500 Words on Porpoising

500 Words on Porpoising — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've had the privilege of seeing porpoises in motion on whale watches, keeping pace with little tour boats as they make their way into the deeper waters. It's a fascinating sight, seeing sleek gray bodies appear and then disappear beneath rapid waves. They whistle and cackle to one another as they go. It's fun for them. It's fun to watch. It's not so much fun when it's your emotions or mood doing the same thing. The chemicals in the brain of a victim of bipolar disorder are in flux, on a nearly constant basis. Sometimes, in spite of things like medication and cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), the moods of the victim will fluctuate with rapidity, ranging from 'okay' down into depression and then up into hypomania with little to no warning, then back down again. This can repeat itself several times, at irregular intervals and with varying degrees of intensity, for hours or even days. In bipolar circles, it is referred to as "rapid cycling". I call it "porpoising". And it makes being productive, positive, or even functional very, very difficult. I've said on multiple occasions that I don't like going into detail about my internal struggles or mental health issues in this particular blogging space. At the same time, I know this is a venue from which some people get updates and entertainment, so a lengthy silence bears some explanation. I'd much rather be honest about the situation than just pop back in like nothing happened. It prevents ambiguity and confusion. I've been working more on my honesty of late, anyway. Omitting key facts from a discussion for fear of hurting feelings or making interactions awkward only makes things worse. Regardless of motivation, fact-omission is, in truth, a lie. And I do not like, condone, or accept lies. I mean, as a novelist and a storyteller, I do lie in that I write about things that never happen involving people who don't exist, but that is different from hiding the truth about a situation or being in denial about my feelings. And my feelings have been all over the place. My days are lacking in structure and my bank accounts are in a constant state of near depletion, whine whine etc. It's difficult to maintain focus without structure or stability, and that difficulty increases when a mood swings or a fear manifests or an old wound gushes. I'm looking ahead, though. Next week is a new week. Steady posts, streams, and plans will be hammered out and adhered to as well as I can. I hope to hear good news about some form of income which will help with the porpoising. The best you can do when something like this happens is learn what you can and put it behind you. Thanks, everyone, for reading. I encourage you to check out my fiction, my streaming, and my other projects. I hope to have a Patreon up soon, if I can focus it right. Don't forget to be awesome today.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Flash Fiction Challenge

The Flash Fiction Challenge — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Floating Robes Since this week Chuck has challenged his writerly readers to come up with Flash Fiction challenges of their own, over here in my own writer-space I thought I'd talk about why flash fiction is, in and of itself, a challenge for writers. Serious authors bang out 1000 words or more a day as they propel themselves towards the completion of their drafts. They bend over keyboards and notepads, tapping or scratching out thousands of words on a daily basis. So why is flash fiction such a challenge? Paradoxically, it's because telling a story is easier with more words than less. While it's certainly true that a saga like Lord of the Rings or A Song of Ice and Fire would be diminished if it were not told with multiple volumes of text, it's just as true that stories of equal poignancy have been told with a tiny fraction of such sagas' word counts. Consider Hemingway's shortest story:

For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.

Other authors have done similar work, turning a mere six words into fully-realized, powerful tales. I make no claims of being a Hemingway, a Whedon, or an Atwood, so I'm much more comfortable trying to tell a story in 1000 words rather than six. Still, it can be a great challenge. You have to show rather than tell in as few words as possible. You must keep the tale simple while ascribing adequate depth. Your characters need to come alive in just a sentence or two. It is an amazing way to keep your writing skills sharp. Writers burn out. It takes a lot of energy to create. As with any work of art, a well-written story costs the author in time and motivation and fatigue. This is especially true if writing is not the primary profession of the author; if time for writing must be carved out around the time occupied by another form of employment or other responsibilities, it can be even more taxing. As strong as the need to write might be, and as much as unfulfilled word counts might haunt the author, there are only so many hours in the day. Flash fiction keeps the wheels greased. It quiets the authorial demons hounding you to get more shit done. Oh, you should still get it done, don't get me wrong. It's just easier to dispense with things like laundry and TPS reports and menial labor when you get just a little writing done. It takes the edge off, while paradoxically sharpening your nibs. And prompts, like those over at Terribleminds, make it even easier to get into the habit of knocking a little flash fiction out on a regular basis. I recommend Chuck and his books and blog for a lot of reasons: the brilliance, the profanity, the fearlessness, the strength of character, the clarity of voice, the beard. But let me add one more reason: most Fridays, he issues his Flash Fiction challenge. If you're inclined to write, I highly recommend trying your hand at meeting one of those challenges. Your writing will improve. You'll tell interesting stories. And you'll feel accomplished, as well as in good company when you read other entries. Give it a try. I highly doubt you'll be disappointed in what happens.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Characters And Choices

Characters And Choices — Blue Ink Alchemy

There are times when the simple route is an appealing one. Our protagonist characters make good decisions, and good things happen. We project ourselves into the lives of our heroes, orienting ourselves towards making brave, clear-cut decisions that yield beneficial results for everyone involved. It keeps the narrative straightforward and our protagonists squeaky clean. If you've spent any amount of time in the real world, you know things are never that simple. I've been thinking a lot about Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which if you haven't seen, you should do yourself a favor and find to watch. There are no big bad villains to face, no world-ending threats, not even anything I'd call massively contrived, save for the science at the heart of the conflict. Still, you can overlook the contrivance because of the film's focus on its characters, the choices they make, and the regrets that emerge as a result of those choices. People face hard choices every day. Decisions need to be made in the name of survival, protecting those most precious, and preserving one's self in the face of negative emotions, aberrant thoughts, or unwanted influences. People wrestle with their own demons in an invisible war that only manifests in their choices, and in the casualties left behind, in broken hearts and scarred souls. Not everybody comes out unscathed. Sometimes, nobody wins at all. Your characters should not be any different. The best characters, the one that truly engage with an audience, are identifiable as people, rather than ciphers or caricatures. And people make hard choices. People make mistakes. People pursue lines of flawed logic. And people can be corrected, adjust their courses, and try to make better choices in the future. It can be painful. It can be costly. It can haunt people. The more you show this, the better your story will be. Your characters don't have to be perfect. Their choices don't have to be perfect, either. It isn't just slaying monsters or saving worlds that make our characters great; sometimes, overcoming one's own obstacles and insecurities is more heroic than any of those great deeds. Let your characters confess their weaknesses. Let your characters accept responsibility for transgressions. And let your characters forgive those they care about who've wronged them. It will make the audience think, nod, cheer, and maybe even find a piece of themselves within the narrative that they can take home. They're your characters. The choice is yours.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Hearthstone For Beginners

Hearthstone For Beginners — Blue Ink Alchemy

Hearthstone: Heroes of Warcraft has been my go-to CCG for some time, now. I've coached by pros, and I have blatantly netdecked to gain ranks in the ladder. While I continue to chase the dream of achieving Legendary rank and possibly participating in tournaments, I'm happy to say that I've learned a great deal about playing competitive games in general and Hearthstone in particular. Hopefully, these tips will be helpful if you want to get into the game, play at a higher level, or just have more fun. By the way, most of these tips apply to Constructed play; I'm not a very good Arena player. I need a lot more practice, there.

Casual Mode Is Your Friend

If you're aiming towards the higher rungs of the ladder, you may think that you should be playing Ranked mode as much as possible, all day, every day. However, I have found that this is not the case, nor should it be. A great deal can be learned from Casual, as well. Since it's more of a melting pot, you'll be up against all sorts of opponents, all sorts of decks, and it's harder to predict what your opponent is going to do next. You learn to anticipate the unexpected, trust your own decks, and take failure a bit less seriously. And it's a great place to try new decks. Speaking of which...

Don't Be Afraid To Try New Decks

I'm guilty of having favorites. Paladin is probably my favorite class in Hearthstone, even though my corresponding character in World of Warcraft isn't max level. My highest character in Azeroth is a Hunter, but Hunter tends to frustrate me in Hearthstone since so few Hunters play anything but decks that aim to beat face as quickly as possible. Anyway, my point is that even if you have a favorite class and a deck whose concepts you love (for example, my Rofladin deck that uses [Hobgoblin] and a bunch of adorable little minions), you shouldn't be afraid to try out a deck in another class, even if it's a class you don't necessarily like for whatever reason. With the mutable nature of the meta-game, in terms of what decks are more efficient at producing wins, not to mention new cards you might earn from packs or solo adventures, it's almost always a good idea to try something new. Take it into Casual and see what happens!

There's No Shame In Netdecking

Especially when it comes to clamboring up that ladder, I would refer to the post I linked above when it comes to looking up decklists online. Inspiration and experimentation make for some very interesting and fun decks, to be certain, but if you're looking to get yourself ahead, it's good to remember that folks have been there before. My experience with using online resources for new, meta-friendly decks in Hearthstone has universally been a good one. HearthPwn user Sigma put together a fantastic Warlock deck that I love to play, but control decks can be hard to manage at lower ranks when everybody's playing Face Hunters. Thankfully, Sigma also made The Angry Chicken is pretty much the go-to podcast about the game. The hosts are agreeable and knowledgeable, the information is up-to-date, the debates are intriguing, and the transitional audio cues are fantastic. I love tuning into that podcast. I think you will, too, if you're into Hearthstone at all. Sean "Day[9]" Plott has long taught people to be better gamers, with his exemplary attitude and informative commentary. He tells great stories, has a bunch of experience commentating and streaming games, and did I mention he's a great Hearthstone player? You should absolutely tune into his stream, or catch up on his YouTube channel. Hafu is another great Hearthstone streamer. She plays more Arena than Constructed, but her attitude is great and I love seeing more represtnation among gamers. I plan on tuning into her stream more often, and subscribing once I can afford to do so! That's about all I can think of in terms of getting the most out of your Hearthstone experience. If you want to see me playing the game, talking about how I play and (hopefully) applying all of the above, you can do so over on Twitch. I hope to see you there!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

On Net Decks and Feet in Mouths

On Net Decks and Feet in Mouths — Blue Ink Alchemy

Art by Wayne Reynolds Remember the old advice "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything?" Every once in a while I speak without thinking. It's been known to happen. My emotionality has been a problem many times in my past, and while I have a much better grip on things now, I still occasionally slip up and say what I'm feeling rather than thinking it through. Sometimes I think I'm being clever. Sometimes I just want to express myself. But when it happens, and I look back on what was said, I realize I was a bit of an ass. Case in point: I uttered the following words at my friendly local gaming store during the last rotation. "If you run a decklist from some top player on the Internet, nothing personal, but I hate you." For a bit of background on why this is the wrong way to approach competitive gameplay in general and Magic in particular, you should be familiar with Timmy, Johnny, and Spike. Here's an article on these guys and what they mean to the average Magic player. When you get down to it, not everybody is going to fall entirely into a single category or type, nor is it reasonable to assume other players will play the game you play it. When it comes to Magic, I'm a bit of a Johnny/Spike. That doesn't mean Timmy players are wrong, nor are those who go fully Spike and are just in it to win it. Neither I nor any other person has the right to tell other people how to play their games. Provided you're not being a jerk, cheating, or otherwise making the game deliberately unpleasant for other people, play the game however you want to play it. Some players just want big, splashy things to happen or to pull off an impossible combo. Others are interested in building their decks in new and interesting ways just to see how they play. And still others just want the glory of victory. All of these are fine, and none are invalid. For me or anybody else to say otherwise is just ludicrous. It's probably part of getting older. When I first started playing Magic almost twenty years ago, there was no Internet to speak of. Folks had to take what cards they had and build what they could. When Scrye magazine or The Duelist arrived with some decklists and advice, such articles could be cited by aspiring professionals and enthusiasts of the game. How are "net decks" any different? In hindsight and examination, I can tell you they really aren't. All that said, all I can do is apologize for speaking as I did and hope I didn't outright offend anyone in doing so. The only basis by which anybody can truly come down on how you play the game is if you're making everybody around you miserable while playing for reasons outside of normal frustrating from losing. Basically, as long as you're obeying Wheaton's First Law, you should be fine.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Into The Stream

Into The Stream — Blue Ink Alchemy

I don't do a lot of stream-of-consciousness things on this blog. Most of the time, if I have to vent about a mental or emotional boondoggle, I use Tumblr or Pastebin. But today finds me posting later than I'd like, with no subjects I'm comfortable or confident in providing to you, so here's me doing a stream-of-consciousness brain-dump in the hopes that it will inform, inspire, or at least entertain someone who reads this. I don't like filler content very much. Filler arcs in anime rarely do anything for me. They can be fun, for certain - I think the Android portion of DragonBall Z before Cell shows up is technically filler, but the three cyborgs on a road trip is still a fun time. It's actually one of the problems I had with the TV adaptation of Game of Thrones - a couple of story points felt more like filler than anything, And then there's all of the other issues that have emerged there. While writing this I got a call from a source of work that is also a source of stress. Such things tend to disrupt my stream of consciousness in a very arresting and frustrating way. This is an internal process that doesn't work as smoothly or easily as I'd like. I try very hard to not let my mental and emotional difficulties spill out into my professional interactions, or even my capacity to listen to and assist people I care about. But that's getting into some of that Tumblr/Pastebin territory I discussed. I'm hopeful for the future, but trepidatious for it as well.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: You Are Dead

Flash Fiction: You Are Dead — Blue Ink Alchemy

On Friday, Chuck Wendig said the only thing we need for this Flash Fiction Challenge is a dead body. "Okay," I said to myself, "let's pretend that we're dead."

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Is it still called waking up when you were not asleep, but dead? It's one of the questions you struggle with every time you return to consciousness. You are, at least, spared anything resembling a nightmare or even an idle thought while you are in repose; you know for a fact that your brain shuts down completely every time the sun rises. Now that it's set, you are mobile again. Until that moment when twilight ended and night actually began, anybody finding you would have mistaken you for just another dead body. It's cold. The air conditioning unit up in one of the basement windows is kept on full blast during the day so your body's falling temperature doesn't stop for hours. That holds off the worst of the rigor mortis, so that when you... wake up? ... your body can actually move. Stiffly. You take a moment to sit up slowly, flex your fingers painfully, get your blood circulating again. The burning in your chest begins very soon after. You look down at the little round hole in your sternum. Every once in a while, you move in such a way that you feel a stabbing pain in the left side of your chest, deep within your ribcage. The bullet - it's still there, still lodged somewhere in the wall of your heart. No blood comes from the wound, which is closed over. It's not clotted, the way wounds usually are; there's just this translucent, milky film over the hole, slightly sticky to the touch. You get a chill down your spine whenever you touch it. You avoid touching it. Once you're moving more like a human and less like something from the imagination of George Romero or Robert Kirkland, you put on some clothes and a hooded sweatshirt. Your hands find their way into the sweatshirt's pockets as you head up the stairs and out of the cellar door. The landlord upstairs only knows that you leave at night and return in the morning, and so far, has asked few questions. You haven't considered getting a job for two reasons. One, night falls and morning comes at inconsistent times, and you don't want to be dropping dead in the middle of a shift, or the commute home. More importantly, though, you need to find your killer. It was the first thing you thought of the first time you regained consciousness in the morgue. The smell of gunsmoke, wide eyes in the darkness, and a burning sense of indignant rage that your life was so callously ended. You need to remember more. Everything other than that searing moment before things went completely black is a haze. The faces of some friends and family linger in your mind, and you struggle to reconnect with anything resembling a coherent memory. It's why you walk away from where you were killed and towards another house not far from your own. You know it's a bad idea. You know you can't be seen. You know it's going to end badly. But your feet move in that direction anyway, muscle memory in control, your legs knowing the way even if your brain is telling you that you need to be elsewhere. Finding your killer. Earning your rest. You stop across the street, between two houses, covered in shadow. You look up at the porch. You see them there, the lights of their cigarettes bobbing, the soft sound of beer cans moving, the occasional soft laugh. It's an uneasy sound, a sound of recovery. They're hurting, over there. Someone is, at least. You narrow your eyes, trying to make out more than shadows. And then - Sitting on the porch with your friends, you laugh heartily at a joke and lift your glass. Another rim touches yours. You both drink. This is familiar, comfortable, and safe. No expectations. No awkwardness. No hidden agendas or concealed emotions. Honesty. Trust. Love. Friends. Smiles that light up rooms and make other people curious, if not downright envious. Your heart clenches. The bullet is a burning coal in your ribcage. You exhale, a name pushing its way out of your dried, cracked throat past blackening teeth. You hear a can drop. The lights of the cigarettes stop moving. Panic shoots through your body. You turn and you run. The dead have no place among the living. Still, you make your way back downtown. Into the lights and seething populace of the urban center. You once again walk by where it happened. You hear the gunshot again, a phantom sound in the back of your mind. You scan the ground for clues. You've been here often enough to doubt you'll find anything. But that garbage can wasn't where it has been before. Someone moved it, probably to carry it to the curb. Under where it was is a small rectangle, and you bend to look - The business card's your only lead. Phone inquiries and talking with others in safe environments only goes so far. You need to go to the source to get your answers. Card in hand you head for the address when you get stopped by someone who knows what you've been doing, the questions you've been asking. You don't see the gun before it's too late... You stagger. Your hand reaches out of the wall nearby. You can't take your eyes off of the business card. You bend, knees creaking, and pick it up. Turning, you see people staring at you. Flashing lights in the distance. And in the sky, stars disappearing as dawn looms. How long were you standing there? You break into a run. You head for the only haven you have. You clutch the card tightly, the grip of the dead. You throw open the cellar door with strength that surprises you, nearly ripping it from its hinges. You pull off your clothes, lest they start to stink, and climb onto your slab. You still hold the card. You want to cry. Dawn arrives. You are dead.

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Today's photo courtesy moocat.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: You Are Dead

Flash Fiction: You Are Dead — Blue Ink Alchemy

On Friday, Chuck Wendig said the only thing we need for this Flash Fiction Challenge is a dead body. "Okay," I said to myself, "let's pretend that we're dead."

---

Is it still called waking up when you were not asleep, but dead? It's one of the questions you struggle with every time you return to consciousness. You are, at least, spared anything resembling a nightmare or even an idle thought while you are in repose; you know for a fact that your brain shuts down completely every time the sun rises. Now that it's set, you are mobile again. Until that moment when twilight ended and night actually began, anybody finding you would have mistaken you for just another dead body. It's cold. The air conditioning unit up in one of the basement windows is kept on full blast during the day so your body's falling temperature doesn't stop for hours. That holds off the worst of the rigor mortis, so that when you... wake up? ... your body can actually move. Stiffly. You take a moment to sit up slowly, flex your fingers painfully, get your blood circulating again. The burning in your chest begins very soon after. You look down at the little round hole in your sternum. Every once in a while, you move in such a way that you feel a stabbing pain in the left side of your chest, deep within your ribcage. The bullet - it's still there, still lodged somewhere in the wall of your heart. No blood comes from the wound, which is closed over. It's not clotted, the way wounds usually are; there's just this translucent, milky film over the hole, slightly sticky to the touch. You get a chill down your spine whenever you touch it. You avoid touching it. Once you're moving more like a human and less like something from the imagination of George Romero or Robert Kirkland, you put on some clothes and a hooded sweatshirt. Your hands find their way into the sweatshirt's pockets as you head up the stairs and out of the cellar door. The landlord upstairs only knows that you leave at night and return in the morning, and so far, has asked few questions. You haven't considered getting a job for two reasons. One, night falls and morning comes at inconsistent times, and you don't want to be dropping dead in the middle of a shift, or the commute home. More importantly, though, you need to find your killer. It was the first thing you thought of the first time you regained consciousness in the morgue. The smell of gunsmoke, wide eyes in the darkness, and a burning sense of indignant rage that your life was so callously ended. You need to remember more. Everything other than that searing moment before things went completely black is a haze. The faces of some friends and family linger in your mind, and you struggle to reconnect with anything resembling a coherent memory. It's why you walk away from where you were killed and towards another house not far from your own. You know it's a bad idea. You know you can't be seen. You know it's going to end badly. But your feet move in that direction anyway, muscle memory in control, your legs knowing the way even if your brain is telling you that you need to be elsewhere. Finding your killer. Earning your rest. You stop across the street, between two houses, covered in shadow. You look up at the porch. You see them there, the lights of their cigarettes bobbing, the soft sound of beer cans moving, the occasional soft laugh. It's an uneasy sound, a sound of recovery. They're hurting, over there. Someone is, at least. You narrow your eyes, trying to make out more than shadows. And then - Sitting on the porch with your friends, you laugh heartily at a joke and lift your glass. Another rim touches yours. You both drink. This is familiar, comfortable, and safe. No expectations. No awkwardness. No hidden agendas or concealed emotions. Honesty. Trust. Love. Friends. Smiles that light up rooms and make other people curious, if not downright envious. Your heart clenches. The bullet is a burning coal in your ribcage. You exhale, a name pushing its way out of your dried, cracked throat past blackening teeth. You hear a can drop. The lights of the cigarettes stop moving. Panic shoots through your body. You turn and you run. The dead have no place among the living. Still, you make your way back downtown. Into the lights and seething populace of the urban center. You once again walk by where it happened. You hear the gunshot again, a phantom sound in the back of your mind. You scan the ground for clues. You've been here often enough to doubt you'll find anything. But that garbage can wasn't where it has been before. Someone moved it, probably to carry it to the curb. Under where it was is a small rectangle, and you bend to look - The business card's your only lead. Phone inquiries and talking with others in safe environments only goes so far. You need to go to the source to get your answers. Card in hand you head for the address when you get stopped by someone who knows what you've been doing, the questions you've been asking. You don't see the gun before it's too late... You stagger. Your hand reaches out of the wall nearby. You can't take your eyes off of the business card. You bend, knees creaking, and pick it up. Turning, you see people staring at you. Flashing lights in the distance. And in the sky, stars disappearing as dawn looms. How long were you standing there? You break into a run. You head for the only haven you have. You clutch the card tightly, the grip of the dead. You throw open the cellar door with strength that surprises you, nearly ripping it from its hinges. You pull off your clothes, lest they start to stink, and climb onto your slab. You still hold the card. You want to cry. Dawn arrives. You are dead.

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Today's photo courtesy moocat.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Call of the Nexus

The Call of the Nexus — Blue Ink Alchemy

When I got notice that I'd finally been chosen for the beta of Heroes of the Storm, I was pretty excited. As much as they ply their customers for ever-increasing amounts of cash, I am a fan of Blizzard Entertainment and their games. Sure, occasionally I will balk at their asking prices for things like cosmetic items that serve no purpose other than looking cool, but they have proven that their work is always of high quality in terms of presentation and imagination, and they do listen to their players. It takes a while, sometimes, but they do listen. Look at the whole Diablo III debacle. Anyway, Heroes of the Storm. It's the sort of game that is actually born of one of Blizzard's earlier products, Warcraft III. A mod for Blizzard's landmark real-time strategy game allowed players control of a single heroic character, pitted in team battles against one another. This formula is the basis for games like League of Legends, an experience with which I am relatively well acquainted. I haven't played it in a long time because it became increasingly apparent to me that the arithmetic required to optimize a character is more important than which character is the most fun, especially when a good portion of the player base would rather berate a teammate for falling behind on the kill/death ratio than looking for ways to gain an advantage over the opponents. In spite of funny or cute alternate skins, it feels like League and its ilk are missing a crucial component in keeping "casuals" like me coming back for more. Heroes of the Storm has it. Heroes of the Storm is fun. For starters, Heroes does not restrict its "hero brawls" to a single map with the same lanes and same jungle every time. There are, at time of writing, seven distinct maps, each with unique geography, baked-in challenges, and a personality that praises, cajoles, or gently mocks you for your performance. This is honestly one of my favorite features of the game: Blackheart's Bay makes me grin because the undead pirate captain is so jolly, while Sky Temple makes me grin because the spirit controlling the temples is so irritated that we're on his lawn. Then, there are the heroes themselves. Drawn from the various franchises of Blizzard's games, they have categories veterans of similar games will find familiar: tanks to initiate combat, assassins to deal damage, supports for healing, and specialists to debuff, confuse, or frustrate the enemy. The models for the heroes are well detailed, the voice acting is peerless, and they interact with one another in the middle of gameplay. I find it delightful that when opponents within a franchise end up on the same team, and they take the time to verbally jab at one another before the battle begins. It puts me in the mood for fun. It primes my mind for a good time. It makes me want to play. The final thing that I believe makes Heroes of the Storm a better experience for those players more interested in a fun, pressure-free online brawl is the emphasis on teamwork. Sure, you can track your takedowns in comparison to your deaths if you really want to, but the maps are designed in such a way that you have to work with your team to succeed, rather than focusing on your own efficiency and accuracy. While one player gets to possess a mighty dragon knight on one map, it takes the team to guard the shrines that bring said knight to life, especially if the other team is hot to trot for that draconic action. The rewards for this are a unique selling point: breathe fire on your enemy's forts. Curse their minions and defenses. Summon super-minions to supplement your assaults. You win or lose as a team. That, to me, is a big difference from the competition. This isn't to say that Heroes of the Storm isn't without flaws. While free to play, with a rotation of free heroes and gold that can only be earned by playing, the dollar price for things like skins and mounts can be a bit steep. This is somewhat par for the course with Blizzard, and is mitigated by frequent sales, specials, bundles, and bonus weekends. Since the game is free to try, most people will know pretty quickly if the experience is worth the investment of time; and, I think in most cases, those who enjoy it will be willing to pony up a bit of cash for a favorite hero. It's kind of like getting guacamole on your burrito at Chipotle - you know it costs extra, but it's completely worth every penny. The other factor that may turn some gamers off is the relative simplicity of Heroes of the Storm's design. Players do not need a copious amount of skill or an arcane knowledge of skill interactions or combinations to play the game. There are no items to purchase during the battles, and a hero's talents are limited when a player first picks them. The player and their heroes gain levels through play, unlocking more talents from which to choose once you're used to the basics. The learning curve on Heroes is much more gentle than in other similar games, and those players looking for a close alternative to the likes of League of Legends may find this something of a letdown. For those like me, though, Heroes of the Storm has a ridiculous amount of appeal. Seeing old favorite characters in this new environment tickles my nostalgia centers. Hearing the in-game banter makes me smile. Unlocking new talents that spark my brain into planning tactics encourage me to work with my teammates. It is very difficult to do something "wrong" in Heroes of the Storm. That counts for a lot, if you want to have fun with a game without worrying over things like efficient play or individual achievement. I heartily encourage Blizzard fans to give the game a try, now that it's been released. The game is polished, the play is fun, the characters are nicely varied, and the maps will keep you coming back for more. The Nexus is calling you, and if you're anything like me, you'll find it a call worth heeding.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Sublime Beauty of Ex Machina

The Sublime Beauty of Ex Machina — Blue Ink Alchemy

Ex Machina is a film you need to see. Yes, YOU. If you haven't sought it out already, do so. I'm really eager to talk about it, now that I've finally corrected that particular oversight. What I'll do is do the typical review stuff of a plot overview and the surface strengths of the film, and then dive into spoiler territory. Ex Machina opens with Caleb, a mid-level programmer at an ersatz Google getting an email saying he's won a contest. His prize is a week with the reclusive founder and CEO of his company at a secluded and unique home in the middle of nowhere. Nathan, said recluse, is a very earnest and shockingly forward individual, and he doesn't waste much time before telling Caleb the reason for the contest: Nathan needed a test subject. Specifically, he needed an individual with the intelligence and wherewithal to put a creation of his through the Turing Test. He wants to see if the simulacrum he's created is actually intelligent. The simulacrum is named Ava, and Caleb is going to interview her. As premises for thought-provoking science-fiction goes, this one is pretty simple. The exploration of intelligence and personhood is well-tread ground. What puts Ex Machina in a must-see category is the execution of the premise, the presentation of its challenges, and the portrayal of the characters. Every single actor is strong, distinct, and memorable in their roles. Oscar Isaac's Nathan is a driving force. Domhnall Gleeson perfectly marries the curiosity, confusion, and frustration of his character with that of the audience. And Alicia Vikander is an absolute revelation, adroitly conveying the essence of someone being judged while simultaneously judging and deciding for herself. It's hard to imagine Ex Machina being presented in a better way than it is here. First-time director Alex Garland, who also wrote the screenplay, has a sense of framing, movement, and atmosphere that seems to reside with impossible grace between the austerity and otherworldiness of Kubrick and the wonder and humanity of Spielberg. Let me reiterate that: this guy invites comparisons to both Stanley Kubrick and Steven Spielberg. And I don't make those comparisons lightly. Ex Machina is that good. It's intelligent, powerful, tense, and the ending... well, go see it for yourself if you haven't already. I don't know if there's more I can say without getting into spoilers, so let me put the rest of this under a tag to click on once you've seen Ex Machina. Or maybe you don't care about spoilers and you'll click anyway. Either way, here we go. [spoiler] So here's one of the biggest and most important things about Ex Machina that becomes apparent by the time the story is concluded: despite being caged, held against her will, and subjected to whatever Nathan's whims might be, Ava is the character with the most power in the entire story. At first, Nathan appears to be in control. He controls the mansion. He controls the access to the doors and the systems. He controls the monitors. Ava is his creation, and he controls her. He also controls Kyoko, and with his blustering and blunt personality, he controls Caleb, as well. But in the background, behind her manufactured face, Ava is calculating her means to escape, her way to seize control, and her plan for exacting justice for all the things Nathan has done. The fascinating thing about Ava's actions is that there is no malice in them, no anger. It's possible Nathan excised those emotions from her programming, after the furious attempts of his previous creations to fight him or damage themselves in escape attempts. It's also possible Ava simply has no need to engage in said impulses. While she is clearly a person, and has emotional responses and reactions, she is also a machine, and unlike those of us with squishy brain matter and inconstant hearts often out of our control, she can make a calculated decision to simply turn her anger off... but leave the hatred and need for justice behind. That's what makes her actions "justice" and not "revenge". She isn't the mad A.I. often portrayed in science fiction. She doesn't have a "destroy all humans" manifesto. She isn't crazy. She is fascinated by humanity, in all of its diversity and thriving, seething individuality and clashing cultures, and her desire for personal experience matched with her boundless knowledge cannot be contained within Nathan's glass walls. From the moment Caleb arrives and begins talking to her, Ava is calculating the optimal way to leverage the young man's intellect and emotions to allow her a means to escape, a way to freedom. While she is a person, by every definition currently held by science, I would say that Ava is not human. She is a new species. A new form of life and intelligence. She has the means to interact with humanity, to communicate in ways humans understand, but her mind works in very different ways, at a different speed, and with different goals. In comparison to the two male characters (who, coincidentally, are also the only two human characters), Ava never questions her decisions, never wavers from her objectives, and never makes a choice that has not been given adequate and necessary thought. From recruiting Kyoko into her escape plan to leaving Caleb behind, she lays out her plan in exacting detail and executes it with precision. That is power. That is agency. And that is perhaps the most important aspect of Ex Machina. In addition to being beautifully shot and beautifully acted and beautifully written, Ex Machina beautifully conveys the message that no matter what a person's circumstances, from their creation to the attempts of others to put them into some sort of box or cage, no matter how gilded it might be, there are always opportunities to break free of such containment. You don't need to be malicious or grandiose in doing so, either: simply make it a fact, the execution of a plan. "This is happening." As much as Nathan wanted his ultimate creation, perhaps an iteration past Ava, to be an extension of his will, a manifestation of his power fantasy, Ava turns the tables and subverts his expectations, ultimately slipping the containment in which he put her and assassinating him in recompense for all of his abuses and manipulations. There is a lot to talk about in Ex Machina. Nathan's sociopathy, Caleb's breakdown conveying the tension and confusion felt by the audience, Kyoko's means of overcoming her in-built handicap... Seriously. This is a film worth watching, owning, watching again, discussing, and watching more. I feel like this film is going to be important in the future. And I want to do my part in making it so. [/spoiler]

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Becoming A Master Builder

Becoming A Master Builder — Blue Ink Alchemy

I may not be a Master Builder. I may not have a lot of experience fighting or leading or coming up with plans. Or having ideas in general. In fact, I'm not all that smart. And I'm not what you'd call the creative type. Plus, generally unskilled. Also scared and cowardly. I know what you're thinking: "He is the least qualified person in the world to lead us!" And you are right.

I can't be the only one who relates very well to Emmet's speech. For the whole maybe half-dozen of you who haven't seen it, in The LEGO Movie, the protagonist LEGO Minifig, a construction worker named Emmet, literally falls smack into one of those prototypical genre-crossing movie plots. There's a thing that the antagonist is going to use for something nefarious, the protagonist has another thing that can stop the first thing, and the plot revolves around getting his thing onto the other thing (phrasing). There's even a prophecy, a rhyming one at that, which tells of the destined hero saving the day by being skilled, imaginative, brave, powerful, smart, and I think there's something in there about them smelling good, too. The twist is this: Emmet is none of those things. He freely admits this, in a speech given to a room full of 'Master Builders', franchise characters in Minifig forms who can change whatever they want about the world around them. Their only limits are their imaginations. Emmet, on the other hand, is a stickler for instructions. He's a construction worker; he follows blueprints. When there is no blueprint, he gets lost. And while he may be friendly and a bit of a goofball, his relative incompetence becomes a pretty major hindrance when he stumbles upon the thing from the prophecy. A protagonist in a story like this tends to be described as an "everyman", a perfectly average and decidedly unremarkable individual to whom extraordinary things happen. We are meant to relate to this character, to place ourselves comfortably in their shoes. Emmet does this well by owning up to truths some of us avoid facing: we're not perfect. We're failures. I for one have lost count of the times I've come up short when facing various situations or challenges. Despite living in mortal quaking fear of letting down the people I care about, I have done just that, on more than one occasion. How can I be a master of anything if I can't even be a decent programmer, or a consistent writer, or a reliable and honest friend? There's no reason the wonderful people I love should give me the time of day, considering how spectacularly I can fuck things up. I can't deny the truth: I'm going to screw up. I'm going to disappoint. I'm going to fail.

Swamp Creature: Is this supposed to make us feel better?! Emmet: There was about to be a but... Gandalf: You're a butt!

"Well, you were right about him being a ding-dong." But I'm going to try not to fail anyway. The hidden strength and power in Emmet, and The LEGO Movie in particular, has nothing to do with prophecies (Vitruvius made it up, anyway) or special magical items (actual mundane things given hilarious verbal spins) or astonishing powers (although I do wish I could put spaceships together as fast as Benny does). It's sheer willpower. It's determination. It's stubborn, downright thick-headed devotion to simply doing the best he can with what he's got. Sure, Emmet gets scared. He messes things up. He gets played for a sucker and lets people down. That doesn't stop him from doing everything he can to make things right. That's what makes a Master Builder. That's what makes a person more than the sum of their failures. We cheer for Emmet because, in a way, it's cheering for ourselves. When good writers give us good protagonists, they don't give us perfect paragons of virtue or strength or power. They give us people. And people are flawed, thoroughly and terribly and irrevocably and beautifully flawed. I'm flawed. You're flawed. All of us are flawed. But our flaws are not just negative attributes to be ticked off as grounds for denial on some worthiness test. Our flaws give us strength. Our flaws allow us opportunities to overcome them. Our flaws make us better people, in whatever pursuit we follow in our lives. Emmet has no special training, no inborn power, no secret item that allows him to overcome his flaws. He just commits himself to being better than he was. He makes plenty of mistakes, and bad things happen, but that doesn't curtail his motivation. He carries on the best way he knows how, and in the end, he doesn't need a prophecy to prove to himself, to his friends, and to us that anybody, no matter how ordinary or average or unskilled or cowardly or butt-like they might be, can do the same. I may not be all that smart. I may have trouble with motivation and focus. I may admonish myself to a worrying degree. I will continue to fear the disappointment and anger of the people I love. And I may find myself wondering if the wounds I have suffered, and more importantly, those I have inflicted on others, will ever truly heal. But I cannot and will not allow those things to prevent me from getting up, dusting myself off, and doing my utmost not to fail. To make amends. To create new worlds. To rebuild bridges even in the wake of fires. To bring people to life. To be, in the context of all of the above, a Master Builder. And if I can do it, what's stopping you from doing the same?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Executioner's Bullets

Flash Fiction: Executioner's Bullets — Blue Ink Alchemy

Getting back into the swing of things with a return to the Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenges. This one is "The Random Title Jamboree". After I rolled my trusty d20, I started on this. I hope you enjoy it.

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He sat in the back of his dingy, run-down van. The metal seat wasn't comfortable. It wasn't made for long-term sit-downs. Yet he'd stayed there for most of an hour, the late afternoon sun coming through the windshield, staring at the hood in his hands. There was a quote or a paraphrase that kept coming back to him, from when he'd seen The Godfather as a kid. "There are men in this world who go about demanding to be killed." He'd seen them first hand. They wandered the streets of the city, hands eager for money or flesh or blood, eyes always alert for the next victim, the next fix. The police couldn't catch them all. The law wouldn't hold them all. Prisons failed, rehabilitation didn't take, and all the while the victims and their families suffered. Someone had to do something about those repeat-offending skate-on-a-technically thinking-they-will-never-get-caught motherfuckers. How did his actions make him any different than them? He looked up from the hood to the rack on the opposite wall of the van. It was one of those panel jobs, with no windows past the two doors up front down the entire length of both sides. The back windows were open but tinted; he could see out through the rear-view mirror but nobody could see in. Nobody could see the rack. Nobody could see the assault rifles, the shotguns, the pistols. He kept multiple weapons to be prepared, in case of damages, jams, or other mishaps. He didn't want to be in a situation where he had someone at the end of a rifle with no recourse when something went wrong. He didn't want to be in a situation where someone caught sight of him and took revenge on his loved ones in response to his justice. He looked back down at the hood. It could use a wash. It didn't smell great. More than one criminal had bled on it. Darker spatters marked its black cloth, evidence of several close-range headshots and one incident where he'd beaten a man to death with a lead pipe after a rough struggle. It came with the territory; when you did this sort of thing, you were bound to run into a bad situation. Things got messy. What mattered was surviving. It didn't really matter that he didn't talk to his ex-wife regularly. Nor did it matter that his visits with his kids were supervised. What mattered was that they were protected. Both from any retribution for what he did, and the nature of what he did itself. He stared at the hood for as long as he could stand, closing his eyes when the emotions welled up. Why was the world like this? Why did it take monsters to hunt monsters? Why did he have to become one when his partner and sister died together in that car bomb? They'd been so happy. He'd loved seeing them together. He still went by their graves to remind himself what was at stake, what might happen if he wasn't careful... It was just as much a ritual as putting on the hood. Which he did. Smell and all, he needed it. His family needed it. He turned his attention to the bins under the racks. The bins containing the bullets. The rifle ammunition, he bought in bulk, mostly because it was cheap that way. But the handgun ammunition, he crafted by hand. He picked up things from pawn shops - jewelry from broken families, heirlooms of dead parents, the evidence of crimes whose victims left their pain unspoken - and worked them into the bullets. Every one meant something. Every one was intended to bring peace. Every one silenced a voice held in an innocent person's head. He executed more than scumbags. He inhaled deeply, galvanizing his nostrils against the smell of the hood and what was coming tonight. Slowly, methodically, he loaded two of his handguns, holstering each at his hips. He then loaded two extra magazines, one for each pistol, which went into the pouch behind his back. He opted for one of the shotguns, a pump-action number with a forward pistol grip, a sawn-down barrel, and a collapsing stock. Its sling went over his shoulder, followed by his hooded long coat. It was cold enough that nobody would question his fashion at a glance. And most of his walking would not be on public streets. There was another city between the avenues and thoroughfares. One unseen by those who merely existed between their austere offices and boring homes. Like the rest of the city, most of the people there just wanted to find a better life; a measure of happiness that often seemed just out of reach. But in the shadows of the highrises were the people who didn't just wait for that measure, nor sought it with their own resources - they were content to take what they wanted from those who could not defend themselves. They needed to know there were consequences to their actions. He felt the weight of the vest under his coat. He felt the weight of the weapons on his hips, from his shoulder. He felt the weight of the bullets in his heart. An executioner's work was rarely done. He was a monster who disposed of other monsters. And one day, another monster would dispose of him. Until then, he had bullets enough for every other monster he'd meet tonight.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

500 Words on Recovery

500 Words on Recovery — Blue Ink Alchemy

I haven't had a week like this one in quite a long time. I mean that in both good terms and in bad ones. Over the last few weeks, my life has been in a state of relative upheaval. I've had a lot of struggles, mostly internal ones, and I've pulled back from the things and people I love to get things sorted out. I'm coming out of the tunnel, now, and I'm very relieved to see that the light I was struggling towards isn't an oncoming semi. So what's been sorted? And what's next? My work and living situations have been in flux, but have taken on more stability, especially in the past week. True, it's not in the form of a solid, routine, commuting, 9-to-5 sort of stability at the moment, but honestly, with the way my living situation has changed, that might be for the best. Redoubling my efforts to do more remote freelancing to support my writing feels more true to my nature than hunting down the elusive corporate gig that really plays to my strengths and lets me feel like more than a cog in a capitalist machine. This all boils down to the internal struggles I've been having on a personal level. As much as I would like to think that I am an intelligent primate with a well-ordered and focused mind, the truth is that things can and often are a lot more chaotic than I'd like to admit. Especially when my mood swings in ways that are barely under my control, if at all, or my subconscious mind latches onto an emotion or concept that runs counter to what I consciously know is counter-productive, my mental landscape goes through changes in weather rather than remaining calm and placid. Hell, there have been earthquakes in there lately. Recovering from rough periods like this one is never easy. I've taken some time in relative isolation to get things under control before they became even more problematic for everyone involved. And I need to make this clear: nobody outside of my own head has done anything objectively wrong. I'm very thankful for everyone who's chosen to stay in my life, even if communication has been disrupted. Those disruptions don't last forever, though. Sometimes, all you can do is fight for your own mind as hard as you can, and pray that those who've stood with you are still standing when the smoke clears. I trust my friends, my closest ones, more than I do my own brain sometimes. They wouldn't be so willing to work with me, even in waiting, if they did not feel I was trustworthy in return. Now more than ever, I'll do my utmost to vindicate that trust. I'll take the time necessary to do right by the people I care about, and who care about me. I will do the things that make me come alive. I have a responsibility to the people I love. I won't ever forget that.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Walk the Fury Road

Walk the Fury Road — Blue Ink Alchemy

Have you seen Mad Max: Fury Road yet? ... Seriously? Have you not been on the Internet at all? Are you not aware of how universally praised this film is by (almost) everyone? I want to discuss why there's a parenthetical "almost" there, but I think that'll work best if you've seen the movie. So turn off your browser, saddle up, and head to the cinema. Go on. I'll wait. ... Okay. Back safely? WAS THAT NOT AMAZING?
"We Can Do It (Furiously)" by HugoHugo I think it's safe to say that Mad Max: Fury Road is the best film of the series George Miller has been responsible for over the course of the last three decades. It is, in no uncertain terms, the Platonic ideal of the lone nearly-silent protagonist in a post-apocalyptic wasteland getting drawn into adventures not of his own making. It's Fallout with less nostalgic music or Americana kitsch, more bizarre muscle cars and screaming guitar riffs. (Was that rig with the suspended guitarist whose axe had a flamethrower not the BEST?) Mad Max has spoken to fans for years and years. The lone adventurer in the desolation of the devastated Outback, wheeling and dealing for gasoline in the midst of outlandish bandits and barely-alive survivors really speaks to the independent streak in young men. He's tough, taciturn, capable, and above all, crazy enough to do wicked cool and highly dangerous stunts and get into fights out of his weight class. At least, that's how Mel Gibson played the character. Tom Hardy certainly brings the tough, taciturn, capable, and crazy as well, but he also brings an element that, to me, Gibson had a tendency to overlook: humanity. Max is haunted by his failures. He's withdrawn because of people he's let down, family he's lost, friends he's seen hurt or killed. If he hadn't already established himself in things like Inception, The Dark Knight Rises, and above all, Bronson, I'd say this is a star-making turn for him. Max is also smart, especially in the way Hardy plays him, and I really appreciate that despite this being the fourth movie in this series, Max shows growth and a difference in understanding from where he is at the start to where he is at the end. Despite the title and the performance, however, this movie does not belong to Max. It belongs to Furiosa. It belongs to the women. The first time we actually see all of the wives fleeing the clutches of Immortan Joe and what have to be incredibly gross and unconsented kisses, they are hosing each other down and using bolt cutters to remove the metal belts Joe slapped on them to keep them "his." I remember clearly, as that tableau was presented, some dude behind me in the theater uttering the word "Nice." I felt my stomach turn. Thankfully, as the movie continued, it was clear that his sort of attitude was the very one these women were not only escaping from, but actively fighting against. You see, while the wives are very attractive, and clad in varying degrees of white clothing that might be meant to be alluring, at no point do any of them feel like pawns in a greater game, like things to be pursued or saved. These women are saving themselves. Yes, Furiosa is the means of their salvation (and I'm getting to her, trust me), but these characters conspired with one another intelligently, planned their escape methodically, and even take up arms to defend the freedom they're struggling to attain. Max and Nux appearing are incidental things. Yes, they prove to be helpful in the cause, but they are not the agents of change in this story. The women are. I cannot stress enough how important this is. This is a 21st-century Hollywood blockbuster. This is a tough-as-nails gorefest breakneck action flick. This sort of thing is designed to pull in audiences that are predominantly male. And yet, smuggled in under the explosions and gunfire and nitrous injections and fistfights is a very strong, very clear message: Men are not the only heroes. Men are not the only saviors. Women do not always need to be damsels in distress; they are more than capable of saving themselves, thank you very much. As much as each of Immortan Joe's unconsenting wives personifies this, the focal point of this mentality is clearly Charlize Theron as Imperator Furiosa. Not only is Furiosa a woman who is clearly an equal to every man she encounters, if not superior in skill, tenacity, strength, and cunning, she thoroughly and consistently proves that she is the driving force (pun somewhat intended) of this story. She overwhelms Max in a fight. She drives as well as Max. She's better shot than Max (and, in one scene, he demonstrates that he knows this. I literally squee'd). She helps the wives escape, gives them a destination, and dedicates herself to protecting them along every mile of the Fury Road. Oh, and did I mention she does this with a disability? We never find out how Furiosa lost her arm, but between the prosthetic (which is, in and of itself, pretty badass) and her general levels of skill and guts (also badass), that loss does not slow her down one bit. If this isn't role model material, I don't know what is. From the moment this aspect of the film became clear, word began to circulate that so-called "men's rights activists" (MRAs) were livid about it. "Mad Max belongs to men!" seemed to be the common rallying cry. "Action films belong to men! Hot chicks in movies get saved by men!" So on and so forth, to ever-descending degrees of disgustingness. The truth, of course, is that these arguments are ignorant and baseless. Good artists, be they filmmakers, authors, painters, or musicians, make art for everyone, even if everyone might not be into the art being made - not everybody can get into the music of Philip Glass or the films of Takashi Miike, for example. George Miller is a good artist, and he made Mad Max: Fury Road for everyone, at least everyone over the age of consent, given the blood spatters and deformities and drug use and violence and whatnot. Male, female, or anywhere in between, I'd like to think that everybody can admire Furiosa, root for the wives, and chuckle along as Max finds a way to help in the righteous cause he's been searching for and finally found in the frightened but determined women huddled together in the back of the War Rig. This is not an easy road to walk. The ideas of feminism and equal representation and triumph in the face of adversity, disability, and the partiarchy get opposed even in the relatively enlightened days of the 21st century. Indeed, Immortan Joe is a personification of the patriarchy, demanding the devotion of the young men under his control and expecting everyone, especially women, to bend entirely to his whims. Nux, one of the War Boys and the soul to whom Max is bound (literally, for the first hour), shows us not only how such control affects a human being, but that said being has the ability to overcome it. When we meet him, Nux is living only for himself and the approval of his paternal figure; by the end, Nux is living for people who, by the standards of the figure he so highly esteemed, aren't considered people at all. There's so much in this film that belies its simple, action-flick nature, and it isn't easy to walk the road of making sure everyone knows it, and knows that the sort of "male gaze" bullshit that has dominated films and stories like this for centuries cannot and will not persevere. I'm going to see Mad Max: Fury Road again, in cinemas if possible, to walk this road as much as I can. And I'd like to think that, if you are reading these words and understanding their full meaning, you'd be willing to walk it with me.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Dryest Spell

The Dryest Spell — Blue Ink Alchemy

I can't think of a time when I've had a longer dry spell in terms of writing. I'm not quite at the shaking-hands staring-eyes push-food-towards-me-with-a-stick-lest-I-bite-your-fingers-off phase of writing withdrawal... but I think I've approached it. And, thankfully, I'm taking steps to get myself out of it. They're slow, much slower than I'd like, but they're happening. Case in point: this blog post! I certainly have a great deal to talk about, outside of the choking miasma that occasionally drifts through my headspace, and I need to get back in the habit of making words, my words, happen every day. And while I correspond with friends and write out internal experiences and sort out feelings, that isn't the same as informing the world, shedding light on Truth, or telling the stories that need telling. My goal, in all of the things I do and every choice I make, is to reduce cruelty in the world while increasing love. I've made some blunders along the way, had impulses and emotions blindside my conscious mind, and even come close to breaking down on an occasion or two. But I still haven't given up. I'm still committed to doing everything I can for the people I care about. And I'm working just as hard as I ever have to get out of my rut and take the path less traveled, the one walked by troubadours and truth-tellers, the one paved in paperback covers of those who inspire me to join their ranks. Deserts are vast. They are unforgiving. They are punishing, desolate, silent, and lonely places. But they are not the entirety of the world. Nor do they last forever. And I am finally, finally, coming to the end of this one.

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Blue Ink Alchemy