I'm An Adult, I Swear

I'm An Adult, I Swear — Blue Ink Alchemy

Art courtesy Andre Jordan I feel, at times, that I am failing at this whole "adulthood" thing. I don't have what people would consider a traditional career path. I'm not looking after or interested in inheriting the family business, as the family doesn't really have one - other than being awesome. I do not walk in my father's footsteps, though I do have an intense amount of love and respect for the man and all he and my mother do for this family. I didn't stay in the stability of an office despite indications of job security, and instead opted for a new path that seems to be, on the whole, better for my personality, if not my prosperity. I am unsure if that is what people would consider the 'mature' thing to do. I'm not a very conservative person. If you know anything about my political views (which I used to broadcast pretty hard in this blog space) that would be fairly obvious. There's also the fact that I spend a great deal of time inside my own head. I have story ideas, a desire to write more, thoughts on games and films and comics and entertainment in general, and that's to say nothing about the static and white noise of various disorders, doubts, and dread tied to mistakes of the past and fears for the future. But, hey, at least I'm still getting resumes and job applications out every day, right? I should be writing more. I need a tight reign on my spending. I waste too much time, sleep in too late, exercise too little. I criticize myself pretty much daily, if not hourly, because I feel like if I don't, I will accomplish even less than the little I already do. Then again, this could be the influence of depression that comes from being uncertain about income in a situation where I really can't afford to be. I am aware of this, and struggling to internalize the idea that no, the situation is not hopeless and things will improve, especially if I keep working on it. Even an inch of progress towards a goal is forward motion, and it's better than nothing. I have to hold on to that. I'm going to finish this post, look after the needs of the cats, and hopefully do more writing and job hunting before I get terribly distracted. I do have a great deal of work ahead of me, and nobody else can do it for me. I guess that realization and the actions that follow in its wake really are a mark of adulthood. Even if I have no real clue as to what I'm going to be doing next.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Spectre of Business

The Spectre of Business — Blue Ink Alchemy

Art by Alexandra Douglass Full disclosure: I am not a businessman. I'm not much of a salesman, either. Even selling myself has been a struggle in the past. But considering the direction in which I'm moving, I really need to work on those skills. Because I need to work harder on transitioning Blue Ink Alchemy away from a tiny little niche blog and label towards an actual brand and platform. For years I've been using this blog mostly to promote what writing I've managed to do between shifts at the dayjob and trying to refine my critical skills. It was more my lack of self-promotional skills that lead to the continuing hiatus of IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! which people did seem to enjoy. As much as I would like to get back to it, there's a problem with continuing a focus on that sort of work in this space. I don't think I'm going to stop doing reviews when I see, read, or play something relevant, because there's nothing wrong with having a good library of examples to put in front of potential employers. I definitely feel in the midst of a career change, what with the job search and all. As much as I'm trying to nail down income as immediately as possible, a part-time job would be better suited to my long-term goals. I've spent more than enough time getting in my own way when it comes to bridging the gap between where I am and where I want to be. I haven't actually hammered out a business plan yet, but I do have a to-do list. On that list, including clearing some black marks from my credit, is a redesign for this very site. I want to put the blog (what you're reading now) behind a front page that talks about my successful writing, lists my available services as a freelancer and copyeditor (I will read and red-pen anything!), and features a self-run online store. Even if I'm not processing the payments myself, and just referring people to Amazon or another outlet, I want to make sure the thing I do get the proper promotion. And nobody's going to do that but me. So watch this space! It's going to change. Hopefully, for the better.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Doctor Who?

Doctor Who? — Blue Ink Alchemy

One of the brilliant concepts built into Doctor Who is the idea of regeneration. When a Time Lord is mortally wounded or exposed to lethal levels of radiation or what have you, they have a final, powerful mechanism for survival. Their body literally rebuilds itself, taking on a new appearance and stature. This also has the side effect of scrambling their memories and personality, at least temporarily. Eventually, a Time Lord returns to their base nature, though somewhat changed due to the experiences of their previous form. So it is with the Time Lord known as the Doctor. He has existed in 13 different incarnations, from the old and crotchety (his First, when we finally see it) to the young and optimistic (the Fifth). His personality, while it has varied, always skews towards a curious and scientific brilliance, a love for exploration and investigation, an aversion to unnecessary violence, and a deep sense of compassion. Some Doctors do not quite get into sync right away (see the Sixth Doctor... if you dare), and others are saddled with a few too many companions to the point that the drama and antics within the TARDIS can overshadow what is happening outside of it (the Fifth again, as well as the Eleventh). Which brings us to the Twelfth Doctor, Peter Capaldi. We're only a few episodes into Capaldi's run, but he is already winning hearts and minds, including mine. His appearance and bearing are reminiscent of the Third Doctor, whose tenure featured plenty of acerbic humor and some crackling action. He speaks with a Scottish accent and has a penchant for manipulation and the occasional mind-game, which reminds me happily of the Seventh Doctor. The interior of his TARDIS is lined with bookshelves and feels very utilitarian, while the chalkboards upon which he writes reveal a mind dominated by analysis and procedure as much as his trademark curiosity. He feels like a very intellectual creature, very much mind over matter, and this is also shown in his awkwardness towards physical contact. To me, the Twelfth Doctor is a breath of fresh air. After two incarnations who were just as physically attractive as they were smart, to the point that their eligibility with and attraction towards their Companions became major plot points, a Doctor focused on the adventure at hand and the puzzles requiring the intellect of a Time Lord to solve is quite welcome. It may be off-putting to those who have only hopped into the TARDIS in recent years, but I would recommend that put-off fans (a) get caught up with the adventures of older Doctors (the Fourth, Fifth, and Seventh in particular), and (b) give Peter Capaldi a chance. He is doing a fantastic job so far, his Companion is doing extremely well and reminding me of the days of Sarah Jane Smith (I'll do a post on favorite Companions at some point), and the adventures both hearken to earlier days and promise great mysteries and revelations ahead. I'm definitely excited for the new and upcoming seasons of Doctor Who. Feel free to leave your comments and thoughts on the Twelfth Doctor, whatever they might be!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Pilot Review: Gotham

Pilot Review: Gotham — Blue Ink Alchemy

It's officially Autumn. New television shows are starting to come out of the woodwork. After the season premieres of The Blacklist (which was excellent) and Sleepy Hollow (as delightfully and shamelessly fun and adventurous as always), I watched the pilot of the new series Gotham. With the sort of premise that guarantees a built-in fan base, a top shelf cast, and the promotional power of the FOX network, I was curious to see what the show might bring to the table every Monday night. Most stories involving Batman gloss over the years that follow the murder of his parents. Gotham opens with that event, and what follows immediately after. The focal point of the story is James Gordon, who is a recently-promoted homicide detective of the Gotham City Police Department. He and his salty, potentially dirty partner Harvey Bullock get saddled with the Wayne murders, and tasked with solving the case as quickly as possible to allay the fears of the populace. In their investigation, the detectives inadvertently become involved in the underworld rivalry of crime bosses Carmine Falcone and Fish Mooney, and come across more than a few characters with names quite familiar to Batman fans watching the show. While I have only seen a few episodes of Smallville, I got a very definite and similar vibe from Gotham. As much as stories that blossom from the fertile fields of comic books tend to be grandiose in scale and scope, this show is more intimate, more human, and more gritty than a lot of that fare. We're dealing with the origins of a great deal of characters beyond Batman, which is definitely not a bad thing - it's been said that Batman is the least interesting character in the Batman mythos. But as I said, the overarching plotlines write themselves, as they have already been written, and the end of the series is likely to be Bruce donning the cape and cowl, so the devil is clearly going to be found in the details. If nothing else, Gotham has an excellent cast. Donal Logue is doing fantastic work as Harvey Bullock. In the animated series, Bullock was mostly a fat slob bent on arresting Batman and being a pain in Gordon's ass, but here, he's a nuanced character who is not necessarily completely corrupt but nonetheless operates in a gray area between the law and the underworld. The nascent versions of the Caped Crusader's villains are appropriately cast, from the sadistic and ambitious Oswald Cobblepot (Robin Lord Taylor) to the quiet and meticulous Edward Nygma (Cory Michael Smith). The incomparable Sean Pertwee plays Alfred Pennyworth opposite a young actor named David Mazouz who is already showing the sort of deep disturbance that would cause a grown man to dress up like a bat and fight crime. So far, the linchpin of the whole enterprise, Ben McKenzie's James Gordon, seems a bit non-descript, but there are hints to more going on beneath his surface, so in spite of his dry delivery, I'd say I'm on board. Gotham looks to be off to a decent start. The background of the city feels authentic, and rather than drawing direct parallels to the animated series, the Burton/Schumaker years, or Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy, television's Gotham City feels very much like its own urban beast. The characters have bite to them, and the performances come from authentic places. It's entirely possible that this will fall off as the series goes on, and not every episode will be up to snuff, but this is a good start. I would recommend checking it out, even if you're not that fond of the Caped Crusader.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The #GamerGate Post

The #GamerGate Post — Blue Ink Alchemy

This was pretty much inevitable. It is foolish to paint any large group of people with a monochromatic brush. Human beings are individuals, even when they band together into groups over a common cause or belief. Sitting here and writing about how huge swaths of the gaming community are toxic, ignorant, vile pieces of invective filth is the easiest thing in the world to do. But justifying their behavior in any way, shape, or form is just as harmful and non-productive. So you will not find this post doing either of those things. Better, more experienced writers than myself have tackled this issue extremely well. People who make games, and write about games for a living, have already held massive discussions on the state of our community. I neither make nor write about games for a living - yet - so I feel underqualified to write about this from those perspectives. All I can do is the following: Hi. I'm a gamer. I think games are transformative. I think that they can speak to us on a level other forms of media struggle to reach. The interactive nature of games pulls the player into more intimate contact with the message and ideas of the game. Well-made games, from huge productions like BioShock Infinite to small independent titles like Papers, Please and Depression Quest, can make the gamer think - to put down the controller or step away from the keyboard, and really mull over what was just witnessed and how it affects them. Note the use of the word "can". Not every gamer is like me. Not every gamer wants to have that level of connection with their entertainment. Some gamers just want to be pandered to, looking for distraction more than interaction. That's okay; there isn't anything wrong with that. Call of Duty and Madden make fucktons of money for that reason - bread and circuses for the masses. I am not the first to point this out. Games journalism in general, and criticism in particular, have started to become very pervasive and even widely recognized. Lumaries of the art can look at a game from an almost entirely objective point of view, highlight its flaws (because every game has a couple), and describe for whom the game is best suited. Professionals like those at Rockpapershotgun, Joystiq, and Polygon do this extremely well, and make it look easy. Imagine me shaking my fist in good-hearted jealousy. The problem - and it is a really big one - is when some gamers take it upon themselves to criticize the makers of games, and the critics of games, rather than the games themselves. Especially when said makers and critics self-identify and outwardly display as non-male, non-white, non-hetero, or some combination of the above. Let's look at the facts. Anita Sarkeesian, Zoe Quinn, Susan Arendt, and many many others have been bombarded with all sorts of bile simply by existing in the public eye of the gamer community. While some try to play it off as critiquing their work, it seems clear that the majority of this incendiary bullroar is based on the fact that these people happen to have vaginas. They've recieved threats of rape. Photos of their houses have been sent. Some even threaten death. The fact is, the world is a large and diverse place. Half or more of its population are born with vaginas. I cannot speak to their orientation or self-identification as children, but as adults, people make all sorts of decisions regarding how they want to live and be percieved by others. They, somewhat reasonably, ask to be treated equally and taken seriously by the world around them. They explain themselves intellectually and eloquently, make artistic or critical statements, and accept actual criticism with grace and understanding. And the response from the community around me is - death threats? Refraining from historical examples (look them up), attempting to assert control on a large population through fear and intimidation does not work. At least, it doesn't work for long. The more a group attempts to build walls of terror around those they wish to corral, the more individuals will band together against that control, seeing it for the weak and foundationless position that it is. While there are people who do not necessarily have the wherewithal to realize domestic verbal terror assaults for what they are, and believe the rhetoric of those who threaten death and despair, experience has shown that game developers and games journalists are not among them. To continue the invective is to fight a losing battle. Attacking the people instead of criticizing their work or position is foolish and wastes everyone's time. It is, objectively, idiotic. By way of example: I do not necessarily agree with every point Anita Sarkeesian makes in her videos. I think her presentation tends to be rather dry and impersonal, which can make engaging with her material difficult. She definitely has points to make, and some of them are good, but others could use more drive to get them to hit home for someone like me. But, that is my individual position, and while I acknowledge her videos are imperfect, the videos are made with the intent that future games can be better than those that came before, and in that, they have a chance at real success. In the example above, points are made about the videos produced by Anita Sarkeesian and their content. Mentions of the content creator herself are imited, as the critique is aimed at said content, not said creator. This is the sort of thing that can be used to make future content better, and instead of seeking to silence the voice that is tackling a hard issue, encourages it to speak louder. I could go on about how ad-based journalism sites will always have problems with objectivity or the tragedy of journalists becoming disengaged from and desensitized towards the community around that which they love, but I think I've covered a good amount of ground for now. I leave you with the following. Winston Churchill once said "I have always felt that a politician be judged by the animosities he excites amongst his opponents". When Theodore Roosevelt came under fire for taking on big business, he said "I welcome your hatred". Like it or not, games development and games journalism have political aspects, and by Churchill's standards, people like Anita Sarkeesian, Zoe Quinn, and Susan Arendt are luminaries of their fields, based solely on the animosities they excite amongst the masses. In addition to being short-sighted, ignorant, and terroristic, the threats and bile do not disprove the points being made by those being attacked; rather, they give those points more visibility and turn more people on to the viewpoints held by those who would remain silent through fear and doubt. The perpetuators of hatred in the gaming community are doing a wonderful job of defeating themselves, and though I do not think their hatred should be condoned or encouraged, I have to smile at the irony that they are doing such an excellent job of shooting themselves in the kneecaps. I know it's scary. I know it's vile. But as a community, as a part of the human race, as gamers and game makers and game critics who are more interested in better games than we are in sharpening daggers and hating that which is 'other' - we got this. You're not alone. And it won't last forever. Look at history. It never does. The future is ours. And we will get there together.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

I Want It All

I Want It All — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm still curious about the particulars of a business plan for Blue Ink Alchemy. A serious and strict writing schedule, Patreon, fundraising, promotional work, deadlines... these are all things I've burned lean tissue considering. It would be wonderful to hammer everything into place and get that phase of my life completely started. I've even considered hitting an open mic night to try my hand at stand-up. I'd also like to pay my bills and get travel plans together, though, and the uncertain nature of crowdfunding and contract payments would make that extremely difficult. I'm afraid this will qualify as whining or making excuses, but I have to face hard facts. I failed to put aside a comfortable amount of savings before my move, and I have a great deal of mundane concerns to address, such as rent, auto registration, and so on. And the unfortunate truth is that employment secured through more 'traditional' methods is the most efficient way to stay on top of those things, and stow the savings I should have been working on in the first place. While conducting interviews and hunting down positions I can fill, I'm still hard at work on writing outlines, building worlds, and editing other writings. I have my eyes open for opportunities. I'm still planning and still dreaming. Because while my funding might be limited, my ambitions aren't. As much as I'm trying to be realistic, I still want it all. And I do, in fact, want it now.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Velocity, Part 3

Flash Fiction: Velocity, Part 3 — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the final portion of this rather epic Flash Fiction Challenge Chuck Wendig has been running, I chose to finish the intriguing tale Velocity, started by Mark Gardner and continued by LC Finney. I hope they, and you, enjoy how I finish the story. Part 1 (by Mark Gardner) Falling. I rush to you with my eyes open wide. I've protected you for years, but now you're my undoing. Worthless. I gaze at the weapon clutched in my hand. My knuckles white with exertion. I cling to what's familiar, but it mocks me. A tool for keeping the peace used in such a profane manner. Futility. I tried to stop them, but I wasn't good enough. I did my duty with honor. "Velocity two meters per second squared. Dispatching rescue drone." I snort at my 'assistant.' Or as much of a snort you can muster while falling. I'm reminded of a quip my partner said once: When trouble breaks out, the assistants break down. I kept up with all the maintenance, followed all the procedures. When the damn thing broke, I requisitioned a replacement. I'd seen old videos of skydivers. They fall spread-eagle for maximum drag, but I've already reached terminal velocity. The problem is, they had a parachute. It's been said, It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop at the end. It's amazing what trivialities the mind conjures in a situation like this. "Rescue drone deployed. Calculating time until intercept." It's amazing I can hear the thing with the wind rushing over me. The sound is intense. If it weren't for my cochlear implant, I'd never know if help was on the way. The implant inputs audio directly into my auditory cortex and detects the vibrations of the tympanic membrane in my ear when I speak. "Drone inbound. Estimated time until arrival, thirty-seven seconds." Thirty-seven seconds. "Assistant." I said. "Access geolocation. Estimate time until impact." I hear the beep. "Five thousand nine hundred eighty seven feet until impact. Estimated time, thirty-three seconds." I feel tears briefly – the wind steals them and their meaning from me. The sky is so clear, I can see for miles and miles. Below, the patchwork of ground creates a mosaic. It would be beautiful if it didn't mean my death. Resigned to my fate, I holster my weapon. I suspect if the wind wasn't biting my clothing, I might try to straighten my tie and jacket. If I have to be a corpse, I'd prefer to be a handsome corpse. "Impact immanent. Reduce speed immediately." No shit. I think as I see less and less of the mosaic below. I squeeze my eyes and think about what led me here. Part 2 (by LC Feeney) Gemma. Well, to be fair, not Gemma herself, but a need to impress her. I'd always wanted to be special, to make something of myself. I'd lapped up all the propaganda, the adventure and romance they promised, the whole "be part of something bigger, something important" crap the recruiters feed you. When I'd signed up, I'd envisioned myself as something of a white knight, a superhero, a great defender of the clueless, unwashed masses. I'd risen through the ranks pretty quickly, and when I met Gemma, it seemed like a sign from God that I was on the right track, that we were meant to be. She was perfect in every way and I was determined to be worthy of her attention, her affection. I focused on the memory of our last encounter, determined that my dying thoughts would be of her. Her short, coppery hair had fallen into her eyes, like it always did when she leaned down to kiss me, and she'd tasted of coconut curry and good beer from our supper. Our lovemaking had been slow, comfortable, familiar, and she had snuggled down into the crook of my arm afterward, so small and pale and smooth. I'd tried not to wake her as I'd gathered my gear and dressed in the dark, but she'd thrown on my carelessly discarded shirt from the day before and walked me to the door. She always did that, wearing my shirts around the house when I was away. She said she could smell me when she wore them, and it kept her from being lonely. What would I have done differently, if I'd known that that would be the last time I'd ever touch her, ever kiss her? Would I have held her in my arms a little longer, kissed her a little more slowly, looked more deeply into her eyes as I said my goodbyes? Would I have tried to tell her how much I love her, or how my life had changed for the better since I'd met her? Would I have left her with some pithy, memorable line that she could recite, through tears, at my memorial service or have engraved on my headstone? Or would I have just driven away, like I had done so many times before, so as not to give her any unnecessary grief? How much time did I have left? Could I send her a message? "Assistant, contact Gemma," I shouted, suddenly desperate to connect with her one last time. An eternity of waiting, then a reply. "Gemma is unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?" "No." The tears sprang to my eyes again. It was a stupid, selfish idea anyway. She didn't need to hear me die. It was better this way. At least, for her. I willed my breathing to slow and my mind to focus on Gemma again, standing in the doorway wrapped in my dress shirt, blowing me kisses and waving as I pulled away from the curb. Part 3: My salary isn't great. I'd only ever been able to afford a landcar for personal use. Not one of the fancy aircars that the rich or influential often get their hands on, making low flights across vast expanses of home on leisurely drives. As the ground speeds towards me, the sun reflects off of the windscreen of one such aircar. I can't tell how far up it might be, but from the way its moving, it isn't on ground level. And that gives me an idea. My path to the aircraft from which I'd made my ill-advised exist hadn't been a linear one. The operation, as laid out for me, involved infiltrating the hideout and gathering intel to feed back to my partner, who would in turn encrypt and burst-transmit it to HQ for analysis. We wanted to surprise these so-called 'freedom fighters', but one of them took a wrong turn towards the bathroom and found me in the tiny kitchen's dumbwaiter. I'd managed to shoot three of them before getting shoved out the door. Not my proudest moment - dead guys can't tell us where they buy their biowarheads. I have about twenty seconds. I draw my weapon again, and dig around in one of the pouches on my belt, normally concealed by my suit's jacket. The grappling equipment disables the weapon's main functions and has a variety of attachment options, including a rather powerful rare-earth magnet. If that aircar isn't a fancy carbon-fiber racing model - and judging by its leisurely pace, I'd say it isn't - I can latch onto it. The grappler can reel me in, and I can get the driver to put me down on the ground safely, rather than letting me splatter. That is, of course, provided the whiplash from the change in my velocity doesn't break my neck or my spine. It takes me five seconds to attach the grappler, another two to lock in the magnet, one more to enable the auto-reel. I spread my arms again to possibly by a couple of seconds back. The aircar is doing slow, lazy loops over the countryside. Someone's sightseeing or taking photos. That makes my job easier, but then I get close enough to see just how far up they are. Just a couple hundred feet. This is going to be close. "Warning. Impact in ten seconds." "Thanks for nothing," I tell the assistant. The grappler's got about twenty meters of braided monofilament line in its spool. I try to eyeball the distance, the ways in which aircar is moving, and how many seconds I have left. I hold my breath, blink away tears, and wait an agonizing three seconds. The aircar passes under me at the right angle. I pull the trigger. I don't remember the next second. Every goes violently black. I come to gripping the gun as it reels me in. The driver of the aircar is turned halfway around, eyes as big as satellite dishes. I show my badge. "Got a phone?"

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The #GamerGate Post

The #GamerGate Post — Blue Ink Alchemy

This was pretty much inevitable. It is foolish to paint any large group of people with a monochromatic brush. Human beings are individuals, even when they band together into groups over a common cause or belief. Sitting here and writing about how huge swaths of the gaming community are toxic, ignorant, vile pieces of invective filth is the easiest thing in the world to do. But justifying their behavior in any way, shape, or form is just as harmful and non-productive. So you will not find this post doing either of those things. Better, more experienced writers than myself have tackled this issue extremely well. People who make games, and write about games for a living, have already held massive discussions on the state of our community. I neither make nor write about games for a living - yet - so I feel underqualified to write about this from those perspectives. All I can do is the following: Hi. I'm a gamer. I think games are transformative. I think that they can speak to us on a level other forms of media struggle to reach. The interactive nature of games pulls the player into more intimate contact with the message and ideas of the game. Well-made games, from huge productions like BioShock Infinite to small independent titles like Papers, Please and Depression Quest, can make the gamer think - to put down the controller or step away from the keyboard, and really mull over what was just witnessed and how it affects them. Note the use of the word "can". Not every gamer is like me. Not every gamer wants to have that level of connection with their entertainment. Some gamers just want to be pandered to, looking for distraction more than interaction. That's okay; there isn't anything wrong with that. Call of Duty and Madden make fucktons of money for that reason - bread and circuses for the masses. I am not the first to point this out. Games journalism in general, and criticism in particular, have started to become very pervasive and even widely recognized. Lumaries of the art can look at a game from an almost entirely objective point of view, highlight its flaws (because every game has a couple), and describe for whom the game is best suited. Professionals like those at Rockpapershotgun, Joystiq, and Polygon do this extremely well, and make it look easy. Imagine me shaking my fist in good-hearted jealousy. The problem - and it is a really big one - is when some gamers take it upon themselves to criticize the makers of games, and the critics of games, rather than the games themselves. Especially when said makers and critics self-identify and outwardly display as non-male, non-white, non-hetero, or some combination of the above. Let's look at the facts. Anita Sarkeesian, Zoe Quinn, Susan Arendt, and many many others have been bombarded with all sorts of bile simply by existing in the public eye of the gamer community. While some try to play it off as critiquing their work, it seems clear that the majority of this incendiary bullroar is based on the fact that these people happen to have vaginas. They've recieved threats of rape. Photos of their houses have been sent. Some even threaten death. The fact is, the world is a large and diverse place. Half or more of its population are born with vaginas. I cannot speak to their orientation or self-identification as children, but as adults, people make all sorts of decisions regarding how they want to live and be percieved by others. They, somewhat reasonably, ask to be treated equally and taken seriously by the world around them. They explain themselves intellectually and eloquently, make artistic or critical statements, and accept actual criticism with grace and understanding. And the response from the community around me is - death threats? Refraining from historical examples (look them up), attempting to assert control on a large population through fear and intimidation does not work. At least, it doesn't work for long. The more a group attempts to build walls of terror around those they wish to corral, the more individuals will band together against that control, seeing it for the weak and foundationless position that it is. While there are people who do not necessarily have the wherewithal to realize domestic verbal terror assaults for what they are, and believe the rhetoric of those who threaten death and despair, experience has shown that game developers and games journalists are not among them. To continue the invective is to fight a losing battle. Attacking the people instead of criticizing their work or position is foolish and wastes everyone's time. It is, objectively, idiotic. By way of example: I do not necessarily agree with every point Anita Sarkeesian makes in her videos. I think her presentation tends to be rather dry and impersonal, which can make engaging with her material difficult. She definitely has points to make, and some of them are good, but others could use more drive to get them to hit home for someone like me. But, that is my individual position, and while I acknowledge her videos are imperfect, the videos are made with the intent that future games can be better than those that came before, and in that, they have a chance at real success. In the example above, points are made about the videos produced by Anita Sarkeesian and their content. Mentions of the content creator herself are imited, as the critique is aimed at said content, not said creator. This is the sort of thing that can be used to make future content better, and instead of seeking to silence the voice that is tackling a hard issue, encourages it to speak louder. I could go on about how ad-based journalism sites will always have problems with objectivity or the tragedy of journalists becoming disengaged from and desensitized towards the community around that which they love, but I think I've covered a good amount of ground for now. I leave you with the following. Winston Churchill once said "I have always felt that a politician be judged by the animosities he excites amongst his opponents". When Theodore Roosevelt came under fire for taking on big business, he said "I welcome your hatred". Like it or not, games development and games journalism have political aspects, and by Churchill's standards, people like Anita Sarkeesian, Zoe Quinn, and Susan Arendt are luminaries of their fields, based solely on the animosities they excite amongst the masses. In addition to being short-sighted, ignorant, and terroristic, the threats and bile do not disprove the points being made by those being attacked; rather, they give those points more visibility and turn more people on to the viewpoints held by those who would remain silent through fear and doubt. The perpetuators of hatred in the gaming community are doing a wonderful job of defeating themselves, and though I do not think their hatred should be condoned or encouraged, I have to smile at the irony that they are doing such an excellent job of shooting themselves in the kneecaps. I know it's scary. I know it's vile. But as a community, as a part of the human race, as gamers and game makers and game critics who are more interested in better games than we are in sharpening daggers and hating that which is 'other' - we got this. You're not alone. And it won't last forever. Look at history. It never does. The future is ours. And we will get there together.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The #GamersGate Post

The #GamersGate Post — Blue Ink Alchemy

This was pretty much inevitable. It is foolish to paint any large group of people with a monochromatic brush. Human beings are individuals, even when they band together into groups over a common cause or belief. Sitting here and writing about how huge swaths of the gaming community are toxic, ignorant, vile pieces of invective filth is the easiest thing in the world to do. But justifying their behavior in any way, shape, or form is just as harmful and non-productive. So you will not find this post doing either of those things. Better, more experienced writers than myself have tackled this issue extremely well. People who make games, and write about games for a living, have already held massive discussions on the state of our community. I neither make nor write about games for a living - yet - so I feel underqualified to write about this from those perspectives. All I can do is the following: Hi. I'm a gamer. I think games are transformative. I think that they can speak to us on a level other forms of media struggle to reach. The interactive nature of games pulls the player into more intimate contact with the message and ideas of the game. Well-made games, from huge productions like BioShock Infinite to small independent titles like Papers, Please and Depression Quest, can make the gamer think - to put down the controller or step away from the keyboard, and really mull over what was just witnessed and how it affects them. Note the use of the word "can". Not every gamer is like me. Not every gamer wants to have that level of connection with their entertainment. Some gamers just want to be pandered to, looking for distraction more than interaction. That's okay; there isn't anything wrong with that. Call of Duty and Madden make fucktons of money for that reason - bread and circuses for the masses. I am not the first to point this out. Games journalism in general, and criticism in particular, have started to become very pervasive and even widely recognized. Lumaries of the art can look at a game from an almost entirely objective point of view, highlight its flaws (because every game has a couple), and describe for whom the game is best suited. Professionals like those at Rockpapershotgun, Joystiq, and Polygon do this extremely well, and make it look easy. Imagine me shaking my fist in good-hearted jealousy. The problem - and it is a really big one - is when some gamers take it upon themselves to criticize the makers of games, and the critics of games, rather than the games themselves. Especially when said makers and critics self-identify and outwardly display as non-male, non-white, non-hetero, or some combination of the above. Let's look at the facts. Anita Sarkeesian, Zoe Quinn, Susan Arendt, and many many others have been bombarded with all sorts of bile simply by existing in the public eye of the gamer community. While some try to play it off as critiquing their work, it seems clear that the majority of this incendiary bullroar is based on the fact that these people happen to have vaginas. They've recieved threats of rape. Photos of their houses have been sent. Some even threaten death. The fact is, the world is a large and diverse place. Half or more of its population are born with vaginas. I cannot speak to their orientation or self-identification as children, but as adults, people make all sorts of decisions regarding how they want to live and be percieved by others. They, somewhat reasonably, ask to be treated equally and taken seriously by the world around them. They explain themselves intellectually and eloquently, make artistic or critical statements, and accept actual criticism with grace and understanding. And the response from the community around me is - death threats? Refraining from historical examples (look them up), attempting to assert control on a large population through fear and intimidation does not work. At least, it doesn't work for long. The more a group attempts to build walls of terror around those they wish to corral, the more individuals will band together against that control, seeing it for the weak and foundationless position that it is. While there are people who do not necessarily have the wherewithal to realize domestic verbal terror assaults for what they are, and believe the rhetoric of those who threaten death and despair, experience has shown that game developers and games journalists are not among them. To continue the invective is to fight a losing battle. Attacking the people instead of criticizing their work or position is foolish and wastes everyone's time. It is, objectively, idiotic. By way of example: I do not necessarily agree with every point Anita Sarkeesian makes in her videos. I think her presentation tends to be rather dry and impersonal, which can make engaging with her material difficult. She definitely has points to make, and some of them are good, but others could use more drive to get them to hit home for someone like me. But, that is my individual position, and while I acknowledge her videos are imperfect, the videos are made with the intent that future games can be better than those that came before, and in that, they have a chance at real success. In the example above, points are made about the videos produced by Anita Sarkeesian and their content. Mentions of the content creator herself are imited, as the critique is aimed at said content, not said creator. This is the sort of thing that can be used to make future content better, and instead of seeking to silence the voice that is tackling a hard issue, encourages it to speak louder. I could go on about how ad-based journalism sites will always have problems with objectivity or the tragedy of journalists becoming disengaged from and desensitized towards the community around that which they love, but I think I've covered a good amount of ground for now. I leave you with the following. Winston Churchill once said "I have always felt that a politician be judged by the animosities he excites amongst his opponents". When Theodore Roosevelt came under fire for taking on big business, he said "I welcome your hatred". Like it or not, games development and games journalism have political aspects, and by Churchill's standards, people like Anita Sarkeesian, Zoe Quinn, and Susan Arendt are luminaries of their fields, based solely on the animosities they excite amongst the masses. In addition to being short-sighted, ignorant, and terroristic, the threats and bile do not disprove the points being made by those being attacked; rather, they give those points more visibility and turn more people on to the viewpoints held by those who would remain silent through fear and doubt. The perpetuators of hatred in the gaming community are doing a wonderful job of defeating themselves, and though I do not think their hatred should be condoned or encouraged, I have to smile at the irony that they are doing such an excellent job of shooting themselves in the kneecaps. I know it's scary. I know it's vile. But as a community, as a part of the human race, as gamers and game makers and game critics who are more interested in better games than we are in sharpening daggers and hating that which is 'other' - we got this. You're not alone. And it won't last forever. Look at history. It never does. The future is ours. And we will get there together.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Let's Talk Comedy

Let's Talk Comedy — Blue Ink Alchemy

To keep my spirits up during one of the most unusual and patience-testing transitional periods in my life, I've been checking out more comedy. Before my move, I hadn't watched much It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, or any Arrested Development or Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Between those shows, and keeping up with The Daily Show, Colbert Reportm, and @midnight, I've been thinking about what makes good comedy, and all of its different styles. I feel that it's a very subjective topic, as what is funny to one person is completely tasteless to another, but I think there are a few objective facts we can consider regarding various approaches to making people laugh. I think that stand-up comedy and improv take different skill sets. Stand-ups write their material in advance, and focus on making sure their delivery is earnest and clear. Improv performers work almost entirely off the cuff, playing with one another in a very real way to make the comedy as spontaneous and energetic as possible. Some stand-ups can whip out jokes on the fly, and some improv performers do great stand-up. But in both cases, when the performers are on, the laughs flow freely. I've never really liked laugh tracks. Live audiences are definitely better, especially in a show that flows organically like the above mentioned Comedy Central shows, or live shows like Saturday Night Live. Spontaneous laughter is the best. I have to wonder on some sitcoms with live audiences if there are prompts to laugh or applaud. This probably isn't the case, but when I have trouble laughing at something like The Big Bang Theory, I find myself curious. The thing about situation comedies is that the comedy should be in the situations. While characters certainly matter, in that their interactions and clashes either aggravate or undercut said situations, I don't feel that the flaws or difficulties of the characters should be the crux or point of the humor. While a character with what might be called defects can put others into funny situations, said defects should not be depicted as funny in and of themselves. That method seems insensitive, and for me, it kills the humor. That could just be me, though. Like I said, comedy is subjective. What do you find funny? What comedy for you falls flat?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Fee, Continued

Flash Fiction: Fee, Continued — Blue Ink Alchemy

Getting back to the normal Flash Fiction feature here at Blue Ink Alchemy, I'm jumping into the Terribleminds challenge of Continuing The Tale, Part Two. I decided to follow up on the excellent start provided by Lisa Shininger, which you can see the original containing post here. Enjoy! Part 1, by Lisa: Fee didn't recognize the voice at the door, but she knew the face when she looked through the peephole. Danny Vinzo was a pinch-faced boy with piggy eyes and a perpetual sneer. A bully from birth. "You in there, Alou?" Danny demanded, banging again. "I texted an hour ago. We need more." "He went out. Back soon, I'm sure," Fee told him. She couldn't turn him away. Danny was a regular. So she pasted on a welcoming smile and opened the door. It wasn't hard to pretend. She had plenty of practice. Pleasant was a good distraction, one way or another. Danny shoved past her and stomped down the hall like a man who weighed three times as much. Behind him came another boy. Solid where Danny was reedy, this one had skin like stucco and a suspicious look he seemed to aim everywhere at once. "Sure, come in," she said to their backs. At least her kitchen always cheered her up, no matter what or who was in it. Danny heaved himself into a rickety chair, which creaked nervously under him. The other boy hovered near the fridge with his hands clasped behind him. His eyes never stopped moving, measuring everything. Fee saw him look at her, away, back again. What did he see? Height of the new winter, hot and bright, and here she skulked in long sleeves and skirt. Boys their age always thought she was ancient—harmless—so she played it up. Sugared her voice even more. Asked if they wanted a glass of something. Her hands were starting to shake a bit. Not enough so they would notice, surely. She curled one hand until the knuckles cracked. With a smile to Danny, she said, "Let me call Alou so you don't have to wait. He should be back any minute!" Fee picked up the phone and hurried out of the kitchen. Past the door to the basement and into the living room, she pretended to dial. There was no need. Alou was exactly where she'd put him. "He's on his way!" she shouted toward the kitchen. "Five minutes out, tops." Everything Fee needed was behind a false stone in the fireplace. She checked to make sure neither boy had followed. Danny wasn't what anyone would consider the curious type, but his friend…. She jimmied the stone free. Inside the tin box behind it was what she needed, everything arranged just so. Of course it was. How could Alou have found it from the bottom of the stairs where he fell? It was too bad Danny brought his friend. If not, she might have given him what he wanted, pills from Alou's personal stash—for a ridiculous price but still low enough to send him away happy. Fee shivered. She could feel that boy's eyes staring at her here, rooms away. They were heavy on her covered arms, cool like the gun in her hand. Part 2: The house was quiet. So was the neighborhood. Fee couldn't risk pulling the slide on Alou's slender little automatic. She didn't want to spook the boys in her kitchen. She knew Danny didn't carry heat; he barely had enough scratch to pick up the pills to feed his addiction, let alone scrape up cash for a piece. The other boy was an unknown that Fee didn't like. The gun was a reassuring weight in her hand, as it had been before. She replaced the tin box and gently slid the false stone back into place. She winced a bit when stone scraped against stone, but a quick glance over her shoulder told her the boys hadn't followed her. Was the larger boy behind Danny just a lookout? For what purpose, though? Alou had never double-crossed Danny. Alou had done a lot of things - cheated, lied, stolen, shut off the heat to parts of the house purely out of spite - but he had never handed a customer a raw deal. Four minutes, now. She had to decide what to do. She had no idea if Danny would take pills from her; Alou had handled all of the business. She knew where everything was, now that she had taken the time and been able to leave her room and the kitchen without danger. She had already lied about Alou's arrival, she couldn't now take that back. The cat wandered into view, curious and cautious, and it gave Fee an idea. She picked up the feline and put it on the bottom step, then gently shooed it towards the top. The cat was a large tabby tom, and he made a bit of a ruckus as he clomped upstairs. Danny didn't kknow about the cat. For all he knew, it was Fee making her way towards a bedroom. Fee quietly slipped past the staircase and around through the dining room. The floorboards didn't creak as she moved, and she hugged the wall as she approached the kitchen. As she had hoped, the sounds of feet up the stairs made the two boys comfortable talking to one another. "Whatcha think?" Danny was keeping his voice somewhat low. "Damn shady." The other boy had a baritone that belied his age. "Ain't nobody seen or heard from Alou in a long time. Ain't been around his usual haunts. Girls ain't heard a peep." "I don't know. Maybe he's finding a new hookup. Last time he was here, he was talkin' about getting bent over by his supplier." "He would have figured that shit out by now. Alou's no slouch." There was the distinctive, ratcheting noise of a revolver being checked. "Whoa, whoa!" Danny hissed the warning at his friend. "Tre, come on, dude. She's an old lady." "An old lady who's blowin' smoke up our asses. Alou owes folks money and if I gotta collect from Grandma, I will." Fee swallowed. The automatic suddenly felt very heavy in her hand. Ninety seconds left. Not enough time.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Fee, Continued

Flash Fiction: Fee, Continued — Blue Ink Alchemy

Getting back to the normal Flash Fiction feature here at Blue Ink Alchemy, I'm jumping into the Terribleminds challenge of Continuing The Tale, Part Two. I decided to follow up on the excellent start provided by Lisa Hininger, which you can see the original containing post here. Enjoy! Part 1, by Lisa: Fee didn't recognize the voice at the door, but she knew the face when she looked through the peephole. Danny Vinzo was a pinch-faced boy with piggy eyes and a perpetual sneer. A bully from birth. "You in there, Alou?" Danny demanded, banging again. "I texted an hour ago. We need more." "He went out. Back soon, I'm sure," Fee told him. She couldn't turn him away. Danny was a regular. So she pasted on a welcoming smile and opened the door. It wasn't hard to pretend. She had plenty of practice. Pleasant was a good distraction, one way or another. Danny shoved past her and stomped down the hall like a man who weighed three times as much. Behind him came another boy. Solid where Danny was reedy, this one had skin like stucco and a suspicious look he seemed to aim everywhere at once. "Sure, come in," she said to their backs. At least her kitchen always cheered her up, no matter what or who was in it. Danny heaved himself into a rickety chair, which creaked nervously under him. The other boy hovered near the fridge with his hands clasped behind him. His eyes never stopped moving, measuring everything. Fee saw him look at her, away, back again. What did he see? Height of the new winter, hot and bright, and here she skulked in long sleeves and skirt. Boys their age always thought she was ancient—harmless—so she played it up. Sugared her voice even more. Asked if they wanted a glass of something. Her hands were starting to shake a bit. Not enough so they would notice, surely. She curled one hand until the knuckles cracked. With a smile to Danny, she said, "Let me call Alou so you don't have to wait. He should be back any minute!" Fee picked up the phone and hurried out of the kitchen. Past the door to the basement and into the living room, she pretended to dial. There was no need. Alou was exactly where she'd put him. "He's on his way!" she shouted toward the kitchen. "Five minutes out, tops." Everything Fee needed was behind a false stone in the fireplace. She checked to make sure neither boy had followed. Danny wasn't what anyone would consider the curious type, but his friend…. She jimmied the stone free. Inside the tin box behind it was what she needed, everything arranged just so. Of course it was. How could Alou have found it from the bottom of the stairs where he fell? It was too bad Danny brought his friend. If not, she might have given him what he wanted, pills from Alou's personal stash—for a ridiculous price but still low enough to send him away happy. Fee shivered. She could feel that boy's eyes staring at her here, rooms away. They were heavy on her covered arms, cool like the gun in her hand. Part 2: The house was quiet. So was the neighborhood. Fee couldn't risk pulling the slide on Alou's slender little automatic. She didn't want to spook the boys in her kitchen. She knew Danny didn't carry heat; he barely had enough scratch to pick up the pills to feed his addiction, let alone scrape up cash for a piece. The other boy was an unknown that Fee didn't like. The gun was a reassuring weight in her hand, as it had been before. She replaced the tin box and gently slid the false stone back into place. She winced a bit when stone scraped against stone, but a quick glance over her shoulder told her the boys hadn't followed her. Was the larger boy behind Danny just a lookout? For what purpose, though? Alou had never double-crossed Danny. Alou had done a lot of things - cheated, lied, stolen, shut off the heat to parts of the house purely out of spite - but he had never handed a customer a raw deal. Four minutes, now. She had to decide what to do. She had no idea if Danny would take pills from her; Alou had handled all of the business. She knew where everything was, now that she had taken the time and been able to leave her room and the kitchen without danger. She had already lied about Alou's arrival, she couldn't now take that back. The cat wandered into view, curious and cautious, and it gave Fee an idea. She picked up the feline and put it on the bottom step, then gently shooed it towards the top. The cat was a large tabby tom, and he made a bit of a ruckus as he clomped upstairs. Danny didn't kknow about the cat. For all he knew, it was Fee making her way towards a bedroom. Fee quietly slipped past the staircase and around through the dining room. The floorboards didn't creak as she moved, and she hugged the wall as she approached the kitchen. As she had hoped, the sounds of feet up the stairs made the two boys comfortable talking to one another. "Whatcha think?" Danny was keeping his voice somewhat low. "Damn shady." The other boy had a baritone that belied his age. "Ain't nobody seen or heard from Alou in a long time. Ain't been around his usual haunts. Girls ain't heard a peep." "I don't know. Maybe he's finding a new hookup. Last time he was here, he was talkin' about getting bent over by his supplier." "He would have figured that shit out by now. Alou's no slouch." There was the distinctive, ratcheting noise of a revolver being checked. "Whoa, whoa!" Danny hissed the warning at his friend. "Tre, come on, dude. She's an old lady." "An old lady who's blowin' smoke up our asses. Alou owes folks money and if I gotta collect from Grandma, I will." Fee swallowed. The automatic suddenly felt very heavy in her hand. Ninety seconds left. Not enough time.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Where's My Momentum?

Where's My Momentum? — Blue Ink Alchemy

As much as old habits die hard, when you're out of practice it can be very difficult to find your groove again. I just finished my first workout in I-don't-know-how-long, and all of my joints popped over the course of it. Like, all of them. I even had to stop squatting since my right knee popped in a way that was worrisome and uncomfortable. And that's to say nothing on my writing. I'm having difficulty getting out of bed in the morning. Perhaps a sign of depression, or a side-effect of the changing nature of my employment status, it's difficult to say which. But rather than stay in bed doing nothing, I am frustrated to the point of wanting to take action. Suffice it to say that the blog hasn't picked right back up where I left off. It's taking a bit longer to get going than I would have liked. But it is going, at the very least. I'm here. You're here. That's what matters. I continue to contend that tomorrow will be better than yesterday, which means that soon today will be entirely surpassed. All I have to do is keep pushing forward.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Concerning Clearly Communicating Characters

Concerning Clearly Communicating Characters — Blue Ink Alchemy

With the exception of nature documentaries, or very oddly esoteric works, narrative entertainment is driven by characters. Characters, more often than not, communicate with one another through dialog. Time and time again, especially in films, we see this dialog become murky, bogged down, or unnecessarily obtuse. Unless it is completely essential to your plot, or the character themselves, your characters should communicate clearly with one another. Sometimes characters will have difficulty communicating as part of their nature. Their world-view may be skewed or a mental condition may color how they see and relate to others. These characters can make for important, powerful stories about human nature. But the bulk of the problematic characters that come to mind when I talk about expository dialog and the like are not saddled with psychological or personality disorders that affect their speech or outlook. Most of them are just badly written. Dialog drives so much - why waste it on exposition or clarification unless it is absolutely necessary? One particularly egregious violation of good taste in dialog is "the pronoun game". One character makes a comment about what's happening but, instead of naming names, they use an ambiguous pronouns. The other character has to ask for clarification, which is then easily or dramatically given. It's a waste of the audience's time, especially if we have already met the party to whom the first character is referring. There is one sort-of exception to this rule that I can think of - a heist tale. If you're spinning a yarn where you want your protagonists to be particularly clever, it can be useful to provide the setup for the caper, cut to the action, and have them recount elements of it afterward, so that what seems to be very fortuitous timing is seen instead as excellent forethought and careful planning. From highly stylized films like Ocean's Eleven to works of written fiction such as Jim Butcher's Skin Game, this method is proven to work in this case. But I really can't think of any others. It is just as true for this storytelling challenge as most others: the best way to tell your story is through action, not exposition. Let characters show, rather than tell, what is happening in their minds and all around them. History and motivation should become evident in when and how they act, rather than providing a dry, plodding dossier through expositional dialog. Your characters drive your story - don't let their dialog drive it into the ground.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Good Morning, Vietnam

Movie Review: Good Morning, Vietnam — Blue Ink Alchemy

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING VIETNAM! It's Oh-Six-Hundred, what does the Oh stand for? OH MY GOD IT'S EARLY!" I don't think the 1987 Barry Levinson film Good Morning, Vietnam needs any introduction beyond that. Airman Adrian Cronauer, United States Air Force, was the main radio personality stationed in Crete in the 1960s. During the Vietnam War, he was transferred to run a morning program for Armed Forces Radio out of Saigon. He brought his own style, his comedic style, and a taste for modern rock-and-roll music. Unfortunately, his personality and energy run counter to those of his superiors. He does his best to maintain his independence and commitment to the truth, and starts befriending locals. Things begin to get complicated when he runs afoul of both a vindictive base commander and the mascinations of the Viet Cong. The troops love him, though - if there's ever a time to be reminded of the importance of laughter, it's wartime. Before we delve into the people responsible for bringing Cronauer's true story to life, we should take a step back and consider that this film, broadly considered a landmark comedy, also took it upon itself to depict the conflict in Vietnam in very human terms. When Cronauer isn't cracking jokes over the radio and flipping off authority, he's teaching people English slang and trying to get to know a local girl and her brother. None of these secondary characters are treated as parodies or charicatures. In a time when the United States was still wrestling with its conflict against Soviet powers, this film eschewed jingoistic viewpoints and presented both the Americans and the Vietnamese as what they are - human beings.
Every character in this film feels very real. Barry Levinson, Good Morning, Vietnam's director, was already a veteran film-maker in 1987. He worked with Mel Brooks, and had major success with The Natural. He clearly demonstrates that he has an excellent sense of balance and timing in his direction. The comedy that practically runs rampant through a great deal of the film is balanced out perfectly with character development and the aforementioned pathos. All of the shots are clear, and everything is clearly defined. But I feel I'm stalling a bit, so let's get to the heart of the matter. It is a great tragedy that we recently lost Robin Williams. This film is one of his best performances. Much like the direction, his work is very well balanced. When he's on the radio or mouthing off, his comedy is fantastic and side-splitting. When he's teaching people or trying to relate to his ladyfriend or her brother, he's likeable and charming. And when he's faced with adversity, we believe his agony and frustration. On top of his comedy skills and improvisation, he was a fantastic actor. We miss him already.
His performances are, thankfully, immortalized. Good Morning, Vietnam is a bonafide classic. It is a slice from the past that tells its story with authenticity and earnestness. Despite the fact that it's told from an American perspective, it shows the conflict in a very human light and keeps us engaged from beginning to end. And the comedy is on-point and fantastic. It's available on Netflix, and if you haven't seen it, even if it's been a while, you should call it up. It's a fantastic watch.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

And We're Back!

And We're Back! — Blue Ink Alchemy

Wow. Feels like it's been forever. But here I am! I made it. I'm safe and sound, whole and unharmed. I made it across the country, some mishaps and hiccups aside, and I've survived the first couple weeks, with a few fresh scars to remind me that change is never easy, and people are who they are. New beginnings are hard. It's easier when you have momentum behind you to keep moving forward. But when you stop everything to make a major change, getting back into the swing of things is significantly more difficult. I'm looking to get back onto a regular schedule, and step things up in other ways besides. This site, this brand of mine, needs to be expanded and promoted. My work is worth reading, worth seeing - I need to remind myself of that, and get other people to believe it, too. So stay tuned! It's going to get interesting around these parts. (Image courtesy Creattica.com)

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Blue Ink Alchemy