Returning to Flash Fiction

Returning to Flash Fiction — Blue Ink Alchemy

To say that things have been in upheaval lately would be an understatement. Things like "returning to a regular blogging schedule" and "maintaining a solid fanbase" have been something of a lower priority as I've sorted out housing, managed my barista schedule, and generally gotten more settled into this next phase of my life. How I got here isn't a happy tale, nor is it a finished one - but who among us can say that our story is actually finished? Anyway. It's been one of the longest traditions of this blog to respond to the Flash Fiction Challenge over at Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds. It shows up on most Fridays, provided Chuck isn't gallivanting around the country or writing award-winning novels. Even then, he tends to be pretty good at planning his posts ahead. Better than some of us, for sure. So a good place for me to begin in trying to do likewise, and return Blue Ink Alchemy to a regular schedule, seems to be writing up some Flash Fiction. I turned my browser to Terribleminds, and instead of a full-length post, 500-100 words, this week the challenge is to write a tweet. Hence this verbose forward to what follows! At 131 characters, here's how I contributed to the Tales from Black Friday.

The number of dead, trampled, and broken don't matter. The sale purchases do. And at 666, THEY will arrive. #talesfromblackfriday

You can see the actual Tweet here.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

From The Vault: Fan Fiction Is Not Evil

From The Vault: Fan Fiction Is Not Evil — Blue Ink Alchemy

Since one of my irons in the fire (more on that later) is now a fan fiction project, I thought I'd revisit my thoughts on the subject.

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That little piece I wrote yesterday for Chuck's latest challenge is fan fiction. I'm comfortable with that. I don't think there's really anything wrong with fan fiction, per se, and I've discussed it in the past. I think there's something wrong with it, though, when it's done badly. I know that fan fiction can carry a bit of a stigma. For some, there's a stereotype attached to it, which I will address. However, we've already established that writers are dirty thieves. Fan fiction is work that simply admits to said thievery. It makes no bones about being built around an established IP. And it takes a lot of the grunt work out of writing especially in speculative fiction. The setting, mood, nuances and themes are already established, all the writer has to do is give the characters motivation and voices. There's a market for it, as well. You don't even have to change the names or locations or structure of the established world, as Ben Croshaw did for Mogworld. Timothy Zahn, Peter David, Michael Stackpole, R.A. Salvatore, Weis & Hickman, Diane Duane - these are all authors who have published incredibly successful novels that are, for all intents and purposes, fan fiction. The fact that they have been sanctioned by the creators or even worked into established canon must only be icing on the cake for those authors. It's why I feel we shouldn't be ashamed to consider such works as viable forms of fiction. This doesn't mean that all fan fiction is good, though. Not by a long shot. The stereotype I alluded to is that of a lonely amateur writer dashing out a story in an established universe where a previously unknown character comes along, changes everything and escapes any sort of repercussions for actions that normally would have them dragged in front of military tribunals. The dreaded Mary Sue phenomenon can make people afraid to even touch fan fiction for fear of being associated with such blatant and odious authorial crutches. Most of the time, if someone is doing this to an IP, they're doing so while also making full-on assaults on grammar and even spelling. It's why some people will turn their nose up at the mere mention of the words "fan fiction." The thing is, though, nothing is automatically good or automatically bad just because of its associations. Oskar Schindler was associated with the Nazi party but was a good man. The Fantastic Four are associated with the same brand bringing us The Avengers but those movies were pretty bad. By the same token, there's no need to blanketly declare that fan fiction is evil or even bad. Bad writing is bad writing no matter what it's based upon, and as long as the criticism is focused on that and not its basis, I say fire away. Just take things on a case by case basis. Start making blanket statements, and the next thing you know, you're running for public office.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Impala Nights: Part 1

Impala Nights: Part 1 — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm not the kind of guy who likes surprises very much. I never had much in the way of birthday parties to begin with, but surprise parties in particular always rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, you want to celebrate my life by trying to scare me to death? No, thank you. It's really difficult to prepare for that sort of thing if your friends are any good at keeping secrets. And for a wizard, especially a professional one like myself, preparation is the name of the game. The old house creaks under my feet as I make my way through it. I whisper a word to light the wick inside of the lantern I'm carrying, and pale orange light spills out into a circle in front of my on the floor. It's something Bob the Skull helped me whip up, an old "bullseye" style lantern, with a minor enchantment that let me see ghosts and pierce minor veils. The word is that there have been a bunch of disappearances around the house, which is in a run-down neighborhood situated between downtown Chicago and one of its suburbs. It's one of those areas you just keep driving past if you know what's good for you. But when you're Harry Dresden, and someone pays you to look for their lost child in a place the police are unwilling or unable to go, you really don't have that choice. I make a face as the heat from the lamp starts cooking some of the dust on the floor and in the air. There's a musty smell about the place in general, and the sudden heat source doesn't help to abate that. I'm used to foul smells, but I wish I wasn't. I'd much rather be back in my lab, helping Molly do some research into her father's sword, Amoracchius, and trying to coordinate some of the activities of the Gray Council of which I was now apparently a founding member. I have a lot of things to deal with in my world, from vengeful vampire lords to ancient magical conspiracies, and this is taking time away from them. All thoughts of the world outside of the house go flying out of my brain, though, when I step into the basement. The world goes... weird. I feel off-balance, sick to my stomach, and get a headache, all at once. It lasts for a few interminable moments. Then, it's gone. I blink, shake my head to clear it, and raise the lantern to look around. The basement's a basement. Cobwebs, mostly empty shelves, creepy corners. I turn, and look at the stairs I just walked down. The stairs are collapsed. They hadn't made a noise. I shine the lantern into the threshold. There's just enough room for me to step back through. I do, and the vertigo slams into me again. Once I recover, I'm looking up the stairs I'd just walked down, whole and intact. My brain finally gets through its warm-up cycle and I realize where I'd felt those things before. The first time I'd ever used a Way into the Nevernever. This was different, though. The Nevernever has a very particular feel to it. Stepping through (retch) a second time, it still feels like the real world once I recover. I walk through the basement to the storm doors, up the stairs and out, and look around. It's the same neighborhood, still a Chicago no-mans-land, and nothing in my natural or wizardly senses tells me it's an illusion or a construct. It's real. Just... different. "I hate surprises," I say to myself. As if in response (me and my big mouth), a engine rumbles up the drive on the other side of the house. I stay low, and I Listen. The night's relatively quiet, with just a couple of crickets that were silenced when the big car, some classic muscle-style beast, rumbles to a stop on the driveway. The engine sputters to silence, and I hear two doors open and close. "Look, I don't want to talk about your anger issues, okay?" The first voice is on the gruff side, and clearly annoyed. "I'm not your damn therapist." "No, you're not." The second voice is more refined, collegiate, but also exasperated. "You're my brother, Dean. And you're the only one I can talk to about this sort of thing." "You really want to keep doing this? Huh? In case you've lost track because you've been too busy flying over the cuckoo's nest, we have a fucking Apocalypse to stop." There's a pause. "Then what are we doing here, Dean?" "The last place we stayed at said that this house is where people have been disappearing. Come on, Sam. Some classic, old-school monster-hunting. Just what you need to put that anger to use. It's what I do." "Yeah. And you're so well-adjusted." There's an audible shrug. "At least I'm not bitchin' about it constantly." "And that's healthy." Sam sighs. "All right, come on." They come around the corner, flashlights in hand. Guess who's standing there out in the open. "Hi," I say conversationally. "You boys lost?" I lift my lantern to get a look at them. One's tall, over six feet, with a lanky build, stylishly long dark hair, and a somewhat pained expression, probably from the end of that conversation. The other, shorter guy is built more like a boxer, all compact muscle and attitude, with close-cropped hair and narrowing, suspicious eyes. I know what they're seeing, too - the silhouette of a guy in a leather duster holding a bullseye lantern in his right hand, and leaning on a large staff held in his left. "Um. No." The shorter one's eyes narrow even more. His voice pegs him as Dean. "We're... just passing through." "We saw your light," says Sam. "We got curious." I make a face. One of those you boys are full of it faces. Molly says I'd make a good parent, with faces like that. I shudder to think what I'd be like as a parent. "Well, then, you can keep passing. This isn't something you guys want to be involved in." "Really?" Sam looks incredulous. I don't blame him - I would, too. "Really. There are monsters out here. Ghosts, at the very least." Dean nods in my direction, smirking. I can smell the smartass comment coming before he speaks. "So you, ah, watch that Ghostfacers show?" "I don't own a TV," I say. "All I know is, I walked out of that basement in a city that isn't mine, with my car nowhere in sight, and Goofus and Gallant rolling up here talking about the Apolcalypse." The young men stare at me. "So," I continue into the silence. "How about you leave the monster-hunting business to the professional wizard, get back in your car, and drive on down the road." "Wizard," Dean repeated. "So... you're a he-witch?" I blink. "A what?" Dean doesn't let me clarify further. Instead, he shoots me. DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction. Harry Dresden and all attendant characters, locations, and creatures are property of Jim Butcher. Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, and all attendant characters, locations, and creatures are property of Supernatural. Please support the official releases of both properties.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Impala Nights: Part 1

Impala Nights: Part 1 — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm not the kind of guy who likes surprises very much. I never had much in the way of birthday parties to begin with, but surprise parties in particular always rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, you want to celebrate my life by trying to scare me to death? No, thank you. It's really difficult to prepare for that sort of thing if your friends are any good at keeping secrets. And for a wizard, especially a professional one like myself, preparation is the name of the game. The old house creaks under my feet as I make my way through it. I whisper a word to light the wick inside of the lantern I'm carrying, and pale orange light spills out into a circle in front of my on the floor. It's something Bob the Skull helped me whip up, an old "bullseye" style lantern, with a minor enchantment that let me see ghosts and pierce minor veils. The word is that there have been a bunch of disappearances around the house, which is in a run-down neighborhood situated between downtown Chicago and one of its suburbs. It's one of those areas you just keep driving past if you know what's good for you. But when you're Harry Dresden, and someone pays you to look for their lost child in a place the police are unwilling or unable to go, you really don't have that choice. I make a face as the heat from the lamp starts cooking some of the dust on the floor and in the air. There's a musty smell about the place in general, and the sudden heat source doesn't help to abate that. I'm used to foul smells, but I wish I wasn't. I'd much rather be back in my lab, helping Molly do some research into her father's sword, Amoracchius, and trying to coordinate some of the activities of the Gray Council of which I was now apparently a founding member. I have a lot of things to deal with in my world, from vengeful vampire lords to ancient magical conspiracies, and this is taking time away from them. All thoughts of the world outside of the house go flying out of my brain, though, when I step into the basement. The world goes... weird. I feel off-balance, sick to my stomach, and get a headache, all at once. It lasts for a few interminable moments. Then, it's gone. I blink, shake my head to clear it, and raise the lantern to look around. The basement's a basement. Cobwebs, mostly empty shelves, creepy corners. I turn, and look at the stairs I just walked down. The stairs are collapsed. They hadn't made a noise. I shine the lantern into the threshold. There's just enough room for me to step back through. I do, and the vertigo slams into me again. Once I recover, I'm looking up the stairs I'd just walked down, whole and intact. My brain finally gets through its warm-up cycle and I realize where I'd felt those things before. The first time I'd ever used a Way into the Nevernever. This was different, though. The Nevernever has a very particular feel to it. Stepping through (retch) a second time, it still feels like the real world once I recover. I walk through the basement to the storm doors, up the stairs and out, and look around. It's the same neighborhood, still a Chicago no-mans-land, and nothing in my natural or wizardly senses tells me it's an illusion or a construct. It's real. Just... different. "I hate surprises," I say to myself. As if in response (me and my big mouth), a engine rumbles up the drive on the other side of the house. I stay low, and I Listen. The night's relatively quiet, with just a couple of crickets that were silenced when the big car, some classic muscle-style beast, rumbles to a stop on the driveway. The engine sputters to silence, and I hear two doors open and close. "Look, I don't want to talk about your anger issues, okay?" The first voice is on the gruff side, and clearly annoyed. "I'm not your damn therapist." "No, you're not." The second voice is more refined, collegiate, but also exasperated. "You're my brother, Dean. And you're the only one I can talk to about this sort of thing." "You really want to keep doing this? Huh? In case you've lost track because you've been too busy flying over the cuckoo's nest, we have a fucking Apocalypse to stop." There's a pause. "Then what are we doing here, Dean?" "The last place we stayed at said that this house is where people have been disappearing. Come on, Sam. Some classic, old-school monster-hunting. Just what you need to put that anger to use. It's what I do." "Yeah. And you're so well-adjusted." There's an audible shrug. "At least I'm not bitchin' about it constantly." "And that's healthy." Sam sighs. "All right, come on." They come around the corner, flashlights in hand. Guess who's standing there out in the open. "Hi," I say conversationally. "You boys lost?" I lift my lantern to get a look at them. One's tall, over six feet, with a lanky build, stylishly long dark hair, and a somewhat pained expression, probably from the end of that conversation. The other, shorter guy is built more like a boxer, all compact muscle and attitude, with close-cropped hair and narrowing, suspicious eyes. I know what they're seeing, too - the silhouette of a guy in a leather duster holding a bullseye lantern in his right hand, and leaning on a large staff held in his left. "Um. No." The shorter one's eyes narrow even more. His voice pegs him as Dean. "We're... just passing through." "We saw your light," says Sam. "We got curious." I make a face. One of those you boys are full of it faces. Molly says I'd make a good parent, with faces like that. I shudder to think what I'd be like as a parent. "Well, then, you can keep passing. This isn't something you guys want to be involved in." "Really?" Sam looks incredulous. I don't blame him - I would, too. "Really. There are monsters out here. Ghosts, at the very least." Dean nods in my direction, smirking. I can smell the smartass comment coming before he speaks. "So you, ah, watch that Ghostfacers show?" "I don't own a TV," I say. "All I know is, I walked out of that basement in a city that isn't mine, with my car nowhere in sight, and Goofus and Gallant rolling up here talking about the Apolcalypse." The young men stare at me. "So," I continue into the silence. "How about you leave the monster-hunting business to the professional wizard, get back in your car, and drive on down the road." "Wizard," Dean repeated. "So... you're a he-witch?" I blink. "A what?" Dean doesn't let me clarify further. Instead, he shoots me.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Self-Care For Artistic Types

Self-Care For Artistic Types — Blue Ink Alchemy

This is for those of you out there trying to create something new. Bucking trends. Swimming upstream. Letting your dreams come to life through one medium or another. You're making art. Good. Please take care of yourself. I know, I know. Pot, kettle. I've been struggling with self-care, myself. Seeing therapists, taking medication, working through issues through journaling and my Innercom Chatter project (more on that as it develops), allowing myself breaks and celebrating minor victories. Unfortunately, I have not done things like eat regular meals, get more exercise, stick to my vegan path as much as I'd like, or remain in strong communication with friends. I mean, I'm not shutting myself off, but I'm not exactly being outgoing and gregarious either. It's usually an invitation from a friend that gets me out, not me seeking to be around friends. It's a narrow distinction. Anyway. Self-care is a thing you should be doing. Whether you're caught up in creating, berating yourself for not creating enough, or hating whatever it is you've created, remind yourself that it's okay. You're only human. You're allowed to give yourself some breathing room, take breaks, and breathe, for crying out loud. It's something I need to remind myself of every day, and yes, some days are better than others. That'll be the way for you, too. Just remember that you're worth taking care of. And, at the end of the day, the best and most reliable person you have to take care of you is you. Two cents from the edge.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

I Am Not Okay

I Am Not Okay — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Everything is terrible and nothing is not on fire." I'm sure most of the people who read this know, but for those of you don't, I've been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. This consists of cycling between two modes of thought and mood: depression and mania. In my case, as my disorder is less severe than others, the opposite of depression for me is "hypomania". While other factors may cause me to cycle rapidly between different moods - my case worker calls this "emotional reactivity" and suggests it's different from bipolar - the depressive state and the hypomanic state are different baselines. I am very aware of when I'm depressed. Hypomanic, less so. Over the past week or so, I have had a hypomanic episode. Maniacs do highly obvious and out-of-character things when they are in the throes of an episode. Hypomania is more subtle, and in that way, more destructive. Hypomania is unrestrained energy and attachment to joyous, uplifting, or simply distracting things. It's a tendency to spend more money than one really should, losing track of budgets, and accruing debt. It's ignoring self-care in favor of being out, having fun, and indulging in pleasures, vices, and ultimately self-destructive behaviors which are also damaging to others. The problem is, these things are fun, and in the midst of an episode, I feel happy. Please understand that, as I write this, I do not consider it an excuse for my behavior, or for decisions I've made. This is an explanation. Like the discovery of motive during a criminal trial, my realization of the episode explains some of the poor decisions I've made. Those decisions were still made by me, and I must accept responsibility for them and deal with their consequences. It's more than making apologies and admitting I've fucked up. It is making an active effort to do better, act better, be better. It begins with admitting that I am not okay. My instinct is to run away from things. To cut ties with the people I've hurt and go into radio silence. To push away those who care about me. To crawl into a hole and pull it closed after me. But what would that change? How would that help me and, more importantly, people I've hurt? The answer is that it wouldn't. These things are knee-jerk reactions caused by swinging back downwards into depression. I need help. I must discuss with professionals ways to be more aware of swings into hypomania, if there is medication to give my mental state a "ceiling", and what else I can do to establish a balanced mental baseline. I am already on medication, mood stabilizers, to mitigate some of the swings. However, since my baseline is typically low (I stay depressed for months and this hypomanic episode was a mere few days) I need to find ways to raise it. In the meantime, I need to return to more focused, more active self-care. Cleaning up my messes. Sleeping more. Eating. Looking myself in the mirror and knowing that I won't like what I see. I neither expect nor demand help from my friends. Professionals, yes. Friends, no. I have some great people in my life who will want to help and give advice. I'll accept what I'm given but I won't make a habit of asking. The last thing I want is to cause further discomfort or give the impression I'm using any of the above to manipulate the situation in my favor. I'm not a con man. This is not a game. This is damage control. I am not okay. And I won't be okay until I deal with this aspect of my issues, first and foremost, before anybody else gets hurt. So I'm going to do that.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

We'll Never Be Royals

We'll Never Be Royals — Blue Ink Alchemy

"You should write about all of this," my father suggested. "And then write a book about it." He's referring to some of the recent events in my life. Things that have changed it forever. Events have occurred that are forcing me to put the brakes on a lot of the interests and intentions that have kind of existed on autopilot for years, and peel them apart so I can hold on to what makes sense for me as an individual, and discard what gets in my way and does harm to others. I have a problem with writing a book about it, though. For one, I'm a novelist. I don't do as well with non-fiction. I feel like I either come across too dry or make something too anecdotal or conversational. Which leads to the other, bigger problem. I'm not noble. My fear is that, in conveying the events of my life up to this point and the path I have ahead of me that I must travel, I'll come across as some kind of hero or saint. That I will lionize myself while demonizing the people who have influenced my life. Honestly, there's nothing heroic or even all that brave about what I'm doing. It's necessary, hard, thankless work. And the people who have influenced me certainly don't feel I'm doing anything extraordinary, as this is work that's needed doing for a long time. I'm not royalty, and I never will be. A big part of the work I need to do is removing the romantic ideal from my perspective of my story. I am my own protagonist, sure, but I'm no hero. I'm not somehow morally or ethically sacrosanct. I'm human. I'm flawed. I've fucked up. I've hurt people. There are very few people that haven't. It's nice to imagine, to write about, to witness. Paragons of virtue doing battle with the forces of darkness. We thrill to those stories. We become a part of them. We act out those fantasies. We make them apart of our lives. But that isn't the truth. And trying to make it that way is folly. That's why I shy from writing a book about what I'm going through, what I've been through, and what's ahead. My life is a broken, irregular trail of broken hearts, damaged souls, and shattered dreams. It isn't anything to be celebrated or idolized. I am not your fucking inspiration porn. I mean, if you draw some meaning or hope from everything I relate, that's awesome. Use it. Learn from it. But putting myself out there as some sort of guru smacks of hypocrisy. I will not do it. I will not be one of those falsely smiling faces you see in the Inspiration section of a bookstore. There are other authors willing to do that. I ain't one of them. I write about witches, wizards, fallen heroes, magnificent bastards, heartache, monsters, darkness, and despair. And somewhere in there, maybe, I might convey some compassion. Inspiration. Determination. Hope. Just don't look for it in non-fiction. We write about the royals that we will never be.

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Blue Ink Alchemy