how many rejections you'll have to deal with in the future, don't give up. You're trying to do something new and different. Creative people are inevitably going to face a great deal of opposition because the environment out in the world is one where creativity is seen as a secondary concern to efficiency or profitability, if creativity is acknowledged at all. You want to be fast in your process, efficient in your use of energy, but it can be difficult to bang out work promptly if you're wrestling with bad feelings or unsure of where to go next. Don't worry about that. Worry about getting from bad to good first. Then worry about getting things out quickly. Don't quit. Especially if your ideas and the need to express them get you out of bed in the morning and motivate you to expend your time and energy of turning them into reality. Screw the rejection and the idea that your creativity doesn't matter because it doesn't help you file TPS reports more efficiently.

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." - Harold Whitman

Drinking your cocoa from a mug of Shakespearean insults doesn't hurt, either.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Change is Coming

Change is Coming — Blue Ink Alchemy

Change is never easy. But it is necessary. Growth and change are what make us alive. They are dynamic elements to existence; without them, we stagnate and remain static, which to me is worse than death. I've been meaning to make some changes to this webspace for a while, now, and I think the time is near to do just that. My plan is to do as some of my contemporaries have done, and move the blog you're currently reading to a location subordinate to the main page. The main page can then feature my products, my services, my broadcasts, my efforts for fundraising, and all of that good stuff. I think it's a bit more professional to have that sort of thing front and center, and this sort of thing available if you really want it, but not "all up in your grill" as soon as you plug in my address. If any folks who've made this transition have tips, please let me know! Also if there are good themes to download and/or worth an investment, I'm all ears. I'm hoping that making changes to the site, and to what I can do in terms of telling stories and entertaining people, will make 2015 the best year yet.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Gift

Flash Fiction: The Gift — Blue Ink Alchemy

It was an anonymous package. Those always raised suspicions. The museum's security had gone over it several times, and it had been run through all sorts of tests before it landed on the assistant curator's desk. Amanda came back from Starbucks to find it waiting there, illuminated under the wan light of the lamp that always seemed a little too dim for her tastes. Her requests for stronger lighting continued to fall on deaf ears. She shook her head, put her coffee aside, and turned the package to face her. Even at that small touch, a chill ran up Amanda's arm and down her spine. Her hand snapped back from the plain brown wrapping of its own accord. Her mind scrambled for a rational explanation. She stepped away from her desk and towards the thermostat. She found the temperature the same as when she had left. open it Slowly, Amanda turned to look at the package. It had not moved, of course, but the chill found her again. Her shaking hand reached out for her coffee, but moved towards the package instead. It took a moment of intense focus for her to pick up the paper cup instead of touching the string tied around the delivery. open it It took Amanda a moment to decide on a course of action. She went to the curator's desk, near her own, and picked up the Rolodex. Frantically, she paged through the notecards, finally finding the right one. Doctor Gibbons often called upon the person in question to discuss more esoteric or obscure fines, always out of the office, always off the record. She didn't know what else to do, other than obey her lizard-brain instinct to run or the voice telling her to open the package. She shook her head, and used her free hand to pick up the phone. open it Amanda drew in a sharp breath. Her hand seized just above the receiver for the phone. She looked up at her desk, at the package under the lamp. Without taking her eyes from it, she picked up the card from the Rolodex, backed away towards the door, and picked up her coat from its hook. She was out the door as quickly as possible, draining the cup in her shaking hand. She tossed it into a garbage can near the exit and looked down at the car. She walked as fast as she was able. The address was a dozen blocks away, but her long legs ate up the distance quickly. She was sweating and her breath was short as she headed up the stairs. OPEN IT "How did it follow me?" As if in response, the door opened in front of her. She was greeted by a man slightly taller than her, with short stylish hair graying at the roots, dressed in a bathrobe and holding a mug of what smelled like tea. "Um. Can I help you?" "Yes. I think so. I'm the assistant curator at-" OPEN IT! Amanda grabbed hold of her head with both hands and gritted her teeth in pain. The man put his tea aside and put a gentle hand on Amanda's shoulder. Only slightly aware of what was happening, she let the man lead her into his office. She was eased into a couch or chair. An indeterminate amount of time passed, and Amanda felt her head pounding in an incredibly uncomfortable fashion. Something warm and aromatic was waved under her nose. "Here. Drink this." It took an obscene amount of effort for her to put the mug to her lips and tilt her head so the liquid flowed into her mouth and down her throat. A hand that was not hers eased the mug away from her before she started to choke. The warmth of the tea washed down through the core of her being and the throbbing behind her eyes faded to a dull, distant ache. The voice with its demand began to echo deeper in her mind, still present but nowhere near as overwhelming. That was when Amanda started crying. The man took the mug away and returned with a box of tissues. Amanda wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She was horrified when the tissue came away stained red with blood. "What is happening to me? I don't understand." "You must be Amanda. Doctor Gibbons has mentioned you several times when we've had lunch together. Do you know who I am?" She shook her head. "I know your name. You're Nathan Deacon. You're an archaeologist. That's what the card in Doctor Gibbons' Rolodex says." "He's a good and private man. He hasn't mentioned my falling-out with the University administration or how long I've been looking for another position. I had to sell my car and house, making sure I have the money to fly to digs and locations. Oh, and pay for this." He gestured at the somewhat run-down office and the basket of blankets on one side of the futon, topped by a rumpled pillow. "The price I pay for being a 'crackpot'." "I'm not sure I follow." Deacon opened a small first-aid kit, removed a penlight, and used it to study Amanda's eyes. "When did the voices begin?" Amanda blinked. "How did you-" "I've seen this before. A former colleague of mine came across an artifact that he claims filled his head with voices. He had nosebleeds and migraines for two weeks solid before he eventually wandered, delirious and screaming, into traffic. City bus hit him. There wasn't much left." Amanda shivered. "That's terrible. What was the artifact?" "It was part of an ancient cult." Deacon stood and walked to step behind a privacy screen set up in a corner of the office near the wardrobe. "They believed that god-like beings were angry with the course of human history and the species' impact on the planet, and were praying for what they describe as 'a great cleansing' to wipe out humanity and let the planet heal itself." "Almost every culture has an end-of-the-world scenario." Amanda felt her mind returning to normal. "We've had artifacts from those sorts of things before. This is the first time I've had this sort of reaction to such a thing. I mean... voices in my head..." "It's disconcerting. I know. I've been researching the cult for years." Deacon reappeared in a rumpled button-down shirt, jeans with a hole at his right knee, and a leather jacket he was shrugging into, an item with quite a few zippered and snap-closure pockets. "Like I said - 'crackpot' in the eyes of the university administration." He handed her a handkerchief. "For your nose." "Thank you." She dabbed at her nostrils. They were clear, for now. "You say your friend..." He held up his hands. "Don't panic. The tea I blended works as a stopgap, but we need to deal with the source. We need to destroy the artifact, whatever it is." "How? This all started when I touched the package. Just the package." She looked up at him. "How do we do this?" Deacon smiled, and offered her his hand. "Trust me." They walked back to the museum. Along the way, Amanda felt the voice beginning to get stronger. She told Deacon about what it was saying, how it sounded, and the nature of the pain it caused. The older man nodded as they walked, holding the door open for her and following her through the building back into the offices. To Amanda, the inner office she shared with Gibbons seemed darker. The light on her desk was a single, weak source of resistance to the encroaching gloom. "What do we do now?" She looked to Deacon in order to get her answer, but she saw the man was pulling on a pair of white gloves, with circles and odd symbols embroidered into their backs. He reached into another pocket and handed her a small, crystal vial. "Repeat after me." Deacon then said a short phrase in a language Amanda didn't recognize, but she sounded out the words as best as she was able. "Good." He pulled the stopper from the vial and handed it to her "Drip some of the tonic onto my gloves, repeating the phrase as you do it." Amanda didn't say or do anything for moment, then obeyed. Deacon held out his hands, palms up first, then turning them over and holding them under the drops before he nodded. "Thank you. How do you feel?" "My head hurts. It still is telling me to open it." Deacon knelt by the desk, drawing a circle with a piece of chalk. He gestured for Amanda to approach. "I want you to put your hands near the circle. Please think about the world you know. Family, friends, good things, bad things. The entirety of the human experience. Fix the image of humanity in your mind. Do NOT break the circle. This is not going to be pleasant." Amanda nodded, sitting cross-legged near the chalk and leaning out to lay her hands near it. A low moan began in her mind, and she ground her teeth together, careful not to move. Deacon reached to the desk, pulling the string loose and unwrapping the brown paper. He took a sharp breath, and gently opened the wooden box. The moan became a howl, and Amanda winced. "What are you thinking about, Amanda?" "Picnics with my family. A really nice date I had with James." She winced again. "Breaking up with James. Spending New Years' alone. Spending New Years' in the club..." "Keep going." Deacon removed the artifact. It was a small stone statue. Amanda couldn't tell if it was a bust or a full figure, but it was a mass of appendages that were not remotely human, eyes and beaks in odd places. The whole thing turned Amanda's stomach. But she kept speaking as things came into her mind. "Getting sideswiped by a bike messenger. Walking with people to protest police corruption after Ferguson. Dropping that vase that I had just dated back to the 3rd century..." Deacon placed the statue in the middle of the circle. Immediately, the shadows seemed to deepen even further around Amanda. She shrieked, and for a moment, her mind went entirely blank, save for a oily, ineffable feeling of what could only be described as a cold, unfeeling, empty void... "Don't stop!" Deacon's voice felt like a whipcrack. She repeated herself, her voice rising, adding memories from her childhood and things she hoped for, opening her eyes to see Deacon raising a claw hammer. The statue had begun to glow, emitting seething violet light from somewhere within it. Her eyes widened but, in spite of her fear, did not stop talking. The archaeologist brought the hammer down hard on the statue. It shattered into stone shards that flew throughout the office, sizzling and spitting as they dissolved. The shadow of the creature rose over the humans, violet points of light reaching for Amanda. Deacon quickly pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with a design similar to those on the back of his gloves. After applying some tonic, he dropped it into the circle on top of something Amanda couldn't see. The shadows and noise immediately ceased. Deacon knelt, gathering up the cloth in his hands. "What was that?" "An idol to a being that pre-dates mankind and was worshipped by that cult I mentioned. This is a drop of its blood." "What?" Amanda blinked at Deacon as he removed his gloves, which were still around the cloth. "That thing was real?" "Not was, is. And it's looking for for a way into our world to destroy the humanity it sees as a plague." Amanda felt another chill slide through her body. "It would have used me." "Yes. But now we have its blood." She narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying 'if it bleeds, we can kill it'?" Nate Deacon shrugged. "I've seen movies before. But yes. We can, in fact, kill this thing."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

From The Vault: Why Take This Matters

From The Vault: Why Take This Matters — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm still shaking off the doldrums and getting myself back on track. While I make more steps towards that, please feel free to read over this post about one of the best initiatives I've ever had the pleasure of helping with, even as a source of moral and financial support. It's important.

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It's dangerous to go alone. Take this. Some of the earliest, most indelible memories some of my generation has when it comes to video games involve taking a sword from an old man who just spoke those fateful words. "It's dangerous to go alone." The world is going to try and kill you. Monsters prowl in the shadows, ready to destroy your body and devour your dreams. Perils you won't see coming are fully prepared to swallow you whole. You need to defend yourself. You must be prepared to combat your challenges and overcome your obstacles. "Take this." We didn't know it at the time, but this wasn't just advice that applied to the world of Hyrule. It applies to our world, too. We may not have to deal with the extant threats in many video games, but the world is still going to try and kill you, spiritually if not physically. I'm not talking about religion specifically, but rather in terms of the human spirit. The singular and the extraordinary are far, far too often pushed and held down by society at large, and it's easy to fall into a pattern of conformity and 'normal' behavior, just to get by. But not everyone can pull off acting 'normal'. For some, it's a daily challenge, and some days, it's an hourly one. I've both faced this struggle myself, and done my utmost to help others cope with it. It's easy to think, in our darkest hours, that we're facing these challenges alone. And it's dangerous to go alone. The fact is, however, that we are not. Take This is, according to their site, "a charitable organization founded to increase awareness, education and empathy for those suffering from emotional issues, their families and greater institutions with the goal to eradicate the stigma of mental illness." While not exclusively dealing with the gaming community, the founders work within that community, as journalists and organizers, and so focus a great deal of their outreach to gamers, through sharing stories via their website and holding panels at events like PAX. I'm a little lucky, when you get right down to it. I share my stories all the time. I have some skill at articulating myself and the means to do it. I let myself take the time to breathe, to contemplate, and to share. Not everybody is so lucky. Not everybody feels they have a safe place to unburden themselves of the pain and anxiety and uncertainty and loneliness they feel. And the fact is, everybody should have that. That's why Take This matters. They're just getting started, and I want to see them grow. Their first PAX Prime panel last year was a great success, as was their first ever at PAX East 2014, and they're returning to Boston next month (EDIT: it was another AMAZING panel). Their site is full of stories that have needed to be heard, they're going to be looking to grow as much as possible, and they can't do it alone. None of us should be alone in this fight. Our chances of survival are much greater if we face our challenges together. The world is a dangerous and cold place. Emotions and mental imbalance can topple even the best of ideas when the world gets involved. It's dangerous to go alone. But you don't have to be alone. Take this.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Making Words Happen

Making Words Happen — Blue Ink Alchemy

Writers are a curious breed, by and large. They can be very difficult to live with. They have a tendency to live inside their own heads. Over and above anything else, they are richly imaginative creatures that bring whole new worlds to life. To make those worlds viable and accessible for an audience, a writer must put their imagination into words and assemble those words into a coherent narrative. Believe it or not, the words are the easy part. They exist in the writer's brain like precious metal in the veins of a mine's rock. They're already there. They just have to get from the veins to the page. This requires more than imagination. Making words happen requires perseverance. Crafting new stories and populating them with vibrant, believable characters is not a once-and-done sort of thing, except in the case of flash fiction. To hammer out a long narrative that will stick with audiences and have them coming back for more, a writer has to commit time, focus, and energy to the project every day, at least in some measure. Every word counts, and every letter matters. Keep at it, writers. Don't give up. Making words happen is what we do, and it's something we need to do. Our stories are worth completion, because the world needs more stories that come from unique perspectives and bring entertainment and inspiration into the lives of others. Your stories are worth telling. Take the time and energy to tell them.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Keeping It Real

Keeping It Real — Blue Ink Alchemy

Writers: remember that you are writing about people. Unless you are telling your story from the perspective of an entirely alien race (and good on you for taking on that challenge), you will be portraying events for your audience from the perspective of human beings. More often than not, even animal stories have human points of view: anthropomorphous protagonists are nothing new, from Orwell's Animal Farm to The Adventures of Milo and Otis. And with that perspective comes the need for thought processes and authentic emotion. I know there is a lot of entertainment out there that suggests, through one way or another, that the audience turn off their brains. And in some instances, this is fine. When you're playing DOOM, you're not necessarily contemplating the greater ramifications of blasting demons in the face with a shotgun. But when the entertainment has human beings, usually capable of higher thought processes, doing things that make no logical sense or have little tangible connection to one another, it can be difficult not to scratch your head in bewilderment. A great number of movies do this: they pace their action in such a way and frame it with such bombast that coherent thought gets overshadowed or lost altogether. For example, compare Star Trek Into Darkness with Guardians of the Galaxy. Both are relatively light, free-flowing sci-fi action-adventures. Putting aside that the former is a far departure from its original source material, it is serviceable in what it does, and as I said in my review, does enough things right that it rises above the usual level of shallow tripe on which a great deal of in-name-only franchise movies can operate. However, it also sees characters with familiar names acting in ways that defy logical thought and reasoning. Meanwhile, in the latter film, characters operate in consistent ways, following their goals and motivations in what, to them, is a logical chain of reasoning. Their reactions and plans may seem unreasonable to others, but to them, it makes perfect sense. This is because the writers took the time to see things from those perspectives and conveyed their characters in ways that made us believe in them. It can be difficult, at times, to believe that Chris Pine is actually Captain Kirk; it is never a doubt that Chris Pratt is Peter Quill. Oh, excuse me, "Star-Lord". The emotional aspect, too, is something that sets Guardians of the Galaxy apart, in that the writing and acting work together so that we feel, rather than are told, what the characters are feeling. Good writing tends to be subtle in that way. Another potential example comes from one of the biggest buzz-worthy events of recent memory. For a brief moment, we see John Boyega in the teaser trailer for Star Wars: The Force Awakens. He is, in fact, the first human we see, and in the moment we see his face, there's already a lot going on. And I'm not just talking about a new black character in Star Wars (Shock! Alarm! Nerdrage!) or a black stormtrooper (or just a protagonist in stormtrooper armor like his possible spiritual ancestors Luke Skywalker and Han Solo - again, Shock! Alarm! Nerdrage!) being on screen. I'm talking about his face, his manner, the mood of the shot. Say what you like about JJ Abrams (goodness knows, I have), he has always drawn out great performances from his actors. And in this shot, it looks to me like he's bringing his A game to Star Wars. For this tiny sliver of time, John gives us a wealth of emotions just from his look and movements. He's shocked. He's desperate. He's scared. He's covered in sweat, moves with quick, furtive motions, and doesn't stay in one place very long. As both a moment from the film and an invitation for the audience to become intrigued, it works very well. What I'm driving at is that, even in science fiction and fantasy, the onus falls on the writers to keep the emotions and motivations real. Let your characters think rationally, provided they aren't mad for one reason or another. And even then, spend some time in their shoes. Get to know what makes them tick, what makes sense from their perspective, and how they justify their actions. Villains are rarely, if ever, villainous for the sake of villainy. Hell, even the Red Skull in Captain America: The First Avenger had something to prove, even if he went about it in a villainous way and something was said about his true villainy coming out through one thing or another. Giving all of your characters the time and forethought required to have them convey true processes of thought and genuine moments of emotion is essential to writing a story that people will enjoy, and want to read more about. And if you want to be a successful writer, you're going to want to have your readers coming back for more.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

An Examination of Extremism

An Examination of Extremism — Blue Ink Alchemy

We live in an increasingly interconnected world. It is not difficult to access information that can inform you of all sorts of points of view. It does, however, take time. And time is a precious thing when events are unfolding regarding a controversy or an otherwise unfortunate event. Snap judgements and knee-jerk reactions make for more inflammatory headlines - and more exciting reading. The problem is that this leads to extremist thinking. Be a person firmly entrenched in one side of an issue, or the other, such entrenchment leads to antagonistic stances. Now, it's easy to cast people who are using violence, intimidation, or group-based fear tactics as nothing but villainous thugs, and such methods of persuasion are always unnecessary, and any rational human being would agree to that. That is an easy admission to make, given the circumstances, and a lot of extremists have played lip service to that idea, but it is a lot more difficult to admit that extremism, even in opposition to terror, is wrong. I've commented on the nature of polities before. It is actually somewhat rare for an entire polity to be monolithic in its composition. For the most part, people who have a similar viewpoint on an issue can and do vary wildly in how to approach that viewpoint and the best way to express it. On top of that, there are those who take up the banner of the polity in question but are in reality using it for entirely different goals than the polity's leaders or expressed core values. Suffice it to say that once a movement begins, without strong leadership and defined goals, things can get very confused very quickly. This is to be expected. We are, after all, talking about people. People have hopes and dreams. They have fears and desires. They need food and water. They crave sex and sweets. They have passions they long to share, and embarrassing moments they long to forget. They'll laugh and cry. They'll argue and concede. They will get sick, bleed, grow old, and eventually die. And so will you. I have a difficult time understanding how people can become involved with extremist points of view. Be it one extreme of a debate or the other, I find it a very bad idea to assume that everyone on the other side of the debate is either an absolutely deplorable creature or a total ignoramus. I find myself questioning why people, living breathing human beings with at least a measure of literacy and self-awareness, put themselves in positions that are entirely intractable. The best answer I can come up with - and I have no idea if this is the most accurate one or not - is laziness. They are just too lazy to imagine the other complexly. And I can understand that - I've withdrawn from arguments, myself, too exhausted or frustrated or confused to invest the time and energy to follow a logical line of thought. I think it happens to the best of us. If I were able to give advice to people involved in a debate that I knew would be taken seriously and to heart, it would be this: Stop. Breathe. Think. You can't hear what the other person is saying if you keep talking. Taking a deep breath clears your head and opens your ears, allowing you the chance to process what you're hearing. And once you process the words, you can try to discern meaning, and find ways to bridge the gap towards understanding. Even if you still disagree with what's being said, you may have a better chance to find the means to express your disagreement without attacking the person with whom you disagree. Because that way lies ire, anger, bile, hatred, and even threats. Too many people take the lazy shortcut to that end step. Don't do that. The shortcuts lead nowhere constructive. To make the world a better place, to ensure change that matters, we have to take the long way. The higher road. And when you take those steps, it's important to take your time. Stop. Breathe. Think. Not only will you not come across as a lazy extremist douchebag, you just might understand another person's point of view a bit more completely. And if more of us can do that, the world will be a better place for everyone - every human being - to live.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Casablanca

Movie Review: Casablanca — Blue Ink Alchemy

There are some iconic scenes in fiction, and a lot of them happen in watering holes and cosmopolitan places where people gather. The Mos Eisley cantina in Star Wars, Knowhere of Guardians of the Galaxy, The Prancing Pony in Bree from Lord of the Rings... the list is extremely long. When it comes to films, there are few taverns that have had quite as much influence on the tone, composition, and nature of goings-on within such places as Rick's Cafe Americain. After all, everybody comes to Rick's. That is the name of the play upon which the unquestionably classic film, Casablanca, is based. The year is 1941, and it is early December. The city of Casablanca is relatively neutral territory, even if it is controlled by Vichy France and the oversight of the German Reich. It is a hotbed of clandestine activity, from smuggling to gambling and even the sale of exit visas, which desperate refugees require to flee Europe for the promise of freedom and opportunity in America. Many of these sales happen at Rick's, where the proprietor is surprisingly neutral and reserved, conveying only quiet bitterness and healthy scepticism towards both starry-eyed freedom-fighters and ironclad fascists. All of that changes, however, when the one woman who has ever truly captured Rick's affections walks into his cafe, asking the piano player to play the one song Rick insists he never plays, and changes things in Casablanca forever. It is pretty clear that Casablanca is adapted from a stage play. The settings, dialog, and even the lighting of the scenes could easily be recreated by a savvy director and a good stage crew. In the 1940s, many films were produced in this way, opting for a faster route from script to screen rather than saddling the production with glitz and glamour. In fact, when it was released, a lot of people didn't expect anything groundbreaking from Casablanca; it was just another of the hundreds of films being produced by the studios. But even as it was being made, those directly involved with its creation knew that it was something special.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..." A big reason for this is the talented, international cast. Only Humphrey Bogart (Rick), Dooley Wilson (Sam), and a minor role or two were American actors. The woman in question, Ilsa Lund, was played by luminous Norwegian actress Ingrid Bergman. Paul Henreid, Ilsa's husband and a reknown freedom fighter named Victor Lazlo, was Austrian. Many actual refugees played roles of all types in the film, including the main antagonist, Major Strausser, who was portrayed by Conrad Veidt, a German who had himself fled from the Nazis. This gives the entire production of Casablanca a palpable sense of authenticity and earnestness. In one of its most famous scenes, Lazlo leads the people in Rick's in a rendition of "La Marseilles", and during the scene, many of the actors burst into tears on set. The nature of this cast is one of the things that makes Casablanca singularly special. There's also the fact that every single leading role is brilliantly executed. Bogart hadn't done any romantic work before Casablanca, but watching Rick's carefully crafted demeanor crack under the pressure of Ilsa's presence is clear evidence of the actor's talent. Bergman smolders, and the two have electric chemistry. Just as good is the interplay between Bogart and the inimitable Claude Rains, who plays Casablanca's prefect of police Louis Renault with equal parts legitimate sleaze and good-natured humor. Henreid is compelling as a man who has witnessed horrid injustice first-hand and will stop at nothing to combat it, and Veidt gives Strausser real menace barely contained by the sort of impersonal, surface-level diplomacy that villains use just long enough to get what they want. Even smaller roles have real talent and nuance behind them, from Wilson's unflappable and loyal Sam to Sydney Greenstreet's unabashedly profit-minded underworld magnate. The performances in Casablanca are more than enough to keep an audience riveted to the screen, far moreso than any amount of modern special effects or computer-generated gimmickery.
The 40s were a great time for hats. Full of classic quotes, unforgettable scenes, scintillating performances, and a true time-capsule of the atmosphere of its day, Casablanca has a lot to offer an audience even in the 21st century. What was once anti-Nazi propoganda now plays as dramatic historical fiction, as uniformed German officers never occupied Morocco and the MacGuffin of the film, the "letters of transit", never existed. Still, as a setting for intrigue, drama, romance, and suspense, Casablanca and Rick's are the foundation upon which many future tales were built. It is film noir at its finest, a shining example of a tightly-produced character-driven story, and one of the best films ever made.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Magnum Damage

Flash Fiction: Magnum Damage — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Alistair Cunningham For the Terribleminds challenge, Somethingpunk. I think this qualifies more as laserpunk than cyberpunk, but you be the judge.

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Jack Magnum was never more at home than he was on the ground, a warm beamer in his hand, goons on his tail. The incandescent neon of the street illumination and the various store signs were a counterpoint to the lances of hard light that sliced through the night. This had been a nice neighborhood once. Before Manhattan had been co-opted by the Cyber-Mafia, it had been making a comeback from the various financial failures of the early 21st century. That was before America got carved up and sold like so much cake at a desperate bake sale. But Jack Magnum hadn't given up on America. "Jack! Two more on your nine-o'-clock!" "I know." The AI in Jack's head, which called herself Artemis, was helpful in some situations and irritating in others. His cyber-enhanced senses and on-board radar could communicate with him at the speed of thought. There was no need for Artemis to engage his inner ear speaker to give him information he already knew. Still, there was a hard barrier between them when he was conscious, so he understood her desire to keep him safe. After all, if his body failed, she'd cease to exist. He swung his .75 caliber heater in the direction and squeezed off two rounds. The projector snapped off two flashes of steel-melting light, and one assailant found his faceplate burned off, exposed circuitry sizzling and its CPU melting down its chin and faux leather jacket. The Cyber-Mafia liked to dress its goons up like bikers, so the human populace didn't blatantly see the mostly robotic terrors that kept them in line and fed the syndicate its cash and bodies to maintain business with the struggling and laughable US government. "That's three total still on our tail, Jack. What's the plan?" "There's a hoverbike 100 meters ahead. Can you hack it?" "I'm on it." The wireless transmitter in Jack's skull hummed as Artemis tried to access the hoverbike's security and key it to Jack's DNA. Jack fired behind him, and heard a surprised, robotic squawk as another foot soldier got blasted. Two to go. If he couldn't blast them, he could outrun them, and keep the information packet in his hard drive out of Cyber-Mafia hands. "It's ready, Jack!" "Thanks, babe." He turned and sprinted backwards, taking his gun in both hands, firing a shot that melted the gun-arm off of one of his pursuers. The other opened fire, chewing up pavement just behind Jack. He had to turn quickly and jump, lest the half-molten pavement slow him down. The neon of the airbike snapped on, and Jack leapt onto it. He holstered his heater and revved the drive, getting the fans up to speed, and kicked hard off the ground. Standard airbikes didn't have much in the way of altitude, but the hop threw off the aim of his pursuers. He whipped around the corner and tapped the holo-projector in his right cybernetic eye to call up his GPS plotter. "They know your face, Jack. It's going to be hard to get off of Manhattan." "The CIA didn't hire me because this would be easy, Artemis. Now find me a chopper or a boat." "I'm on it. I'm just saying, they're going to shut down the island rather than let you off." "I don't get what the big deal is." Jack swerved around a truck, which honked at him on general principle. "All I have is the shipping manifests for the Cyber-Mafia's airplanes and boats for the next six months, and a detailed list of every government document to which they have access." "Which means they can no longer blackmail the government into holding Manhattan, I know. It's what they wanted you to get." Jack's map was replaced by a holo-representation of Artemis. He knew it was a replication of one of her designers, a petite young woman with bangs, short hair in the back, and a form-fitting suit. "But Jack, the Cyber-Mafia's been in control of the island for almost a decade. They have a private army. Hell, for all we know they have an air force by this point. How do you plan on getting around them?" "If I can't, I'll just go through 'em. Just like in Casablanca." Artemis rolled her eyes. "Jack, after Casablanca, your organics were barely alive and your system was shot to pieces. You had to crawl onto the rescue boat and it nearly sank!" "We'll be okay, Art. Trust me." She sighed. "I hope you're right." She brought his GPS back up and plotted a course through the streets to a dock. Smiling, Jack revved the engine and made a sharp turn. Minutes later, he brought the bike to a halt near the dock. He blasted the lock off of the gate with his heater, and made his way down to the boats. Artemis had picked out a small speedboat, rigged up for water skiing. It was a derelict, a relic from before the Cyber-Mafia. Artemis walked him through getting the engine running and disengaging the rig that could slow them down. When he looked up, he saw spotlights in the distance. "Artemis, tell me those are CIA choppers on the other side of the sea wall." "Negative. Cyber-Mafia attack choppers on an intercept course. Three of them so far." "Well, shit." Jack pulled out his heater and checked the charge. 50%. Probably enough to take down one chopper with a well-placed full-power shot. He looked down at the boat. "Artemis, I need to know how to drive this thing like a pro." "Jack..." "Look, we're the only hope the country has of getting back to what it was. It has to start with us. We have to at least try. Agreed?" "You mess up, you're going to get us both killed." There was a pause. Then, suddenly, a rush of information, part head-swimming kiss from a beautiful woman, part searing shock of straight whiskey. "So don't." Jack Magnum smiled. "Trust me, darlin'. Just hang on. It'll be fun!"

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Closed Casket

Flash Fiction: Closed Casket — Blue Ink Alchemy

Chuck challenged us to use one of these stock photos that BuzzFeed claims nobody could ever use. I picked #4, and pulled this out of my brain. Enjoy!

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"I really appreciate you doing this, padre." Father Pryce still looked a bit skeptical. He shook the offered hand, for certain, and the money Timothy had given him was a welcome contribution to the church. Still, it was something Pryce had never done before. Tim handed the priest a case containing a syringe, shrugging out of his coat once Pryce took it. As the priest lifted the device, the man in the casket rolled up his left sleeve and turned his arm over. Shaking his head, Pryce watched as Timothy prodded the inner surface of his arm, up by his elbow, and his finger stopped on a prominent vein. "You know I'm not a doctor or a nurse, Timothy." "I've had training, and I can walk you through it. Just place the tip of the needle just under my finger." Pryce obeyed. "Like this?" Timothy nodded. "Good. Now, tell me there will be a slight pinch, and gently apply pressure with the needle, without pressing the plunger." "Um. There will be a slight pinch." Timothy chuckled. "Great bedside manner, Father." He didn't wince when the needle pierced his skin, but nodded after a moment. "Okay. It's in. Push the plunger." The translucent, green fluid disappeared down the needle as Pryce pressed the plunger. Once it was gone, Timothy talked him through removing the needle and applying a bandage. He rolled his sleeve back down and put his jacket back on. He relaxed, laying back in the casket, his eyelids already heavy. Pryce gently closed the casket, turned to his pulpit, and went over his notes and words. Family walked in, paying the respects. Friends kept towards the back. Finally, three men entered. Two were very tall and broad, not removing their sunglasses as they flanked the shorter, older man in the middle. The old man smiled beatifically at Father Pryce. "I understand that the deceased met with a very violent end," the newcomer said. "That's right," Father Pryce replied. "May I see him?" The priest blinked. "I beg your pardon?" "Got a hearin' problem, padre?" This came from one of the older man's... well, "goons" was the word that came to Father Pryce's mind. "Do you know who this is?" The other one took a step towards him. The old man held up his hand. "I'm Antonio Firenze. This man was one of my employees. He also was endebted to me. I have encountered situations where people in Timothy's position have done elaborate things to avoid my ire. I can make a significant donation to your church if you just open the casket for a moment. I would rather not make things uncomfortable on the off chance you make the other choice." Father Pryce swallowed. He did, indeed, know who Antonio Firenze happened to be. He looked out over the family and friends in the pews, mostly talking to one another and listening to the organist, then turned towards the casket, blocking the view from the pews to the sanctuary. He gently lifted the lid of the casket, turning slightly to let Antonio approach. "Ah. There you are, Timmy." Timothy was completely still, and unnaturally pale. There was an odd, jagged wound on his forehead, over his left eye, stitched shut with what looked to be a fair degree of difficulty. Father Pryce swallowed. "The undertaker tried to make him presentable. When I showed his mother, she asked for a closed casket." "Hmm. I can see why." Antonio leaned down and pushed on Timothy's shoulder. When there was no response, he did it again. Finally, after a moment, he reached back and slapped Timothy across the face. Timothy didn't move, but revealed some blood and gore spattered on the pillow holding his head. The goons stepped back. "So. He does seem dead." Pryce lowered the lid as Antonio reached into his suit coat for his handkerchief and wiped his hands. "I apologize, Father. Thank you for indulging me." The men retreated from the altar, and Father Pryce got the service going in short order after that. The pallbearers took the casket out of the church and into the hearse. The procession to the graveyard was slow, often interrupted by cross traffic, and it was late afternoon by the time Father Pryce supervised the lowering of the casket into Timothy's grave, with Antonio Firenze and his goons looking on. Following the service, Pryce retired to his rooms in the rectory. It was the dead of night, half past midnight, when he took Timothy's cellular phone out of his desk and used an application to summon a car. He wasn't entirely sure how it worked, only that there would be no record of his phone or the land line from the rectory calling a taxi service. From the back of the car, Pryce kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed before the car left him at the gate. The grave was far back from the road, and the earth was fresh. Pryce left the car, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and picked up one of the shovels the groundskeeper had left behind. It was long, grueling work, and he still was on the lookout for anyone approaching. But, knowing what was at stake, he persevered, until his shovel hit wood. He placed the shove out of the grave and opened it. Timothy removed his oxygen mask and smiled, taking the hand offered to help him out of the casket. He removed the makeup from his head and tossed it into the casket. Pryce did the same with Timothy's phone. Together, they re-filled the grave. "Will you be all right?" Timothy walked with Pryce towards the gate. "Yeah. I have a locker at the train station with a change of clothes, some cash, and documentation. The Feds will be contacted once I'm safely away. What about you?" Pryce shrugged. "Public transit. I don't mind riding the bus home." They shook hands, and Timothy walked away into the night.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Masks Off

Masks Off — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've had kind of a shitty week. I haven't heard from recruiters. Barely a word from the dayjob leads I'm pursuing on my own. I've had difficulties in maintaining focus, getting words out, not being pulled into discussions on the Internet. Hell, I finally went to bed at a reasonable hour last night, and I still didn't rise again until most of the morning was gone. I'm pissed at myself, which is kind of dumb, since I have no conscious control over whatever the chemicals in my brain are doing on a day to day basis. I'm not even on any drugs. Nothing fun, at least. It's all vitamins and mood stabilizers and cholesterol regulators, and even those are starting to run dry. (The last two, at least. I've got vita-gummies for weeks.) The thing is, waking up and making coffee and sitting here, a thought occurred to me. I could do an extensive write-up on the experience I had yesterday with some GG folks who were actually nice to me, and answered my questions logically, and the really terrible knot in my stomach that I got afterwards. But I'm not going to. For one very simple reason. I'm not getting paid for it. I'm going to write the article. I'm going to give my observations on the phenomenon, how it's grown, what it does - really does, in spite of what happened yesterday - and what it could mean for the future of gaming culture. But I won't be putting it here. It's going to get pitched. I'm going to write about the appeal of old games and why GoG announcements make me giddy. I'm going to write about the reasons why I'm finding myself playing Old Republic so much lately. I'm going to write articles from the perspective of a cantankerous old bat of a gamer who wants the Candy Crush kids off of his goddamn lawn and the Call of Duty fuckwits to stop egging his house. The only way to write is to write, and I think I've been afraid to do that. I look in the mirror and I see something that scares me. I see someone tired. I see someone bruised and battered. I see someone who doesn't believe he's good enough to make it on his own, and I mean entirely on his own, no corporate structure or steady paycheck to back him up. The mask has worked so well. The smiling mask. The one I would put on every morning before the commute to the office. I think I've been trying it on again, and the damn thing is itchy and uncomfortable and sticking to my skin and I'm sick of it. I mean, I can be that guy, but I don't necessarily want to be. Yes, I know. Beggars can't be choosers. Any port in a storm. A job is a job is a job, and slinging burgers at McPuke's or presenting clothes to women who feel judged and uncomfortable just walking through the goddamn door at the Gap is better than no income whatsoever. I'm not an idiot. But I'm also sick and tired of pretending. I'm not a hateful person by nature. I'm an optimist. I would like to believe in the better aspects of humanity, that individuals can rise above the miasma of self-centeredness and stupidity that seems to dominate our species. In my mind, intelligent folks who can conceptualize the circumstances of others and imagine those concepts in a complex manner can work together to make the world a better place. I've seen it happen. Unfortunately, I don't see it happening often enough. I see people taking advantage of others. I see victims who carry senses of shame and regret a hundred times bigger than their cardboard signs, victims of a system that's fucked them over or choices they would undo if someone just gave them a chance (but nobody does). I see fat cats getting fatter while they people they claim to care about and protect suffer and scream and plead and die in obscurity, their supplications drowned out by lobbyist money and the hum of narcotics. I see societies and individuals railing against change because it means that you don't get to have all of the best toys to yourself anymore. I hate that bullshit. I hate ignorance. I hate misogyny. I hate rampant materialism. I hate reckless misinformation. I hate the corruption of young people. I hate corporate globalization and I hate upper-crust greed and I hate people who lack empathy or compassion and I fucking hate making people feel worthless because they don't fit your advertising image and I fucking HATE people who make liberal use of slurs like "faggot" or "bitch" or "slut" or specific racial terms I won't repeat, THOSE ARE HUMAN BEINGS YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT YOU IGNORANT ASSHOLE. This is me with my mask off. Boo. I'm a role-player. I write fiction. I pretend as a matter of course. And I'm pretty good at it. But you can only lie to yourself for so long before it starts to drive you insane. I'm not giving up on the job search, but I can't maintain this level of dishonesty with myself and people who would choose to trust me with what is, to them, important work. I've tried it before and I've always let people down. The more I push myself to try and care, to adopt that mask, the more something inside of me rails against it and along the way, something breaks. I really need to stop getting into that cycle because it never ends well. Hence the brutal honesty. I'm going to start coming at things differently. It's never too late to change things. It hasn't been easy so far, and the practical and static side of me has been fighting me along the way because, like I said, change is frightening. Lying to someone to land a cushy corporate gig is easier than putting myself out on the edge of everything, tossing out pitches on the end of lifelines and hoping someone grabs one and gives me just enough positive momentum back from the void so I can finally say, without a trace of irony or caveat, that I am a goddamn journalist. If I can do that, I can write more and write even better, because I won't be held back by this endless sense of guilt that plagues me because I might be letting down my parents since I'm not holding down a steady job. If I can do that, I might be able to forgive myself for wasting a good portion of my adult life chasing cubicles instead of opportunities for a decent byline. If I can do that, then I can finally set this stupid mask on fire, and never look back. That's the plan, and I'm fucking sticking to it. If you believe in higher powers, pray for me. If you believe in luck, wish me that. Otherwise, just keep reading. A mind needs words like a sword needs a whetstone, and my words are worthless without your eyeballs.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Masks Off

Masks Off — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've had kind of a shitty week. I haven't heard from recruiters. Barely a word from the dayjob leads I'm pursuing on my own. I've had difficulties in maintaining focus, getting words out, not being pulled into discussions on the Internet. Hell, I finally went to bed at a reasonable hour last night, and I still didn't rise again until most of the morning was gone. I'm pissed at myself, which is kind of dumb, since I have no conscious control over whatever the chemicals in my brain are doing on a day to day basis. I'm not even on any drugs. Nothing fun, at least. It's all vitamins and mood stabilizers and cholesterol regulators, and even those are starting to run dry. (The last two, at least. I've got vita-gummies for weeks.) The thing is, waking up and making coffee and sitting here, a thought occurred to me. I could do an extensive write-up on the experience I had yesterday with some GG folks who were actually nice to me, and answered my questions logically, and the really terrible knot in my stomach that I got afterwards. But I'm not going to. For one very simple reason. I'm not getting paid for it. I'm going to write the article. I'm going to give my observations on the phenomenon, how it's grown, what it does - really does, in spite of what happened yesterday - and what it could mean for the future of gaming culture. But I won't be putting it here. It's going to get pitched. I'm going to write about the appeal of old games and why GoG announcements make me giddy. I'm going to write about the reasons why I'm finding myself playing Old Republic so much lately. I'm going to write articles from the perspective of a cantankerous old bat of a gamer who wants the Candy Crush kids off of his goddamn lawn and the Call of Duty fuckwits to stop egging his house. The only way to write is to write, and I think I've been afraid to do that. I look in the mirror and I see something that scares me. I see someone tired. I see someone bruised and battered. I see someone who doesn't believe he's good enough to make it on his own, and I mean entirely on his own, no corporate structure or steady paycheck to back him up. The mask has worked so well. The smiling mask. The one I would put on every morning before the commute to the office. I think I've been trying it on again, and the damn thing is itchy and uncomfortable and sticking to my skin and I'm sick of it. I mean, I can be that guy, but I don't necessarily want to be. Yes, I know. Beggars can't be choosers. Any port in a storm. A job is a job is a job, and slinging burgers at McPuke's or presenting clothes to women who feel judged and uncomfortable just walking through the goddamn door at the Gap is better than no income whatsoever. I'm not an idiot. But I'm also sick and tired of pretending. I'm not a hateful person by nature. I'm an optimist. I would like to believe in the better aspects of humanity, that individuals can rise above the miasma of self-centeredness and stupidity that seems to dominate our species. In my mind, intelligent folks who can conceptualize the circumstances of others and imagine those concepts in a complex manner can work together to make the world a better place. I've seen it happen. Unfortunately, I don't see it happening often enough. I see people taking advantage of others. I see victims who carry senses of shame and regret a hundred times bigger than their cardboard signs, victims of a system that's fucked them over or choices they would undo if someone just gave them a chance (but nobody does). I see fat cats getting fatter while they people they claim to care about and protect suffer and scream and plead and die in obscurity, their supplications drowned out by lobbyist money and the hum of narcotics. I see societies and individuals railing against change because it means that you don't get to have all of the best toys to yourself anymore. I hate that bullshit. I hate ignorance. I hate misogyny. I hate rampant materialism. I hate reckless misinformation. I hate the corruption of young people. I hate corporate globalization and I hate upper-crust greed and I hate people who lack empathy or compassion and I fucking hate making people feel worthless because they don't fit your advertising image and I fucking HATE people who make liberal use of slurs like "faggot" or "bitch" or "slut" or specific racial terms I won't repeat, THOSE ARE HUMAN BEINGS YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT YOU IGNORANT ASSHOLE. This is me with my mask off. Boo. I'm a role-player. I write fiction. I pretend as a matter of course. And I'm pretty good at it. But you can only lie to yourself for so long before it starts to drive you insane. I'm not giving up on the job search, but I can't maintain this level of dishonesty with myself and people who would choose to trust me with what is, to them, important work. I've tried it before and I've always let people down. The more I push myself to try and care, to adopt that mask, the more something inside of me rails against it and along the way, something breaks. I really need to stop getting into that cycle because it never ends well. Hence the brutal honesty. I'm going to start coming at things differently. It's never too late to change things. It hasn't been easy so far, and the practical and static side of me has been fighting me along the way because, like I said, change is frightening. Lying to someone to land a cushy corporate gig is easier than putting myself out on the edge of everything, tossing out pitches on the end of lifelines and hoping someone grabs one and gives me just enough positive momentum back from the void so I can finally say, without a trace of irony or caveat, that I am a goddamn journalist. If I can do that, I can write more and write even better, because I won't be held back by this endless sense of guilt that plagues me because I might be letting down my parents since I'm not holding down a steady job. If I can do that, I might be able to forgive myself for wasting a good portion of my adult life chasing cubicles instead of opportunities for a decent byline. If I can do that, then I can finally set this stupid mask on fire, and never look back. That's the plan, and I'm fucking sticking to it. If you believe in higher powers, pray for me. If you believe in luck, wish me that. Otherwise, just keep reading. A mind needs words like a sword needs a whetstone, and my words are worthless without your eyeballs.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Interstellar

Movie Review: Interstellar — Blue Ink Alchemy

There is a sense of awe and wonder that comes over a lot of people when they behold images from deep space. Astronomers and physicists have long theorized about what awaits us in the void: new habitable worlds, wormholes, distortions of time, and so on. When filmmakers turn their eyes to this material, to what the future might actually hold, their visions take the form of films like 2001:A Space Odyssey and Moon, exploring not only science, but human nature and evolution. Now, Christopher Nolan has taken an exploratory flight into this rich and textured material with Interstellar. Environmental damage has lead mankind to the point that food is becoming scarce and the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere is depleting at an alarming rate. In survival mode, most humans have turned inward, eschewing science and engineering for farming. One obstinate man, test-pilot-turned-farmer Cooper, struggles to both make a living for his family and teach his daughter, Murphy, the truth. A phenomenon in Murphy's room points Cooper in the direction of a hidden silo, where the remains of NASA have undertaken a daring, last-ditch effort to save humanity by relocating it to another world. The task of finding that world falls to Cooper and NASA's scientists, but the means of getting to our potential new home will mean that he may not return until Murphy is much older... if she's alive at all. Christopher Nolan, as a filmmaker, has a proven record for the correct means to frame and present a shot. The depictions of cosmic phenomena in Interstellar are clear, intriguing, and at times, breathtaking. Nolan has also proven that his films ply towards fidelity for the real and the scientifically possible. One of the hallmarks of his Dark Knight trilogy, for better or for worse, places the world, villains, and gadgetry of Batman squarely in the realm of the feasible. Interstellar's physics and science, while at least partially theoretical, are presented with as much fact and fidelity as possible. Between these two aspects, Interstellar has elements that could have lead it to be this generation's 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Believe it or not, folks, space has three dimensions! Maybe more! However, Christopher Nolan struggles with one of the most vital aspects of effective filmmaking: the human factor. The moments of awe-inspiring visuals, impressive and breathtaking all on their own, are often interrupted with a scientific explanation or an oppressive orchestral sting from Hans Zimmer's bombastic, grandiose score. A great deal of this film's significant run-time is occupied with in-depth scientific explanations of this or that portion of the goings-on, and while the film never makes the mistake of talking down to its audience, it does seem to have trouble properly conveying human emotion in the same way it does theoretical extra-dimensional concepts. This is a stumbling block Nolan has run into before, and he's still not quite at a level of showing humans being human as, say Steven Speilberg, who was originally slated to direct Interstellar. Thankfully, Nolan has the good sense to line up a well-rounded cast of excellent actors. It's unfortunate that he has to make them work so hard to squeeze the right amount of emotional complexity out of his surface-level script, but these are masters of their craft. Matthew McConaughey, who has been enjoying a bit of a revival in his career, is completely comfortable and incredibly adept at conveying everyman pathos that makes scenes with his daughter deeply effective and puts his point of view squarely in line with that of the audience. Anne Hathaway and Jessica Chastain do the bulk of the non-main-character heavy lifting, every bit as effective and engaging as Matthew, bridging the gap between Nolan's clinical, distant perspective on the human experience, and the realities of our everyday lives. It's hard work, and the strain shows in places, but gets the job done.
When you're not sure how to do the human thing, get the most human actors you can. This is one of them. That is actually an apt description for the experience of Interstellar as a whole. In terms of a hard sci-fi epic that pushes the boundaries of our notions of what is possible in space exploration, it gets the job done. It's very well constructed, and definitely takes the audience on a worthwhile journey, but the experience could have been tightened, the moments of wonder more awe-inspiring. There is a moment in Inception where the film stops explaining itself, and lets its story and drama unfold without further comment or pretense. That moment never comes in Interstellar. Its "twists" being either predictable or superfluous and its science suffering from nigh-constant in-universe fact-checking undercut what would have otherwise been a very effective storytelling experience. Interstellar could have been a breathtaking epic of proportions not seen since the days of Kubrick, and clearly had that ambition. The fact that it falls short of that mark just means that its flaws are all the more glaring, at least to someone like myself. It's quite good, and worth seeing on the big screen, but I sadly doubt it has the kind of staying power we've seen with some of Nolan's other work. What Interstellar does, it does well, but it could have done more.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Interstellar

Movie Review: Interstellar — Blue Ink Alchemy

There is a sense of awe and wonder that comes over a lot of people when they behold images from deep space. Astronomers and physicists have long theorized about what awaits us in the void: new habitable worlds, wormholes, distortions of time, and so on. When filmmakers turn their eyes to this material, to what the future might actually hold, their visions take the form of films like 2001:A Space Odyssey and Moon, exploring not only science, but human nature and evolution. Now, Christopher Nolan has taken an exploratory flight into this rich and textured material with Interstellar. Environmental damage has lead mankind to the point that food is becoming scarce and the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere is depleting at an alarming rate. In survival mode, most humans have turned inward, eschewing science and engineering for farming. One obstinate man, test-pilot-turned-farmer Cooper, struggles to both make a living for his family and teach his daughter, Murphy, the truth. A phenomenon in Murphy's room points Cooper in the direction of a hidden silo, where the remains of NASA have undertaken a daring, last-ditch effort to save humanity by relocating it to another world. The task of finding that world falls to Cooper and NASA's scientists, but the means of getting to our potential new home will mean that he may not return until Murphy is much older... if she's alive at all. Christopher Nolan, as a filmmaker, has a proven record for the correct means to frame and present a shot. The depictions of cosmic phenomena in Interstellar are clear, intriguing, and at times, breathtaking. Nolan has also proven that his films ply towards fidelity for the real and the scientifically possible. One of the hallmarks of his Dark Knight trilogy, for better or for worse, places the world, villains, and gadgetry of Batman squarely in the realm of the feasible. Interstellar's physics and science, while at least partially theoretical, are presented with as much fact and fidelity as possible. Between these two aspects, Interstellar has elements that could have lead it to be this generation's 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Believe it or not, folks, space has three dimensions! Maybe more! However, Christopher Nolan struggles with one of the most vital aspects of effective filmmaking: the human factor. The moments of awe-inspiring visuals, impressive and breathtaking all on their own, are often interrupted with a scientific explanation or an oppressive orchestral sing from Hans Zimmer's bombastic, grandiose score. A great deal of this film's significant run-time is occupied with in-depth scientific explanations of this or that portion of the goings-on, and while the film never makes the mistake of talking down to its audience, it does seem to have trouble properly conveying human emotion in the same way it does theoretical extra-dimensional concepts. This is a stumbling block Nolan has run into before, and he's still not quite at a level of showing humans being human as, say Steven Speilberg, who was originally slated to direct Interstellar. Thankfully, Nolan has the good sense to line up a well-rounded cast of excellent actors. It's unfortunate that he has to make them work so hard to squeeze the right amount of emotional complexity out of his surface-level script, but these are masters of their craft. Matthew McConaughey, who has been enjoying a bit of a revival in his career, is completely comfortable and incredibly adept at conveying everyman pathos that makes scenes with his daughter deeply effective and puts his point of view squarely in line with that of the audience. Anne Hathaway and Jessica Chastain do the bulk of the non-main-character heavy lifting, every bit as effective and engaging as Matthew, bridging the gap between Nolan's clinical, distant perspective on the human experience, and the realities of our everyday lives. It's hard work, and the strain shows in places, but gets the job done.
When you're not sure how to do the human thing, get the most human actors you can. This is one of them. That is actually an apt description for the experience of Interstellar as a whole. In terms of a hard sci-fi epic that pushes the boundaries of our notions of what is possible in space exploration, it gets the job done. It's very well constructed, and definitely takes the audience on a worthwhile journey, but the experience could have been tightened, the moments of wonder more awe-inspiring. There is a moment in Inception where the film stops explaining itself, and lets its story and drama unfold without further comment or pretense. That moment never comes in Interstellar. Its "twists" being either predictable or superfluous and its science suffering from nigh-constant in-universe fact-checking undercut what would have otherwise been a very effective storytelling experience. Interstellar could have been a breathtaking epic of proportions not seen since the days of Kubrick, and clearly had that ambition. The fact that it falls short of that mark just means that its flaws are all the more glaring, at least to someone like myself. It's quite good, and worth seeing on the big screen, but I sadly doubt it has the kind of staying power we've seen with some of Nolan's other work. What Interstellar does, it does well, but it could have done more.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Lest We Forget

Lest We Forget — Blue Ink Alchemy

I know this is a rehash of a previous post. I'm not altering a word in or after the block quote. I believe that these ideas are worth repeating, because we're talking about people who voluntarily walk into warzones and don't necessarily walk back out; if they do, chances are, they will never be the same. I tend to run a post that reads like this when a posting date falls on Memorial Day:

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." - George Santayana

We have the country we have today because people got pissed off enough to fight for it.

America's military is based entirely on volunteer service. People enlist for various reasons, from pure-hearted desire to serve the country to paying for a college education. And those who can already afford college can embark upon a career as an officer right from the start. The important fact, though, is that none of it is compulsory. Nobody is making these young men and women sign up for service that could ultimately mean they're going to die far from home, in some foreign land, possibly alone with no one to remember them save for a line item in a report listing them as "Missing In Action".

Other countries compel their citizens to join the military from an early age. There's no choice in the matter. Regardless of how you feel about your country, you're going to be serving in its military. As much as I admire Heinlein, the idea of compulsory military service being the only route to citizenship is a pretty scary one. But unless I'm mistaken, no country has gone completely that far yet.

Here, though, every person who puts on that uniform, male or female, young or old, gay or straight, left or right, does so for the same reason. They want to serve. They chose to answer the call to duty. Nobody made them.
And if they died on a foreign shore, they did so as the ultimate result of that choice. As lonely, painful, cold and dark as it might have been for them, it is a deep hope of mine that they do not consider themselves forgotten.

We have not forgotten.

Read the rest here

It may seem we have forgotten to some veterans, though. If they make it home, they tend to bear scars, and not always obvious ones. It's shamefully easier to sympathize with a soldier who's lost a limb or suffered major facial trauma than it is one who seems intact in body but says nothing about what's going on in his or her mind. These are people who, because of a choice they made, have stared death in the face, and been told, ordered, demanded not to flinch. We hold soldiers in high esteem. Most see them as brave or even fearless. But they're human beings, just like you and me. They have our doubts, our fears, our weaknesses. They, like us, are mortal. They're going to die, and some die on foreign shores because they're told to be there. They fight for us anyway, and that's what makes them great, and worth remembering. I don't have any particular charity or cause to champion here, nor do I know how easily one can get to some place like Walter Reed to see what becomes of those who only partially make it home. All I ask is that you remember them, not just today, but every day.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Truth About #GamerGate

The Truth About #GamerGate — Blue Ink Alchemy

"It's actually about ethics in games journalism." To some, it's an argument against inflammatory, despicable behavior that arises from and is associated with the GamerGate movement. To others, it's the punchline of the bad joke the movement has become, in the light of threats of rape, damage, and even school shootings in protest of women speaking out. Evidence suggests that the movement has all of the markings and makings of a hate group. But hate groups tend to have a unified vision that, to the deranged, make perfect sense. Normally, you don't see two narratives in a single group. You don't have some saying the goals are one thing, and others acting in ways that completely undermine the legitimacy of the first. To this writer, it made no sense. I backed away from the issue and looked at the bigger picture. What makes games journalism different from regular journalism? Reporters have had a very long tradition of seeking the truth, being offered rewards for hiding the truth, and risking a great deal in pursuit of the truth. Asking for ethics in journalism of all kinds is part of that tradition, and it hasn't gone away. Even through the lens of comedy and satire - The Daily Show and The Colbert Report - people are on the lookout for peddlers of corruption and misinformation. But there's not a lot of groundswell for that sort of lookout in general. Not with the sort of momentum GamerGate has had. So, I put the question to some of those people. I was, frankly, surprised with the answers I got. Now, it wasn't the content of the answers that surprised me. It was the tone. I wasn't expecting respect from people who use that hashtag. It got even stranger when I started putting questions to a young woman who is very proud to be a part of the movement. I experienced what can only be described as a colossal amount of cognitive dissonance in the wake of these exchanges. This made sense. This was reasonable. This was, dare I say it, positive. I looked at the words in front of me, and then I looked at the words of others, from Chris Kluwe to Felicia Day, and I started to get a sinking feeling in my gut. Are they talking to me like a human being because I'm a white heteronormative male? Once the idea got into my head, I couldn't shake it. It colored the majority of my interactions and I had to question everything I had just experienced. Too many people associated with the movement are rampant misogynists. I could not just ignore that fact and take it on good feelings that what I experienced was how they really behaved when they weren't threatening to shoot up universities because they don't like Anita Sarkeesian. I must confess that, for a moment, I wanted to believe this. I really did. It seemed like there might be hope for the notion that this is, in fact, about ethics in games journalism. But I couldn't hold onto that. Not for long. Not when just one day later, I saw David Hill reporting on a teenage girl talking about her interest in game design. She had written about how GamerGate and other groups made her afraid to follow her dream. She was forced to delete her Twitter account and the article she'd written because of messages telling her she's the problem, that feminism is at fault, and she's irrational because GamerGate has had zero negative effect on things around them. A girl likely the same age as the one with whom I'd interacted. The argument will likely be made that it wasn't true Gaters saying those things, that the movement isn't about harassment, so on and so forth. And that is if any argument is made in response to this article at all. Because it's been written by a white heteronormative male. Even if I am a journalist, and a games journalist at that, I am not the target of GamerGate. I have not been doxxed, threatened, or even treated badly. Somehow, that is even worse. If my question had been met with accusations of being a social justice warrior (I'm actually a social justice wizard, thank you very much) or implications that my mother performs sex acts for cash, at least that'd be consistent. But no: I was treated very differently from a Zoe Quinn or a Susan Arendt. The origins of the movement are public and available. Its impact is palpable and overwhelmingly negative. Some in the community feel betrayed by the movement's behavior, and many have an empathetic feeling of outrage at its treatment of women. So where does that leave people who are legitimately looking for ethics in journalism, and refuse to give up the tag? It pains me to think that someone truly intelligent, truly well-meaning, and truly compassionate has been roped into the hype used to try and whitewash the movement. To such an individual, propaganda should be obvious and deplorable. Conspiracy theorists would put it that there is a deliberate smokescreen being used to try and obfuscate the true nature of every single person who uses that hashtag. I think the truth is far simpler, and far more terrifying. Since human beings are complex and nuanced creatures, the movements they perpetuate are also complex and nuanced (for the most part: organized hate groups are not very complex). So, there is room for disparate narratives within a single polity. Especially when said polity is a disorganized, ill-defined, and relatively aimless one united under a label proposed by, at best, a very vocal and prominent public figure with inflammatory and very subjective opinions. The terrifying part is that some are so entrenched in their own intentions, positive though they might be, they will not divorce their quest for ethics from the majority of a movement. And the fact is, that majority behaves in a way that is not only unethical, but downright disturbing and deplorable. There are truly people within GamerGate who do not do this. Their intentions are good. They believe they can change the movement from within. And I want to believe in them so much that it breaks my heart. It's important to look at the facts. Look at where the movement started. Investigate the origins of its hashtag. See the results of the actions taken by those who carry its banner. Yes, there are some who speak in a positive way and convey earnestness in beliefs that are not objectionable. But the vast, vast majority speak and act in despicable ways, and their outlook and behavior casts a pall on the minority who do not, to the point that even an outside observer has to question positive interactions. This is not how gaming, and gamers, should be. This is wrong. This is dark. And it has to stop.

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Blue Ink Alchemy