Fear Not The Muse

Fear Not The Muse — Blue Ink Alchemy

Normally, on Thursdays I use this space to geek out about something related to games. For example, I have a deck in Hearthstone that's doing really well, I have thoughts on how important board game expansions are to a base game's life cycle, and I want to help more people get comfortable with the somewhat daunting game of Twilight Imperium. But I can't talk about any of that today. Last night, something happened to me that is so writerly, I just have to share it with you. I was laying in bed last night, having trouble getting to sleep. I rolled around, trying to clear my head, but it wasn't shutting down. There was too much noise. It took a while, but at around 2:30 am, the noise started to take shape. It was dialog. A scene. An idea. At 2:45 I rolled out of bed and came back to my desk. I pulled out my Moleskine and started writing. It's a rough outline, little more than the barest of bones for a story, but it got the idea out of my head enough for me to get some sleep. This morning, I'm still thinking about it. I'm turning the idea over in my head. And I likely will consider it throughout the day. I have no idea if this story will work. It's an extremely raw idea that could simply be unworkable. But the point is, it didn't let me go. It grabbed my attention and I had no alternative but to deal with it before I could get any rest. This happens when you're a writer. And the only thing to do is write the idea down. It's okay if you look at the idea in the light of day and say "why did I think this was good?", since if you don't take the moment to write the idea down, you won't know either way. Things that seem vivid and crystal clear at night can dissolve by the light of day. But we mustn't fear new ideas, when it comes to story or life. We need our ideas, even the ones rude enough to keep us awake. We need to always be considering new alternatives, notions that keep us motivated, points of view we hadn't considered. The brain, despite its composition, needs to be worked like a muscle to stay in shape. Let it atrophy or fester or dwell on the same-old same-old, and it'll deteriorate faster than an ice cream cake at a corporate luncheon. The muse, that ephemeral and often anthropomorphised part of our minds that generates new ideas, is almost like your brain's personal trainer. Listen to it. There are a lot of things that can keep one awake in the dead of night. Worries over finances, anxiety about relationships, wondering if you left the gas on, and so on. New ideas are one thing that can not only be adequately dealt with, but also can lead to new patterns of thought, new creative endeavors, entire new pathways in life. Don't be afraid of them. Don't be afraid of your muse. Let it guide you to imagine, to think, and to create. Then give it a warm glass of milk and send it back to bed because dammit, I need sleep already. I'm happy this morning, but I'm really, really tired.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: What's In A Name?

Writer Report: What's In A Name? — Blue Ink Alchemy

It almost feels redundant posting a Writer Report the day after discussing Cold Streets and how it's not ready yet. I mean, things I'm working on are nowhere near ready yet. But I do think people get a lot out of learning about the artistic process, and I'd like to be as transparent as possible about my work. So yes, I've been plugging away at the new novel. In addition to the dayjob, the freelance writing, and the games that keep me up late, I've been aiming to write at least 350 words a day on the thing. I have a character spreadsheet started, to track the descriptions and motivations of the people I dream up, and a general outline of how things go that I should really write down one of these days. What I don't have is a title. I've had a couple of ideas, but none of them have really stuck in my mind the way Cold Iron or Godslayer did. Do I just call it 'the novel' until something pops out of my subconscious? I'm not sure what alternatives I have. In the end, the important thing is for me to keep writing, as much as I can, as often as I can. That is, after all, how this shit gets done.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Self-Publishing Self-Critique

Self-Publishing Self-Critique — Blue Ink Alchemy

Simmering on the back burner is something I've been working on for over a year. It's relatively complete. It's got a beginning, a middle, and (in my opinion) a pretty cracking end. I've gotten people to look it over and agree it's at least decent. And yet it sits there. It simmers. It waits. Because it isn't ready yet. Cold Streets is going to be my second self-published novella. And as veteran self-publisher Chuck Wendig will tell you, there's nothing second tier or 'minor leagues' about it. While you don't have to go through the rigors and the wait and the hoops of the traditional publishing model, part of the trade-off is that the onus of the actual publication process is on you, the writer. You have to be your own PR. You have to be your own editor. And you have to be your own critic. Despite the good words from my test readers, regardless of what polish and improvements I plan on making, the fact of the matter is, I am the sole arbiter of quality when it comes to what I write. And if something I've written isn't good enough, it won't see the light of day. That's why I shut down Godslayer, and it's why Cold Streets continues to simmer. I want to publish it, sure - it's decent enough to warrant that - but I don't feel it's quite good enough yet. They say you only get one chance to make a first impression. With Cold Iron, I held back on lining up the cover and arranging publication until I felt it was ready. And even as I fired it off, I felt there were things I could change about it. But it was prepared, and worked over, and good enough for other eyes. It may not be perfect - most of my work may never be perfect - but it worked well enough to earn some decent sales and good reviews. Cold Streets needs to be better. It will be, but it isn't yet. That's the price we pay for publishing ourselves. Well, that, and paying for talented folks to help us with our covers and whatnot.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Rapunzel in Orbit

Flash Fiction: Rapunzel in Orbit — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Hunt for Alien Earths This Terribleminds Fairy Tales Remixed challenge is right up my alley, and when the d20 rolled up "hard sci-fi", it felt like Christmas all over again.

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The planet was desolate, inhospitable, and far from any civilization. Which meant it was pretty much perfect. Christopher Prince bent near one of the rovers deployed at the start of his expedition, cleaning off its sensors and re-calibrating its terrain-following mechanisms. A small chime inside his helmet brought his attention to the oxygen indicator on his wrist. He still wasn't sure why the helmet didn't include a heads-up display like fighter pilots got in the Space Force, but he was in the Survey Corps and they often had to make do with cast-offs from the other military divisions. He made his way back to the launch, the conical craft sitting on spindly legs on the vast, open plain dominating the planet's northern hemisphere. The samples of soil, minerals, and water in his pouches rattled slightly as he ascended the ladder into the cabin. He strapped in and keyed the comm. "Rapunzel, I'm ready for the beacon." Like clockwork, the indicator appeared on his display. He fired the launch's ion rocket, burning most of his fuel to achieve exit velocity. There was plenty on the ship, of course, as it wasn't made for atmospheric entry, and thus didn't need as much of the argon that fed its thrusters. Once in orbit, Rapunzel's beacon guided him in, and it took only a few rotations and nudges with the launch's reaction control systems to line him up for docking. He pulled himself out of the launch and into the airlock, happy to feel fresh (albeit recycled) air on his face when his helmet came off. "What did you find, Lieutenant?" Rapunzel's voice was just as welcome as the air. He silently thanked the designers who'd settled on the female vocal set. "There's water down there, Rapunzel. I think it's arctic run-off and I'm not sure what's in it." "Water is an excellent sign. Do you think the atmospheric inadequacies can be addressed?" "If there's water, we can create clouds. Clouds can be seeded. I think there's a good chance." Conversations with Rapunzel rarely involved anything other than his planetary findings. Her role was more analysis and communication than it was companionship. Still, she was a good opponent in games, loaded with multiple critiques and viewpoints on literature, and recently started forming her own opinions. Scuttlebutt was that another ship-board AI, Cinderella, had started showing more evidence of self-awareness, asking questions about identity and purpose. This made some of the brass nervous, but when Rapunzel brought up those subjects, Prince felt perfectly comfortable. He sent the encryption information packet back to headquarters, got updated information on enemy fleet movements, and took some intelligence reports to his bunk with him. While the Survey Corps rarely saw any sort of combat, it was good to stay current on the situation, and relations with the Colonial Congress had never been more strained. Piracy and sabotage were rampant, and as he looked over the list of missing vessels, he assured himself that, this far from the colonies, nobody would bother messing with him. The next day, he was back down on the surface, taking more samples and recalibrating a rover, this time on the southern hemisphere. Instead of water, he found flecks in the soils samples that weren't minerals. They seemed to be dessicated biological matter, fossilized perhaps. He wouldn't be sure until he got back into orbit, however, but he was excited as he returned to the launch. "Rapunzel, I'm ready for the beacon." He activated the launch's external camera once he was in orbit, lining up to dock. He blinked at the display, and then turned a dial to zoom in on the ship's registration number. It was not the Rapunzel. It was the Dame Goethel, reported lost near pirate territory. As he watched, a close-quarter weapon turret swung in his direction. Prince didn't wait for demands. While he wasn't a high-ranking military officer, as a member of the Survey Corps, he knew his way back to the Empire's innermost territories; in his case, he knew safe routes to Earth. He kicked his main drive on and began evasive maneuvers. The launch was small and hard to hit, but even so, the Goethel's turret hit him three times, the second slug knocking out his camera before the third sent him in a spin. He didn't immediately hit the planet's atmosphere, so as far as he knew, he was tumbling off into open space. His reaction control fuel was nearly gone by the time he got the spin under control, and his guidance systems had failed, shorted out by wiring knocked loose in his escape. He checked his oxygen levels - not great - and debated activating his distress beacon. It was likely the pirates would be listening for it. They could follow his rough trajectory, but space was a big place. He'd probably run out of air before they found him. He was blind, alone, and dying. He recorded a log, encrypted it, and hid it within the launch's data drive. The transmitter was working, but with only the small porthole in the hatch, lining up a tight-band transmission would be nearly impossible. Still, he had to try. He was using tiny bursts to find the right star when a survey vessel swung into view. He wasn't close enough to read its name. A chill went through his body, either from fear or from life support failing. "Chris? Are you all right?" He smiled. There was no way the AI on the Goethel knew his name, and even so, it wouldn't sound so concerned. "Yes, Rapunzel, I'm okay." "Good. I detect your launch is heavily damaged. Do you need me to walk you through repairing the docking alignment?" "Sure." Together they fixed the launch just enough to get him docked. He stumbled out of the launch into the airlock, and collapsed on the deck. "Let's go home, Rapunzel." "Of course, Lieutenant." "And on the way, you can tell me how you found me." "I'd be happy to."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: The Wolf of Wall Street

Movie Review: The Wolf of Wall Street — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm no financial genius. I can barely keep a checkbook balanced, let alone invest in a diverse stock portfolio. If you're anything like me in that regard, ignorant of the stock market's inner workings, don't worry. You can walk into The Wolf of Wall Street and know everything you need to know. And according to the tale's narrator, all you need to know is that what's happening on Wall Street is two things: very lucrative, and not always necessarily legal. That narrator is also our protagonist, Jordan Belfort, played by Leonardo DiCaprio and working off of the real-life memoir written by Belfort himself. He starts out as a wide-eyed, straight-laced new member of a brokerage, and is just starting to get a feeling for the business when the market crashes. Undaunted, Jordan gets involved with the seedier aspect of the business known as 'penny stocks', and is soon turning a substantial profit. He starts his own business, builds it into a real presence on Wall Street, and amasses a huge fortune. He uses his wealth on drugs, whores, parties, and more drugs, but considering his business is built on less than savory practices, he soon runs afoul of the FBI, and things start to go rapidly downhill. From what we're shown, Jordan is a textbook sociopath. His charm is glib and superficial, his abilities to manipulate are what make him such a good salesman, he is incredibly entitled to the point of grandiosity, he has no sense of remorse or guilt, so on and so on. He is unctuous and at times downright repugnant, and yet as shallow as that charm is, it's so effective and attractive that we can see why he succeeds. Hell, his pitch is delivered so well that I caught myself thinking about stock investments. He not only surrounds himself with subordinates willing to do just about anything for him, he teaches them to make themselves stinking rich, even if they don't quite have the same chops to charm as much as he does. And we see every aspect of his excessive lifestyle in sharp, uncompromising detail - this is Martin Scorsese we're talking about, after all.
Despite being such a douchebag, whenever he's behind a microphone, you're hanging on every word. Teaming once again with long-time editing partner Thelma Schoonmaker, we see Scorsese doing one of the things he does best: making a good story starring bad people. Look no further than GoodFellas and Casino for more of this type of tale. Much like another film to which it is compared, Scarface, The Wolf of Wall Street features a protagonist that has no heroic qualities, very little to redeem himself, and close to zero ground when it comes to gaining sympathy. And yet, Scorsese tells his story with such poise and aplomb that we're not only capable of watching, we're wrapped up in Jordan's journey. We laugh at his drunken stupors. And you may even catch yourself laughing with him all the way to the Swiss bank. It isn't all on Scorsese's shoulders, of course. The Wolf of Wall Street is an exemplary double-act of a skillful director and a thoroughly talented and entertaining leading man. I've said before that Leonardo DiCaprio has the screen presence and affability that puts him on par with Humphrey Bogart or Clark Gable, and this film really drives that home. His delivery of the facts of his life are so conversationally put, and his relationships with his peers so natural, that we not only understand how this utter sleazeball of a person can be so successful, we also find him making it look easy. It's a powerhouse performance, not because it's dramatically moving, but because it's a case of an actor truly wearing another person's skin for the better part of three hours.
He may be drinking wine, but he's selling snake oil, and making a bundle doing it. The last thing that makes The Wolf of Wall Street a hands-down recommendation for me is that it's a comedy blacker than the blackest pitch. For the majority of its running time, the film's an absolute riot. Jordan makes no apologies for his life, pulls no punches in showing and describing in detail the drugs he's on, and delivers monologues rivaling Gordon Gecko's "Greed is good" mantra from Wall Street. The supporting cast keys into his electrifying presence, from Jonah Hill as his sidekick to Margot Robbie as his sultry second wife. Much of the dialog feels improvised and spontaneous, keeping the scenes clipping along and helping the movie not feel its length. Much like a good bender, the impact of the film doesn't really hit you until the very end, and then long after the credits begin to roll, you'll be thinking about it. Your head might even start to hurt, but in a good way. And there's no nausea. At least, I didn't feel any. I'm not sure what else I can say about The Wolf of Wall Street to encourage you to see it. It describes in detail how phony, superficial, and fickle the stock market is. It shows the kinds of people who exploit the gullibility and vulnerability of the stock market's investors to make themselves rich. It makes us understand beyond a shadow of a doubt why the lifestyle is so attractive. And it warns us that anything that seems too good to be true is untrustworthy, especially if the salesman is as charming as Jordan Belfort. In another story, this message would be delivered without a hint of irony and completely stone-faced. But here, we're smiling and laughing, enjoying a cracking good time at the movies. Like Scarface and Fight Club, The Wolf of Wall Street both glamorizes a dangerous and destructive lifestyle, and shows us exactly why such a lifestyle is so dangerous and destructive, at once holding up a public ideal for all to see and taking the absolute piss out of it. It's absolutely brilliant and, unlike these brokers' lifestyles, built to last. Stuff I Liked: The supporting cast is fantastic. I'm not a big Jonah Hill fan, but I thought he did a great job being a complete sleaze which highlights just how charismatic Belfort can be. Rob Reiner does an excellent job and comes close to stealing the boardroom scene he's in with the other leads. And I hope we see more of Margot Robbie's acting, as I have the feeling the real actress completely disappeared into her role. Stuff I Didn't Like: There are a couple scenes that other directors might have cut a bit shorter, but the dialog is so natural and the cinematography so sharp that even as I noted a scene was running a bit long, I didn't really mind all that much. Stuff I Loved: Leonardo DiCaprio has never been better. Scorsese puts Leo and his other actors through an incredible series of situations and gets top-notch performances out of all of them. The nature of the narration is the perfect framework for the film's tone, and makes you feel slightly more comfortable with Belfort's antics even as he indulges in some of the most debauched situations since Caligula. Bottom Line: It's pretty safe to say that if I had gotten to see it before the end of the year, The Wolf of Wall Street would have been my top movie. It has everything I adore in a good film about bad people: charisma, unapologetic sleaze, a breakneck pace, and a long and ever-escalating ramp to a climax that comes before a slam-dunk fall that leaves you both empty and deeply satisfied. It's signature Scorsese, DiCaprio's best performance to date, a dazzling spectacle wrapped around an acid-edged takedown message, and definitely one of the best movies. Not just of 2013. Ever.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The "Real Game" Has Begun

The "Real Game" Has Begun — Blue Ink Alchemy

A surprisingly provincial addition to a world full of dragons and wizards. When I've played MMOs previously, especially World of Warcraft, the prevailing sentiment has been that 'the real game begins' at the maximum level a character can achieve. For the most part, this has applied to large-group raid or player-versus-player content. Not everybody is interested in such things, though. The question becomes, then, what does one do once their main character hits the ceiling of the maximum level? There's always the option of rolling another character, for certain, but I would argue that a good MMO provides a plethora of content for a player who's struggled through the slow grind upwards. There was a part of me that was concerned when I approached the top level available as I worked my way through World of Warcraft's new continent of Pandaria. However, when that bright light and familiar sound met me, I was in for a surprise. Like many previous expansions, World of Warcraft's newest areas feature multiple factions towards whom a player can endear themselves. They're all over Pandaria, but unlike the forces featured in Cataclysm or Wrath of the Lich King, they're not necessarily worried with getting your help to save the world. The Anglers are fascinated by the various kinds of fish you can find around Pandaria, the Order of the Cloud Serpent raises the continent's unique breeds of dragons (and you can, too!), and the Tillers are farmers, plain & simple. I'll get back to them in a moment. Top level players have been queueing up to enter dungeons for a long time, but Pandaria also gives us scenarios to experience. These instances are smaller and more scripted, geared for 3 players instead of 5 and not necessarily requiring a specific team makeup (a tank will certainly help you, though). With many of the factions I mentioned, you can participate in daily quests ranging from slaying nasty critters to corralling lost yaks. These quests and instances yield plenty of gold to finance other endeavors, gear either through direct drops or special currency, and even reputation with the factions above. But not everything that you can do with your max-level character is so confrontational. The Tillers allow you to start a farm of your very own. I've been told this portion of the game is lifted almost directly from the Harvest Moon games, based on the different crop conditions and finding gifts for fellow farmers. Either way, it feels to me like a lovely change from the usual grind of post top level gear gathering. It's still a bit of a grind to get your farm to a point where you can grow materials you need for your professions, but considering the things you can do with the other crops in the meantime, it feels like less of a grind, and a player getting a positive feeling from an in-game experience is evidence of good mechanical design. If you skipped a profession on your way up, or want to change from one to another, max level is great time to retread those steps a bit. Archaeology, in particular, is a neat secondary profession to explore at top levels. Few of the areas you'll be digging in are actually dangerous to you, you pick up unique items, and it's a skill that can be used for dailies in Pandaria. In fact, the Order of the Cloud Serpent has dailies that call upon your skills as a cook, medic, angler, and archaeologist. It pays to diversify your skills, after all! And then there's the Brawler's Guild, which I haven't even touched yet... Of course, this could just be my feeling about reaching the current top level in World of Warcraft. I'm sure others are more interested in the raiding scene or jumping into the Arena to take on other players. While there will always be alts to level, the game clearly does not end when the levels do. A MMO worth its asking price should keep providing fresh, new content, and for my money, Mists of Pandaria is doing that pretty well for World of Warcraft.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Working From Home

Writer Report: Working From Home — Blue Ink Alchemy

Another nasty winter storm has slapped the area, leaving people buried in snow and shivering in near-zero temperatures (negative teens or lower in Celsius). Today sees the sun shining, but there's a nasty wind out of the north-northwest and temperatures show no signs of going up. Local traffic is certain to be dicey at best. Thankfully, I am in a position where I am capable of working from home. Doing so not only allows me the opportunity to feel more like a novelist, as they are a reclusive breed who rarely leave their homes, but also preserves energy that would otherwise be expended on my least favorite part of working in an office: the commute. Even though I moved closer to the office at the end of 2012, it can still be a major pain to get there even when conditions are good. And today, conditions remain dicey at best. After doing so yesterday, I was able to make more headway in the new project (which needs a title at some point) and get a post over to Geekadelphia for the opening of the Hearthstone beta. Now, anybody can play! I've been trying to balance out my leisure time a bit more, and despite the advantages of working from home, I'm looking for ways and means to get out and about a bit more. Going strictly from home to the office and back again with deviations existing only in the context of errands can get tiresome. Which is why I went to the cinema on Sunday night, and when Friday rolls around, I'll tell you all about that.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

From the Vault: The Dark Depths of Writing

From the Vault: The Dark Depths of Writing — Blue Ink Alchemy

A late night working plus working from home today equals headaches and other complications, the least of which is the fact that I didn't prep a blog post yesterday. So while I brew coffee and hunt down painkillers, enjoy reading this post about what writers are.

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Courtesy Floating Robes You can't say I haven't warned you. Living with writers is a tricky business at times. Look here, here and here for some of the proof. Over and above any cautionary tale you might here from the trenches is a deeper truth that is ever-present but rarely discussed. Writers, especially creators of fiction, for all their imagination and altruism and creativity and willingness to share their inspiration to inform and entertain, share a common bond that has nothing to do with what they drink and everything to do with how they do what they do. I know I may be exaggerating somewhat, but bear with me through the metaphors. Writers, you see, are criminals.

Writers are Thieves

A writer may talk about someone or something that inspires them. What they're really doing is confessing to theft. Now it's rarely wholesale thievery, and you may need to look very carefully to see the seams between ideas stolen from other sources, but trust me, the wholly original idea presented by a writer is exceedingly rare. Many writers have talked about this, at times obliquely, but Joseph Campbell is probably the best-known whistle-blower for this sort of thing. The idea of the hero's journey is nothing new in the slightest, with the task of the writer being to modify that narrative through-line to make it interesting and relevant. Often the words being used have their roots in outside sources. However, the important part is not the words themselves, but rather what they are talking about.

Writers are Voyeurs

When you pick up a work of fiction, be it rattled off by a fan of a particular current narrative or a story spanning multiple volumes and years, you are looking into the lives of other people. You are seeing as much or as little as the author wants you to see. At times, you'll be witnessing moments and aspects the people in question may not wish you to witness. You'll be watching them at their most vulnerable, their most monstrous or their most intimate. What is this if not voyeurism? We often find or are told that the act of watching another person, especially if they are unaware of our presence, is something abhorrent. It's invasive and we should be ashamed of ourselves. Yet we do it all the time. And it is writers, of stage and screen and page, who encourage us to engage in this sort of sordid, vicarious living. It's not all steamy windows and heavy breathing, though. When we see the lives of others unfold, the possibility exists for us, despite only being involved as observers, gaining something from the experience. The exploration of these fictional people can give us insight into our own perspectives and motivation. If we can relate to, understand and care for original characters, there's no reason we can't relate to, understand and care for our fellow man.

Writers are Murderers

George RR Martin, I'm looking at you. What are writers if not gods of their own little worlds? They create the people that populate their stories, give them backgrounds, motivations and personalities, sometimes to the point of being all but living and breathing in the minds of the audience. Then, for the sake of the plot or to drive home a point, the writer kills them. Don't be fooled by something like old age or heart failure or an "accident" - the character is only dead because the writer murdered them. You can smooth over the stealing in a few ways, and the voyeurism is victimless, if a bit creepy. But murder? Man, that's serious business. The writer is destroying something they themselves have created for the sake of telling a story. Or rather, if they're any good, for the sake of telling a good story. The only two true inevitabilities in this life are that you are going to die and you are going to pay taxes. And writing about taxes isn't very sexy or exciting. It goes back to the vicarious nature of experiencing fiction: by seeing how others deal with death, we can gain some measure of peace, understanding and even inspiration to apply to our own lives. The writer's murders take on an edge beyond this due to the finality of death, but it can still be to the ultimate benefit of the audience. There's also the fact that it can be a hallmark of a writer doing their job well. If people are truly outraged by the death of a character, if they cry out in protest or flip tables or what have you, the writer's done something very special. They've made the audience care about an imaginary person. The people experiencing the story feel something on a personal level, have become engaged if not immersed in this tale, which means the writing has done more than convey a story. It's drawn people into it and inspired them to care. You can't make an omelet without making a few eggs, and you can't tell a truly compelling story without characters dying. Writers are dark. They're dastardly. They're absolutely despicable. But do we really want them any other way?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Service With A Smile

Flash Fiction: Service With A Smile — Blue Ink Alchemy

I rolled on the tables from this post for this week's tale. Table 1: Detective Table 2: Casino Table 3: Left for dead, out for revenge! Now, let's get it on!

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You lose track of time to a scary degree when some Neanderthal knocks you out. I was under the impression they only got physical with you at casinos if they caught you counting cards or feeling up the cocktail waitress without her consent. Apparently, they beat the shit out of idiot gumshoes who are getting too close to the truth, too. It wasn't the first time I'd been thrown a beating by what colloquially folks would call a 'goon', but this time, it wasn't my fault. I was playing it cool, understand, and specifically not winning too much at the hold 'em table. When your job is precipitated on reading people, poker becomes practice more than anything else. And the reason I charge so much for my services is, without hyperbole, I'm very fucking good at what I do. The problem is, my reputation preceded me. I got fingered (not as sexy as it sounds) by one of the pit bosses, who told their boss, and one thing lead to another and this shambling prick in an off-the-sale-rack suit was slamming my head into the wire racks in a pantry. He wasn't pulling punches. He meant to kill me. He seemed to be know what he was doing, too. Without breaking my bones or leaving major bruises, it would look like I stumbled into the wrong room and cracked my skull. Bam, case closed, everybody go about your business, nothing to see here. Thankfully for yours truly, the fucking ape was too dumb to make sure I was done before he left me. Son of a bitch took my gun, though. Old-fashioned pearl-handled .45 - a gift from an old partner. Engraved, and everything. I push myself up off of the grimy closet floor, and I remind myself that the tux is a rental and I'm probably not getting my deposit back because the thing's covered in grease and God knows what else now. I get out of the closet, get myself down the hall - my head is pounding and I want to vomit - and find a locker room for employees. They have spare jackets for the waiters and croupiers. I swap my smeared slightly mothball-smelling coat for one of those, and find my way back to the floor. I pick up a tray of drinks on the way for good measure. I weave through the slots, people taking drinks and leaving cash. I stay on the move until the tray is empty. I make my way back towards the poker pits. It takes me a few minutes of circling and trying to look innocuous, but then my beefy friend comes through a back door. Have I mentioned he isn't too bright? He doesn't see or hear me coming up behind him. I wait for him to turn a corner, knowing there's a tiny blind spot in the bazillion-camera coverage of the floor, and then I introduce my lovely tray to the big fat target that is his big fat head. You've heard of glass jaws, right? This guy apparently has a glass skull. He drops like a bag of hammers. Not surprising, considering he's about half as smart. Service with a smile, asshole. I get my gun and my phone back, give the prick a kick in the ribs for good measure, and make my way to an exit. In the parking lot I check my phone, and sure enough, our Cro-Magnon friend didn't bother flashing its memory or even deleting the recordings I'd been making. It's quiet in the lot. Which is good, because the slab of stupid I'd left laid out on the carpeted floor had friends, and they were coming out after me. I hear the door slamming open, footsteps, and the hammer of at least one gun's hammer getting pulled back the way a guy unzips his fly. They're not even trying to be subtle. So, why should I? I break into a run as I draw my piece. You'd think it missed me, the way it just flows into my hand and my arm extends with it to start taking shots. I'm not trying to kill or even wound anybody, just trying to keep their heads down. Well, maybe wound someone. A little. Out of spite. I've got ten years of experience between firing ranges, 'official discharges' as a detective, a couple undercover jobs, and this freelance business after I got drummed off the force. These morons seem to have gotten all of their experience from playing video games. "Way to shoot wide, Call of Duty!" I'm already getting in my car by this point, and I can't help but get the last word in. Now, I know it's unsafe, and you assholes at home better not do this, but it's an emergency, so I dial my contact. Or rather I dial my contact's office. I say some words to his lovely and polite secretary I'm not going to repeat here. I make a mental note to send her flowers because nobody deserves to have their mother referred to in that fashion, especially not someone just doing their job for an honest wage. Seriously, I'm a prick sometimes. I called you all assholes like three sentences ago. Anyway, I'm on hold and I'm swerving through traffic. Both things I hate. When he finally picks up the phone I'm fucking livid. "You did not tell me there would be hitmen and legbreakers at this meet!" "I thought it was a given." "No, it was not a given, you sawed-off prick. Put down the fucking doughnut and listen. I have him on tape." "You cut out there. Say that again?" "Of course I cut out, jerkfuck, I'm on the goddamned freeway! I said, I - got - him - on - tape." "Saying what, exactly?" I change lanes to pass a Yugo. A goddamn Yugo, in this day and age. And I thought my life was hard. "He's saying that he's in over his head and wants a way out. He says it's for tens of millions. The words 'cocaine', 'heroin', 'ecstasy', and 'hit squads' are mentioned. And not by me." "Jesus." "I told you I could do this! Now it's time for you to hold up your end." There's an uncomfortable pause. I'd glare at the phone if I wasn't trying to drive as safely and quickly as possible. Those two things are not easy to do at the same time. And this is with one hand on the wheel. I'm dead serious, kids, do not try this shit at home. (Oh, and if you are a kid, sorry for all the swears.) "Look..." "Don't. Do not tell me there's a problem or a 'snag' or some other bullshit. The next fucking words out of your fat face better be 'where are you and where do I send the chopper' or I swear to fucking Christ I will leak this shit to the Internet and take my ass to goddamn Lichtenstein." "... Where are you, and where do I send the chopper." "Was that so hard?" "It would have been easier if you hadn't interrupted me, jerkoff." "I'm on the Interstate heading west. There's two - no, check that, three - black Cadillac SUVs full of angry men with guns probably under orders to shoot my ass and drag what's left back to the casino to get worked over by this fucking dumbass lump of lard who..." "Wittaker, I need you to focus." I pass a bus. I think someone takes my photo through the window. Tourists. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry. And sorry about the fat comment. But seriously, man, you gotta hit a gym." "Wittaker..." "Jesus, fine. Two exits ahead, there's a parking garage, 8th and Spillane, top level's exposed and probably mostly empty." "Got it." "Hey, can you cover me with a couple of establishments?" "What do you-" He's cut off when bullets start hitting my windshield. Dammit, I thought I'd lost them behind the bus! Or at least, gotten out of line of sight. Whatever. I drop the phone and start to serpentine. Which is a fancy way of saying I drive like a goddamn maniac and piss off plenty of decent people. I take the exit I told my contact about and I don't bother to slow down any more than I have to in order to avoid flying over the guardrail. It's two turns onto 8th avenue, and then I pass Spillane. I cut the wheel and pull the handbrake, and practically slam into the wall next to where I want to go, which is through the little arm they drop on you so you take a ticket. It cracks like a toothpick against the grill of my Pontiac and I'm heading up the ramp before the night watchman can run out after me yelling obscenities. I'm still a bit nauseous from earlier, so taking so many fast turns in such a confined space almost knocks me out again. My head is swimming and I can't read any of the signage for shit. It's a miracle I don't get lost. I make it to the roof, grab my phone and stumble out of the car, and throw up. I manage to get to my feet as the three Caddies pull up onto the roof and line up one next to the other. The hitmen get out of the cars with guns drawn, at least seven of them, and all of them looking really pissed off. The cherry on it is when my fat friend rolls out of the back of one, holding an ice pack to his head. "Oh, hey! Look who's vertical!" "That was a cheap shot, you fucking prick!" "Ha!" I'd literally laugh in his face if I could cross the killing field. Well, killing parking tarmac. "I'm not the stupid son of a bitch who left me alive!" "Well, let's correct that," says one of the hitters. They all take aim. "Sure, you go ahead and you fucking shoot me." I think between the ride up through the parking garage and their raging hard-ons, they hadn't heard what I'd heard. It became obvious when the spotlight came on. "Right in front of federal officers!" Three (Three? Christ.) black helicopters with FBI emblems slapped on their sides come out of the inky night, bathing the roof of the parking complex in bright white light. The hitmen stagger back from the glare as I spread my arms wide and invite them all to kiss my ass. I don't think they hear me over the loudspeakers above my head. "THIS IS THE FBI. DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING." The helicopters land, and agents in tac armor with submachine guns spill out, yelling orders and putting zip-ties on the hitmen. Agent LeToux, suit rumpled and hair a mess as usual, gets out of one and walks towards me. I give him a hard time, but he's a man of his word. Even if he could stand to eat a few less Big Macs. He's not unhealthily fat, but someone's got to ride his ass so he stays in shape, and Mrs. LeToux sure as hell isn't. "You are a pain in my ass, Wittaker!" "I didn't tell you to send a whole SWAT team out here, LeToux!" He snatches my phone out of my hand. "No, but you DID say there's enough evidence on here to shut down the whole operation!" "Hey, you called me, asshole, because these pricks can smell a fed a mile away." "Yes, and we thank you for your service, now can you kindly fuck off so we can do our jobs without you breaking anything else?" He turns to walk away. "Hey! Tell your guys to get my tux jacket back! It's a rental!" He flips me off. Doesn't even look back. LeToux loves me. If he denies it, he's lying. Not really my type, though. Don't tell him that. I wouldn't want to break his heart.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Lather, Rinse, Repeat — Blue Ink Alchemy

I know I said that reviews would be happening on Fridays, and I'm bound to have something worth reviewing next week. This week, though, has been difficult. I still don't believe this is the space for me to delve too deeply into my personal headspace difficulties. That's what Tumblr's for, and I posted over there if you care to read. It involves words and conditions that may trigger some people, just so you know. Either way, I'll see you folks next week!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Derevi & the Bouncing Souls

Derevi & the Bouncing Souls — Blue Ink Alchemy

Art by Michael Komarck The new year has brought some new products with it, of course, and Wizards of the Coast has presented five new pre-constructed decks for the Commander imprint within Magic: the Gathering. These decks make bringing new people into the format long-called EDH (Elder Dragon Highlander) a lot easier. Each deck provides reprints of old favorite cards as well as new and exciting selections that work just fine outside of the format, while others feel exclusive to the unique situations presented by a singleton deck of 100 cards with one set aside. Case in point: [mtg_card]Derevi, Empyrial Tactician[/mtg_card]. Her ability is tied directly to the 'command zone', an area of play within the game that is neither the graveyard nor 'exile'. Your Commander, or general or whatever you call them, begins play in this zone rather than your hand or deck, and is cast from this zone. Each time you cast the card, you must pay 2 extra mana for every circumstance that's returned it to the zone. So, if an opponent kills it, or you sacrifice it, or if an ability would exile it, you send it to the command zone, and can bring it back, albeit needing to pay more for it. It creates a very real drawback to bringing your Commander into play every turn. Derevi has a way around that drawback. Printed on her card is an ability that allows you to bring her directly from the command zone into play. Her base mana cost is cheaper than this ability, but I don't think most players will be casting her as they normally would. Not only does the cost of her ability not increase every time she is killed or exiled, the ability can be used on an opponent's turn. And, whenever she enters the battlefield, or one of your creatures does combat damage to a player, she taps or untaps another permanent card. This could be a land or artifact you need to produce mana, or a pesky thing on your opponent's battlefield you need out of the way. I really, really enjoy playing with enter the battlefield effects. There's a very nasty trick you can play with [mtg_card]Fiend Hunter[/mtg_card] that allows you to exile opposing creatures permanently. The synergy between [mtg_card]Sun Titan[/mtg_card] and [mtg_card]Eternal Witness[/mtg_card] is incredibly impressive. The deck comes off the shelf with a few cards to enable these things, such as [mtg_card]Conjurer's Closet[/mtg_card] and [mtg_card]Mistmeadow Witch[/mtg_card], but being a pre-constructed "jack of all trades" deck, needed some tweaking to really make the most of the mechanic. For example, the deck did not have Sun Titan or Eternal Witness. When it come to 'bouncing' or 'flickering' cards to make the most of them, my old friend [mtg_card]Venser, the Sojourner[/mtg_card] comes immediately to mind. [mtg_card]Deadeye Navigator[/mtg_card] felt like a must-include, as its ability is cheaper than that of the Mistmeadow Witch and can be used to either trigger its partner or flicker itself to bond with something new. [mtg_card]Acidic Slime[/mtg_card] and Fiend Hunter not quite enough recurring removal for the deck, so [mtg_card]Terastodon[/mtg_card] and [mtg_card]Sunblast Angel[/mtg_card] needed to go in. So it went until I had a deck I was comfortable with. You can see the complete deck list here. It's a blast to play. With no counterspells and little direct damage, the deck is not overtly aggressive and thus can play it quiet for a few turns, avoiding confrontation as much as possible. There are a few political cards that can incentive your opponents to fight one another more, or lead to negotiations ("Is that creature giving you trouble? How about I take control of it with [mtg_card]Rubinia Soulsinger[/mtg_card] and you smash that guy's face in?"). I think there are a couple cards I could cut but I'm not sure what it might be missing - perhaps a few more board clears like [mtg_card]Terminus[/mtg_card] or [mtg_card]Day of Judgment[/mtg_card]. How does the deck look to you? Would you be willing to play it?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: New Beginnings

Writer Report: New Beginnings — Blue Ink Alchemy

It can be difficult to start over. The process consumes both time and energy, something that an individual may not have in abundance. It can even be frightening. Yet it's something we have to do on a regular if not constant basis, to continue on our journey from where we are to where we want to be. I'm struggling to maintain the groove of writing every day. Things were sporadic at the end of last year and I'm telling myself it's okay to ease off of the throttle of some areas so I can focus more on others. I have big changes lining up for the year, and I want to be prepared so I can enjoy the benefits they'll bring. I'm trying to recoup lost energy, and conserve it so I have some when I get done with the daily work. I'm writing every day, and I feel like I'm doing a bit more than I have in months, but I'm still not quite up to 1000 words a day. I'm also easing back into a daily routine of exercise, and some parts of that are proving difficult. It's going to get easier and I'll see more progress, it's just slow going right now. New beginnings are difficult. To me, however, they're always worth embarking upon. Every year, even every day, is a chance at a fresh start. I commented on this theme last year and I still hold to what I said. We have to keep trying. We can't give up. When things are difficult or daunting or even just inconvenient, and the benefits are certain, we have to keep going until we attain those benefits. Even if it means getting out of bed earlier.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Write When You Can't

Write When You Can't — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Floating Robes I'm going to tell you a secret. You might already know what I'm going to say, but it'll be said anyway, as it needs to be repeated. Come on, get closer. Don't be shy. You ready? Here it is: Being a writer is not about publication. Being a writer is about one thing, and one thing only: writing. To be a writer, you must write. What is a fighter who does not fight? What is a designer who does not design? It's less about what these labels mean to the outside world, and more about what they mean to the individual. It's important to do what motivates and drives us, even if it doesn't immediately turn a profit or satisfy a client. As Howard Thurman put it (and I'm paraphrasing), "the world needs people who come alive." So you need to write. You need to write whenever you can. And you even need to write when you can't. This last part may seem confusing, but consider the following scenario. It's been a long day. Maybe you commute to and from a dayjob, maybe you maintain a household, maybe you have studies that consume most of your time. None of these things are bad. But these things are not writing. And they can sap your energy and your will to be productive. It's times like these you simply need to keep writing. Jot down notes by hand. Cram a line in here and there on coffee and lunch breaks. Carve time out of the mornings and evenings, in bloody chunks if you have to, so you can write more. Convert some of the time in which you "can't" write into moments where you deliver the facts, breathe life into characters, or open up a new world for readers to explore. It's a lot like physical fitness. The more you do it, and the more you work to establish a routine, the more it becomes a part of your life and the harder it is for you to quit. And if I had one true piece of advice, one thing that I know from experience that can be applied to the lives of others, it's this: Don't quit. Please don't quit. The world needs people who come alive. The world needs you, whether it knows it or not.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Ten-Year Potion

Flash Fiction: The Ten-Year Potion — Blue Ink Alchemy

Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction challenges return! This week: Roll For Title.

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Shelby couldn't stop hearing her doctor give the diagnosis. Six months. Six months of surgery and chemo and radiation and living in hospitals and shitting into bags. Her first appointment was in two days, and she was taking today to find something, anything else, that would fix this. Wandering the streets wasn't helping, but it was better than sitting at home. She kept her coat closed against the strong winter wind, glancing only occasionally at the bright neon around her. She'd told her husband that she needed a walk, time to clear her head. Jack seemed to understand, kissing her forehead and telling her to call if she needed anything. How her feet had carried her downtown, she didn't know. Yet here she was, avoiding eye contact with others and trying to ignore the people around her, the joy and the despair alike, lost in her own desperation. When she did look up, her eye caught the neon sign that flickered like a dying candle and read, simply, "Magic & Fortunes." She wasn't particularly superstitious or religious, but something pulled her through the door, staring at the candlelit interior as the chimes on the handle rattled and sang. A stooped old woman emerged from the shadows. "What can I do for you, dear?" She said the first thing that came to mind. "I want to live." The old woman nodded. "Sit down, and tell me everything." She did, as the old woman poured her some tea. When she was utterly spent, tears rolling down her cheeks, gnarled yet soft hands patted her wrist. "Don't you worry, dear. I have just the thing." A few minutes later, the old woman was bustling about, setting up a small black cauldron on the table over a tea light, taking things from various unlabeled jars and muttering softly to herself as she mixed the ingredients together. When she was done, a small glass vial, slightly steaming and filled with a liquid the color of mucus, was set on the table. "Drink every drop, dear. It will add ten years to your life." Skeptical yet somehow unable to resist the urge, Shelby took the vial in both hands and poured it down her throat. A violent tremor went through her entire body and she collapsed out of the chair. She came to her senses a few moments later, slowly getting to her feet, finding the old woman smiling at her. "There, now. Let's talk about payment, shall we? All things for a price." It was more than Shelby thought she'd spend, but as she walked back out into the street, she felt less desperate and alone. The wind that had felt so cruel and cold instead seemed to be whisking her back home. Jack was waiting for her with a hot meal and a roaring fire, and the sex they had that night was the best either of them had experienced in a long time. Shelby made an appointment with her doctor the next morning, and went in to have everything double-checked before the procedures began. She sat in the exam room, not daring to hope for what something told her was the inevitable answer. No cancer. Not a trace. She rushed home after that, eager to tell Jack. It was her turn to make dinner, and she was planning the meal in her head. Something sweet and succulent, and maybe after she'd try on that negligee Jack had bought her that she'd always been too timid to wear. The thought had her smiling as she started making the turns towards home. She had to pull over briefly to let a fire engine speed past. And then another. Her heart crawled up into her throat when the ambulance passed her. She sped around the corner towards her house. Firefighters were already hosing down the walls as flames crawled through the windows into the night sky. She stumbled out of her car, screaming Jack's name, barely able to see through the tears of panic as she tried to scramble to the house. A police officer grabbed her and puller her back, telling her firefighters were already inside. What they pulled out of the fire didn't live long. Through the sleepless night and blurred days that followed, Shelby tried to focus on the arrangements, the family visits, the friends who let her sleep at their place until the insurance company sorted things out. But her thoughts kept drifting back to the old woman with the knotted hands, and the way her doctor had said the word 'miracle'. Finally, when she couldn't stand it anymore, she went back downtown. She tried to retrace her steps. Nobody seemed to know the shop she was talking about, and the more she asked, the more desperate she became. She came around a corner, and recognized the neon signs. Breathing heavily, she ran down the street, skidding to a halt in front of the store she'd visited, remembering that cold night when she'd wished for something, anything, to give her hope. The building was boarded up and dark. It looked like it hadn't been occupied in years. Shelby stared at the store. Her shaking hands closed into fists. Screaming, she flew at the door, clawing at the boards, pulling off one, and then the other. She kicked the door in, uncaring of the eyes and pointing fingers around her. She bolted inside, hunched and angry, ready to fight. "Come out, you old hag! You'll pay for what you did to Jack!" There was no response. Wind and silence. Shelby went from room to room, upstairs and down, looking for anything, anything at all. When she returned to the foyer, a clean, unblemished paper was resting in the dust that hadn't been there before. Shelby bent towards the note, her fingers on the paper, ensuring its reality. All things for a price. "Freeze!" Shelby looked up to see a policeman holding a taser in her direction. Slowly, she stood, her hands in the air.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

First Impressions: Retro Shooter Redux

First Impressions: Retro Shooter Redux — Blue Ink Alchemy

Back in the day, graphical fidelity on PCs was not really up to rendering 3D environments within simulations. The best they could do back in the mid-90s was some polygons stacked together to make landscapes to fly over in jet simulators. However, clever folks at studios like Apogee and id Software could fool the eye with what was called "2-and-a-half D" to make corridors and courtyards seem like 3D environments. They then filled those corridors and courtyards with squishy Nazis and demons for us to shoot at in games like Wolfenstein 3D and Doom respectively. The popularity of first-person shooters exploded, with follow-ups including the medieval-themed Heretic and Hexen and Duke Nukem 3D, back when Duke was still actually kind of funny. This was long before concepts like "modern military" and "cover-based" would come to dominate the shooter scene. This was before shooters slowed down, when frenetic energy and sudden, panicked 180 swings with a rocket launcher was rewarded with gibbets of enemies and a slew of points instead of some distant would-be teammate calling you something offensive. Some shooters have tried to recapture this feeling - Painkiller springs to mind immediately - but to really come to grips with this difference in gaming, you have to go back to the classics, and that's exactly what some studios have done. I'm going to do full reviews of both Rise of the Triad and Shadow Warrior's remakes. I know they came out last year, and I know others have covered them. But I want more people to check them out. I want folks to realize that this sort of shooter can be a ton of fun, and you don't need remote-control drone strikes, glitzy latest-console-generation graphics, or half-baked invasion-of-America-because-they're-jealous-of-our-freedoms conspiracy theories to justify that fun. And I want to convey more fully the impression I get from playing these games. And that impression is, Holy shit this is fun as hell! Games are about having fun. They're about distracting us from chores and deadlines and every other actual stressor in life. I may enjoy a relaxing round of daily quests or dungeon-delving in World of Warcraft, or a thought-provoking intense game of Hearthstone, but sometimes I just want to blow something the fuck up. I want the thrill of fully automatic weapons, the visceral appeal of a well-timed sword strike, the inherent cool factor of heat-seeking missiles fired from the hip, and a commanding officer I want to pound into oblivion for being a bit of a twat. These games fulfill those urges, and in ways that won't get me arrested. You should check them out. I'll go into more detail in the weeks ahead. I do need to talk about boring stuff like premises, plots, characters, all of that stuff. It's what I do, after all. But for now: Holy shit they remade Shadow Warrior and Rise of the goddamn Triad and they look great and I'm laughing and it's fast and fun and OH CRAP NOT-NAZIS ARE SHOOTING AT ME AAAAAAAAAAH

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Blue Ink Alchemy

New Year's Changes

New Year's Changes — Blue Ink Alchemy

You may have noticed that I haven't posted lists of resolutions or any of the other traditional things that ring in the new year. You may have also noticed that I'm having a bit of a struggle maintaining the old schedule I used to have of what gets posted when. There are reasons for both of these occurrences. I don't do resolutions. Any time I've tried to make a concrete resolution, I've fallen short of the goal. As it is, I'm struggling to regain healthy habits I'd tried to establish last year. I will need to realign over the next few days even if it means going to bed earlier in the evening which will require me precluding myself from fun activities and time with friends. I do have long-term goals for the year ahead, but they're not resolutions. They're goals. It might be semantically splitting hairs, but I feel there's a distinct difference between the two. Either way, the goals I have in mind will change my life, hopefully for the better in the long run. As for the blog, it's going through some changes as well. I'm going to shift the reviews to Friday of every week, and do my Writer Report on Wednesday. This is another move aimed at long-term goals. I have some ideas for the year ahead and while I don't know if they'll go anywhere, it's still worthwhile to shake things up now and again. I'm also thinking of revising the blog with a new theme. Change is good, and the blog has remained somewhat unchanged for a long time. So stay tuned! There are good things ahead. At least, I'd like to think so.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Continuing Education

Continuing Education — Blue Ink Alchemy

A rather large book arrived from Amazon yesterday. It's a prep book for the Graduate Record Examination, or GRE. I rented it with the intent of taking the daunting test, and returning to graduate school. The question is, once I have a Masters of Fine Arts in, for example, Creative Writing, what will I do with it? I don't necessarily need the degree to be more successful as a writer. For that, I just need to write more. Promote more. Be more productive after long days of productivity. Continue to essentially work two jobs. So on, and so forth. The more I research MFA programs, the more it dawns on me that it isn't just my education that concerns me. I think others could use some help when it comes to writing. It's always been a goal of mine to inspire others to want better stories, to be the ones to write those stories, and to make a difference in the world. I think part of my frustration with my current circumstances is that it's difficult to see the difference I'm making when the work I do with the lion's share of my time could be done far more easily by someone ten years younger who's half as jaded and nowhere near as exhausted. I wish I was the kind of person who could just accept things as they are and roll with it until outside circumstances improve. There's a part of me that's jealous of people who have that capacity. My life would be a lot easier if I could just internalize and accept my situation. Yet here I am, nursing both headache and heartache, making what amounts to an escape plan and trying to plot a better future for myself rather than being content with and making the most of a less than ideal situation. I've gone forward blindly before, without any semblance of a plan or strategy, into the future, and so far it hasn't yielded anything resembling ideal results. I really need to change that, for myself, and that means some pretty radical changes. Taking the GRE, going back to grad school, convincing myself that it isn't too late to get myself in a position to make others better readers, better writers, better consumers of media... that all sounds pretty radical, to me. I'm still learning. More to the point, I'm still learning things about myself. As volatile and changeable and mercurial as my thoughts and emotions can be at times, I'm trying to learn that my instincts are worth trusting. I'm learning that it's okay to be up-front about my feelings and questioning of my circumstances. And I've learned that it's never too late to take steps to do what is best for me, not necessarily what I'm expected to do or what I think someone else would do no matter how much I aspire to be like that someone else. In the end, isn't that what being an individual is all about?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Something Old, Something New

Writer Report: Something Old, Something New — Blue Ink Alchemy

It isn't easy for a writer to realize, completely and utterly, that an idea of theirs isn't going to work. This is especially the case if it's an idea they've had for years. You can make a good story out of just about anything, it's true. But if too many characters are in need of depth or development and proceeding from flawed or over-used premises to begin with, getting a fresh start can only take you so far. The more times you begin to start from scratch, only to be tripped up by questions and concerns and thoughts of "wait, this doesn't actually make sense," the more the truth begins to dawn. And the truth is, I don't think I can save the story I was thinking of calling Godslayer. Maybe if I had the skill and time to program it into a computer game of some kind, it could turn out differently. The fact of the matter is, while literature is overflowing with flawed but good-natured protagonists who lean more towards being scholars or 'nerds', the lion's share of gaming's leads are burlier, surlier, and more boring. Godslayer could work as an adventure game, a point-and-click exercise from days of old revitalized by the likes of TellTale Games, but as it stands, the story is pretty much dead in the water as far as I can tell. Thankfully, I'm not starved for ideas. I'm moving forward with other projects. This year is going to be a busy one, and the plans I have for fiction are no exception. It's a shame that an idea I've had for years is ultimately going nowhere, but I'd rather be honest with myself and my readers about the quality of what I'm doing than try to keep polishing the same turd. If something old is going to stink up the place, the best plan is to ditch it and try something new.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Something Old, Something New

Writer Report: Something Old, Something New — Blue Ink Alchemy

It isn't easy for a writer to realize, completely and utterly, that an idea of theirs isn't going to work. This is especially the case if it's an idea they've had for years. You can make a good story out of just about anything, it's true. But if too many characters are in need of depth or development and proceeding from flawed or over-used premises to begin with, getting a fresh start can only take you so far. The more times you begin to start from scratch, only to be tripped up by questions and concerns and thoughts of "wait, this doesn't actually make sense," the more the truth begins to dawn. And the truth is, I don't think I can save the story I was thinking of calling Godslayer. Maybe if I had the skill and time to program it into a computer game of some kind, it could turn out differently. The fact of the matter is, while literature is overflowing with flawed but good-natured protagonists who lean more towards being scholars or 'nerds', the lion's share of gaming's leads are burlier, surlier, and more boring. Godslayer could work as an adventure game, a point-and-click exercise from days of old revitalized by the likes of TellTale Games, but as it stands, the story is pretty much dead in the water as far as I can tell. Thankfully, I'm not starved for ideas. I'm moving forward with other projects. This year is going to be a busy one, and the plans I have for fiction are no exception. It's a shame that an idea I've had for years is ultimately going nowhere, but I'd rather be honest with myself and my readers about the quality of what I'm doing than try to keep polishing the same turd.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Death and Deadlines

Death and Deadlines — Blue Ink Alchemy

To me, deadlines are more inevitable than taxes. And, since I apparently have some new ones to meet, the writer report I was planning on posting today is getting bumped. I really have to think hard about what I want out of this year.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Plotting the Year Ahead

Plotting the Year Ahead — Blue Ink Alchemy

Jealousy is an ugly emotion. And yet, I experience it more often than I'd care to admit. Looking back on not just 2013 but many years before, I'm recognizing patterns in my behavior and my habits. I know it may be a bit late in the game to be doing that, and a lot of time has been wasted because I haven't really taken note of such things before. However, I think what's important for me is to acknowledge these things and why they've contributed to my moments of self-sabotage. And a lot of that has to do with jealousy. I'm not an artist. I don't have the skills of the webcomic creators I follow so avidly. I've tried my hand at presenting my critical views in both audio and video forms, mostly because I find the talents and presence of several Internet critics rather admirable. I'm a decent hand with several games, from Magic the Gathering to Starcraft 2 to Hearthstone, but I have yet to demonstrate any true potential for a professional win record. I don't think I'm going to stop any of those things. I may sketch and doodle, I'm still going to review entertainment I expose myself to (especially if it sucks), and I'll continue playing games. But these things need to come after paying attention to things I know I'm good at. And one thing in particular: being a writer of long-form fiction. The beginning of this year seems to be one of realignment. I'm plotting out my travels for the year, and the eventual move. I'm doing my best to plan things in advance, which isn't easy for me. In the past I've tended to be more of a seat-of-the-pants type. Looking back as I am, though, it's pretty obvious that hasn't really worked for me. Let's try something new this year, shall we?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Beginning 2014

Beginning 2014 — Blue Ink Alchemy

I, along with many people in the country, am recovering from last night's celebrations. I don't necessarily like this being my first entry for 2014, but a lack of foresight on my end has put me in this position. I will, however, put together something interesting for tomorrow. I do have a great deal lined up for the year ahead - writing for other blogs, more travel, streaming games, and so on. There is certainly more to come, and I do hope you stay around for it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy