Patrick Rothfuss kisses a llama.

Wherein one of my favorite author's kisses a llama. For charity.

Also, here's a link to HIS blog post about it:Pat kissing llamas

Silent Night

So, my college did a thing. Actually, we've been doing it for thirty years; a pretty cool thing, in fact. If I have my facts straight, ESPN has actually named it as a top-ten college sports traditions in America, and they send guys to film it each year, which is pretty cool. My residence floor usually gets special notice by the camera people, cause we're crazy.

What is the thing? It's called Silent Night, a Taylor tradition where, for the basketball game played at home during the weekend before finals, practically EVERY student on campus shows up to spectate, most in full costume . . . and no one says anything. Nope; for ten points, it's completely silent. No clapping, no cheering, no drama. BUT YOU SHOULD SEE THAT TENTH POINT. Craziness ensues, with students mobbing the courts and everyone screaming and they actually pause the game for us. Eventually we return to the sidelines, but we don't stop screaming before the end of the game, at which time we all file over to the dining commons for Christmas cookies and karaoke, and President Habecker's wife reads us the story of Christ's birth.

Here's a cbs sports article about Silent Night: http://www.cbssports.com/collegebasketball/eye-on-college-basketball/24869579/taylor-universitys-silent-night-gives-us-another-memorable-moment.
In the videos, you might notice a swarm of yellow-and-black clad figures buzzing the court . . . that's my floor. Naw, we're not firemen; we're supposed to be bees. We're fun like that.

Anyway, it's a pretty cool tradition. Along with the craziness, this year a group of students also held up signs saying #blacklivesmatter, in recognition of all that's going on in Ferguson. I'm proud of my school for using the publicity to present a stance on things, and also to enjoy themselves and enjoy the insanity.

And here's a longer video of last year's Silent Night

the Word

the Word 

There once was a man with a silver sword 

Who whispered an almost forgotten word. 

The word grew loud though the man didn’t shout 

Soon other men tasted it inside their mouths. 

The word spread wide like a poisonous cough 

Till the king of the land had heard it enough. 

He built a great fire and burnt the black word 

And he slaughtered the man with the silver sword. 

But the word whispered soft from among the flames 

Twisted with smoke, all faded and gray. 

Throughout the wide kingdom, the word was heard 

And no man could kill that absurd little word. 

The word became twisted the further it grew 

It rotted and blistered near all the way through. 

But the green heart remained with the sap of the word 

Till along one day came a silver sword. 

It pierced the word to its greenwood heart 

And discerned the root of the word’s many parts. 

And they say that the word will be whispered again 

By the man at the desk with the silver pen.

Dactyl

No, not that kind of Dactyl. Thanks to Alex Mellen (http://amediting.blogspot.com/) for reminding me to make this pun.

Have I told you about my Creative Writing class? It's wonderful. Professor Bowman is one of my favorites; a youngish man (mid 30's?) with messy brown hair swept off to one side, who wears worn suit-jackets with jeans and beige button-downs. Sometimes, the jackets have elbow patches. Those are my favorite days.

He's a poet who also knows about other forms of writing, especially creative nonfiction, so the poetry sections are always especially interesting. Today, he discussed various elements of rhyme and meter. All the professor's chatter inspired my muse to start musing, so, while he talked, I scribbled a quick poem in my notebook, which went something like this:

Dance on the graves of the ocean of snakes as they wriggle about your knees,
Shoot down the moon on the guardian's tomb in the forest without any trees.

Take all the fire of the hearthrug's desire as you turn it all cold and gray,
And hear ye the bleat of the murderous sheep while the shepherd is away.

"I want you to write a structured poem," Professor Bowman said, interrupting my scribblings. "Use one of the poetic forms I just talked about. Every time I give this exercise, some students say that working with a structure is really frustrating for them, and others say that it's really freeing."

As I observed the lines I'd just jotted down, a sneaking suspicion took me. So, I measured the rhythm, and found that, sure enough, I'd already completed the exercise. The poem I'd just written was a dactyl, with a few deviant syllables.

Dactyls take the form of one stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables, such as the word longitude. Lon-gi-tude. Get it? So, in my poem (/ stands for stressed; ^ stands for unstressed):

      /      ^   ^        /      ^   ^    /    ^   ^      /      ^     ^      /    ^    ^   /      ^        ^
Dance on the graves of the ocean of snakes as they wriggle about your knees,

Get it now? I think that's correct, except the last line of the poem isn't a correct dactyl, I don't think, and I adjusted the other lines very slightly to fit. But you get the idea. I find it interesting that I used this form without intending it, or even knowing what it was. Seems as if the ideas of meter and rhythm are wired into us, created by the proliferation of music and poetry that we're bombarded with on a daily basis.

Apologies

My apologies, friends, for the long absence of words.  I promise, they will return someday, and we will all rejoice.  In the meantime, watch this hilarious video: Animator vs. Animation IV.  Possibly my favorite video of the internet.

What excuses can I give to garner your forgiveness?  School has been crazy.  Life has been crazy.  But, if I was truly dedicated to this blog, it's not actually crazy enough to keep me from posting.  I suppose I'm just not dedicated enough, although I enjoy sharing my stories, and I've been working on other writing projects.

Another reason for my absence: most publishing venues count blogs as real publications, and so if a publication stipulates that it only accepts unpublished work (as many do), then anything I share to this blog can't be submitted to more credible options.  That's a big drain, and most projects I'm currently working on are for magazines or contests of that sort.  Even so, if I actually get work published, then I (tentatively) promise to post it here, after!

Enjoy your lives!  I'll try to get something up eventually.

My future.

This is my future, people.  Note: I was in no way involved with the creation of this comic.  The proper website can be viewed by clicking on the link.

I did not make it.  I live it.

http://poorlydrawnlines.com/comic/the-difference/

Transcendent Hope

Coach died today.  He was a mentor to me, a mentor to almost every student in my school, from the kindergartners to the seniors.

"Uncle" Jay Tolar did something incredible.  He had hope, which isn't easy in the face of a disease as crushing and terrifying as ALS.  Sometimes, people exaggerate pleasant qualities after someone dies, but I doubt that any who knew Coach Tolar could ever suspect that of him.

From childhood, I remember him bouncing.  Brimming with energy.  Constantly laughing, and making others laugh.

You know something?  Even when I "grew up" and coach grew older and ALS paralyzed his body, that's still how he seemed.  The wheelchair didn't confine him, somehow.  He confined IT.  His energy and liveliness transcended it, and he still made everyone laugh -- sometimes using the paralysis to help him imitate a zombie, and sometimes singing hilarious songs while machines sucked the phlegm from his chest, since he could no longer cough.  He had hope, and he laughed at the disease.

His faith gave him hope, and he gave this hope to others.  Even in his death, his incredible family and those of us blessed by his life still have hope; hope that we will see him again, someday, and hope that his body is now strong and free, dancing with even more unquenchable energy before God's throne than he always displayed on this earth.

I thank God for Uncle Jay Tolar's life, and I thank him for a hope bigger than paralysis or disease or death.  In the meantime, whenever I'm tempted to lose hope in any struggle of my life, I think I'll remember that Coach did not.

My Manhood is a Research Question

I get some interesting questions, working as a library research assistant. Not all of them involve research.

During my shift the other day, a woman approached the front desk somewhat warily, peering at me first from one side and then the other. She hesitated several feet away, perhaps debating any further approach, and still sizing me up. I smiled a greeting. 
"Hi, can I help you with anything?"
Finally coming to a decision, she fully approached the desk.
"Yes . . . are you Rachael?"

I have a beard.

And that woman turned out be my supervisor for the day.

20,000 words . . . lost.

WARNING: the following recounting is not for the faint of heart.  It's not a happy little tale, not a bedtime story for your children.  I'm still shaking.

Isn't technology great?  The first computer I ever used for storytelling was my parents' clunky Toshiba, running Windows 95.  It crashed, of course, stealing the pitiful beginnings of a manuscript I'd stored there, along with my motivation to continue writing the story.  Eventually, however, I did continue, and it endured into my first full-length novel: Destiny's Mistake.  A few other crashes frightened me along the way to this completion, but I think a month's worth of progress was the most I'd ever lost.

Until now.

I thought I'd learned my lesson, and over the years, backups grew more and more frequent.  Losing a few hours work every now and again -- mostly due to the haphazard electricity in Nigeria, where I grew up -- put the fear of technology in me.  Yes, I know better than most about the importance of regular system backups.  But I've never been very good at learning lessons.

Today was typical: I opened my computer and waited for Windows to resume.  This semester I'm trying to spend an hour a day working on personal writing, unrelated to school.  Microsoft's OneDrive cloud backup is my preferred method of storage: it's a supposed fail-safe against crashes, and is also convenient for accessing writing on devices other than my laptop and tablet.  The technology gods, however, are not always benevolent.

As I'd done a hundred times before, I accessed OneDrive and clicked on my God's and Chaos manuscript (early stages of the rough draft are posted on this blog).  But I instantly saw that something was wrong.  A small "x" was posted in the corner of the document.  When I tried opening it, an error message appeared: "the file cannot be accessed because parts are corrupted."  A chill trickled into my skull, but I tried again . . . and again, the same message greeted me.  The details link expounded on my file's corruption and the loss on my hope.

This document is 20,000 words long: far from completion, but still extremely significant.  It represents days and days of writing time -- basically my entire summer, plus some -- and I'm rather proud of various portions.

But there was no denying the situation: the document was gone.  Vanished.  Removed from this mortal plain.  With little hope of recovery.

Scenarios and possibilities scurried through my thoughts: the last time I'd opened this document was on the machine at the library's front desk.  Could that be a factor?  Should I contact I.T. at the library?  Surrender my computer to a techie friend?  Contact Microsoft?

It felt like static electricity was prickling my brain.

Alright, stay calm, Luke.  A brittle hope: try accessing OneDrive through the website rather than through the app on my computer.  I tried, praying fervently . . . I accessed the website, clicked on the folder . . . the list of documents stood before me, and like an angel of judgement, I picked the document in question.  As I did this, I noticed that all the other documents displayed script in their pictures, but this one just appeared blank.  (I'm sure there are technical terms for all these things, but I haven't the faintest idea what they are.)  For a moment, my hope teetered as the blue loading screen flashed before my eyes, just as it had in the failed attempts . . . and then the document opened, complete with text.  I scrolled to the end.  Everything was there.

But you can swear your life on the knowledge that there's now a second backup on my computer, and I'll probably make another on my external hard-drive.

For the cloud is mysterious.  Who can fathom its ways?

Teddy's Story Joint

I was in no way involved in this video's creation, but it's bodaciously geekish enough that I felt compelled to share it.  No, "bodaciously" is not a proper conjugation of bodacious, but it makes me feel more like a geek, as does this entire sentence.

Growls in the Darkness

You've played those games: the dungeon crawlers, where you creep through subterranean chambers, peer into old crates, and add items to your inventory.  Perhaps you're just exploring, or maybe engaging in a quest.  You spring a hidden trap or two and combat giant rats and spiders, delving ever deeper into the earth's throat.  The light of your torch casts flirting shadows, and, just as you reach the journey's end and prepare for an ascension from the caverns, a monster bars your path.
I recently had one of these experiences.  But I wasn't playing a video game.  It was real life.
Over the summer, I've worked for an industrial painting company.  The work has taught me new skills, introduced me to a circle of fascinating coworkers, and provided some memorable experiences.  One of these was an adventure I think of as "the growls in the darkness."
"Luke," my boss said as I arrived one morning, "I'm sending you over to that job you worked a few weeks ago.  I want you down in the old apple barn, collecting jars from the basement.  You'll find some boxes in the attic."
The disused basement was filthy and dark, despite my powerful lantern.  Canning jars were strewn in the mounds of rat and raccoon excrement.  The smells were pungent enough that the air tasted rusty through my respirator, and safety apparel - gloves and white overalls - swaddled me from head to heels  My boss called the overalls a "zoot suit," which sounds like apparel for a space-themed 70's disco.  It made me feel like I was wearing haz-mat garb.
A glorious formula: hyperactive imagination, dank, subterranean chambers, and haz-mat reminiscent apparel.  As I shifted through the mounds of crap, I envisioned myself as a paranormal investigator, somewhere between Harry Dresden, MythBusters, Agent Mulder, and the Doctor.  Quite a persona, searching for radioactive relics that'd been stored in a cellar and recently become active.
My hands were salvaging usable jars, but my head watched a wolfish monster burst through the decomposing floorboards, probably a coyote mutated by radiation.  And then, from the darkness, something growled.
There are strange twilights, blurring the lines between reality and imagination.  I hesitated, hand hovering above the cardboard box.  There probably weren't any mutated coyotes, but I might find some ordinary ones.  Or some coons, which can get nasty when threatened.
I retreated up the cracked stairway with a box, wandering over to where my boss was working on a construction project.  He straightened to greet me.
"How's it going, Luke?"
"Hey, Paul, it's going pretty well.  I'm about half done.  Do you have any idea if something could be living in that basement?"
Paul scratched his head.  "Could be.  I didn't really look in the other rooms.  Too spooky."
We chatted for a few moments and I mentioned the noises.  Both of us agreed that his tape measure was probably the culprit, so I wandered away, taking a few more minutes of break.  I waved goodbye to Paul as he drove away.  Before descending again, I circled the structure's overgrown perimeter.  That's when I saw the bones.
Yes, bones.  They were large, yellowed with age, crouching at the bottom of an air-chute leading to the basement.  Deer bones by the look of them, and definitely gnawed.  Probably dragged there by a coon.
Clutching this cheerful image, I entered the depths once again.
The growl came again, twice in rapid succession.  But I had to work till all the boxes were filled or all the jars were collected.
Alongside rotten shelves and rusting farm machinery, a large cage occupied part of the basement.  I'd already scavenged the jars from outside this cage, so now I crawled through the gap into the fetid space, dragging a box after me.
A mouth was trying to swallow the room.  It was a doorway leading to another chamber, or perhaps a series of other chambers.  Whatever the case, I'd been eyeing it since my arrival, and had the unnerving sensation that it was eyeing me, too.
The door was ominous.  Its frame was eroded into a jagged opening, dark enough that I couldn't tell what waited within.  If I was really sharing the basement with something large, then that doorway was a likely entrance for it.  So I faced that direction as I scavenged jars, counting down the boxes till I finished.
Should I see what's in that room?  Probably not.  It's reckless.  Coons carry rabies, not to mention the damage a trapped coyote could do . . . .
But I knew there wasn't another option.  At the end of the day, I scare easily, but I also enjoy adventures, like when I snuck into an "abandoned" government facility.  Probably not a story I should share online.
I knew I'd regret not exploring the other rooms, but I also knew that if I encountered something large, I might lose my nerve to finish the job.  So I waited til the last jar was off the floor and the last box was above ground.  Then, armed with a fresh battery pack and a baseball bat purloined from stacks of junk upstairs, I investigated the growls in the darkness.
It'd be nice if this ended with a climatic encounter between me and a coyote, or even a startled coon.  Nice for our story, but not so much for my health.  The truth is rather tame, unfortunately.  The other chamber was completely barren, although large holes pockmarked the walls.  Large enough for an animal to crawl through.
It's not the most exciting adventure I've ever had, but how often do you get your own dungeon-crawling experience?  And if I hadn't braved the growls in the darkness, then I still wouldn't know what was in there.

Why Write? Includes an Article by Brandon Sanderson

Before I begin, I'd like to say that technology blows me away.  I'm writing this several days before it will be posted, and thanks to the "schedule" feature, I can set it to automatically post without my engagement.  Such 21st century.

Alright, here's something to which I've given quite a bit of thought: why write?  After all, as a medium, isn't the written word dying?  Many more people listen to music and watch movies or tv shows than read books, correct?  Yes?  Maybe not?

Lots of people debate this assertion, and according to Brandon Sanderson (my writing god), there are actually more people reading now than there ever have been before.  I question this, especially since his views might be slanted due to the survivorship bias* of being a bestselling author.  I'll post his article so that you can decide for yourself, but first I'll make you wade through my own inferior slew of words.  Or, you could skip to the end.  Darn you, divergent system-breakers!

Let's not confuse the question of "why write?" with "why read?"  In my opinion, that's much easier to answer.  Any activity, reading included, shapes the pathways in your brain.  Reading basically trains people to think and analyze in ways that other actions cannot.  Also, because reading puts you inside the minds of characters with potentially differing views and experiences from your own, it makes you more able (and willing) to see others' points of view, and also to feel empathy for others' situations.  The reasons pretty much continue from there.

So, I ask again: why write?  I've gotten into debates about this subject, mostly with myself.  It seems that, for those intent on sharing stories, film is a better option.  It gains wider exposure.  So does music, and I am often awed by the ability of certain musicians to powerfully and succinctly tell stories in their songs.  An argument could be made that written-word is more capable of communicating emotion, but I'm not sure I agree.  Perhaps not more capable, just capable in a different way.

It's been suggested to me that the reason for writing is that I enjoy it.  This is very true, and I'd like to think that I'll continue writing "just because" even if I never get a book published, which stands a good chance of being the case.  Writing keeps me sane.  But, regardless of what authors say about not being able to not write, I believe firmly that it's an overly emotional argument.  At least personally, a life without writing would be difficult . . . but not impossible.  Sometimes, you just have to face it: art forms like writing and music are not something humans need to survive.  Thrive, perhaps.  But not survive.

At the end of the day, here's what I've decided.  It's not a concrete conclusion, and my views might change.  For now, however, it's the product of years of musing.

Writing may not be the only way to impact people through stories, and it may not be the most effective.  But, it's something I can do.  I don't think I'd be very good at the technical aspects of medium such as film, even if I received proper education.  And I know from experience that I have very little musical talent.  Plus, I'm a lousy puppeteer.  Writing, however . . . it very much remains to be seen whether I can make my living as a writer.  But writing is something I consider myself reasonably adept at, and, even if it isn't to the professional level, I know that people have been impacted by pieces I've written.  I know that I have been impacted by things that I and others have written, and I know that writing is something I can do.  It's a more personal art form: one writer, speaking to one reader.  As is hinted at in the Brandon Sanderson article I mentioned, writing only takes one main person, plus a dedicated editor.  Publishing takes more, but publishing is not writing.

I know I said that the point of this article wasn't to defend reading, but the reason for writing is also a reason for reading.  Because it's personal, and because more people have the option of writing than, say, directing, you get a broader variety of writers than you do directors, who're a pretty elite group, by my understanding at least.  So, some people might consider reading worth it just for the chance to experience the opinions of people who otherwise would not have a voice.

Perhaps I'm not a very good writer, after all, because that's a very succinct way to sum up all these words:

Writing gives me a voice.

It's a voice I would not otherwise have, and a voice that I have the option of using for others' benefit.  Plus, writing is fun for me, and I believe it makes a difference.  But, ultimately, it's the voice that makes writing unique as a medium, I believe.

Here's a link to that Sanderson article I mentioned: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/brandon-sanderson-on-why-we-still-read-books-in-the-internet-era/

Enjoy Sanderson's voice!

*Survivorship bias: the assumption that people who appear at the top of any particular field must know more about getting to the top than anyone else.  Not necessarily true.

Advertisements and Starving Artists

What do you get when you combine a starving college student with a starving artist?  Basically, someone who is willing to sell their artistic integrity for commercial gain.  On an unrelated subject, I'm sure the six of you readers (a few more by this point, actually, but six will forever be the number of readers I associate with this blog) have noticed the advertisements.  I'm not exactly sure how it works, because I can't ever remember providing bank information, but supposedly I get money if people click on them.  Note: I am not encouraging you to click on them, unless you're truly interested.  I just thought I'd throw them up there, on the off-chance that I earn a few cents.  Every little bit helps the starving college student.

So, now that this blog has made me fabulously wealthy, you'll have to talk with my agent if you need contact information.  He knows where to find me: sipping cocktails and eating summer sausage while lounging in the Jacuzzi on my private jet.  Yes, always the summer sausage.  Growing up in Nigeria, summer sausage was a rationed treat.  Every Sunday, each member of my family was allowed two thin slices.

No, fame and fortune haven't changed me.  Why does everyone keep asking that?

I Have Failed You

Forgive me, readers of my blog, for I have failed you.  I will no longer be updating the Gods and Chaos story.

This probably isn't a great surprise after so many months of stagnation.  However, more has been going on than you might think.  I've produced a rough outline, pieced together from various notes and alpha read by a couple of highly intelligent friends, who basically pointed out that Kale is more despicable than my villain.  Appropriate adjustments have been made.  Also, I've written several key scenes, as well as a good beginning chunk that includes a rewrite of some scenes on this blog (no more of Kale practicing with his axe in the street.  My new intro for Kale is much more memorable, and better explains his personality).

However, in a writing class this past semester, I learned quite a bit about the elements that make books attractive to publishers.  I've come to believe that Gods and Chaos is a story I want to develop further, and I'm quite happy with several aspect of the plot and themes.  Having large chunks posted on this blog would be a huge hindrance if I reach the stage where I'm seeking publication.  So I'll have to discontinue the posting.

This said, if anyone wants to offer advice on the *rough* plot outline I've put together, I'm fervently seeking input!  Contact me if you so desire!

Thanks much for following what I did post of this story!

An Aspiring Street-Sweeper in the Kingdom of Heaven

I don't think I've ever fully explained on this blog why I refer to myself as "an aspiring street-sweeper in the Kingdom of Heaven."  I sign my emails this way (really hope it doesn't sound pretentious), and recently wrote an answer to a friend's question about the signature.  I decided that I liked the way I answered it, so I'm posting the answer bellow:

The "God's Aspiring Street-Sweeper" thing is a lesson I feel I've been learning.  For many years, I've struggled with issues of identity.  In the midst of me asking God who He wants me to be and why I'm consistently unhappy with who I am, I sort of feel like He said, "Luke, I want you to be a street sweeper in My Kingdom of Heaven."  This idea comes from several different sources, including one quote from Martin Luther King Jr., about doing the best with whatever our calling is, even if it's lowly:

“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as a Michaelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, 'Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.”

  And after God gave me that identity, He confirmed it by arranging for me to listen to this author, who basically said in his speech, "If you were made to be a street-sweeper, don't stoop to be a King."  The whole idea behind the concept is, God has given me something He wants me to do, and it's not about doing something grand.  It's about doing the best I can with what He's given me, and about striving to live a life of conscience, a life of making the world a better place (this ties into an idea from the movie Kingdom of Heaven, a fantastic [and very violent] story set during the crusades in which the main character questions what the "Kingdom of Heaven" really is, ultimately deciding that the Kingdom of Heaven isn't a spiritual place that men serve by killing "infidels," but is a physical place in the here-and-now where men live according to their consciences and strive to make the world a better place.  I only agree partially with this definition of "Kingdom of Heaven," but it's still an excellent movie and the idea is still partially true.)

As for the "Aspiring," that's because I generally do a pretty terrible job of serving God in the little "street-sweeping" things, because I'm so me-focused and flat out selfish most of the time.

Anyway, that's my two-cents spiel on street-sweeping!  I really hope that, at some point in his life, Stephen Spielberg has made a joke about spiels.

The Outside Boy

The Outside Boy

 Copyright Luke A. Wildman

The outside boy wanted the puppy.  Jamie knew this as he watched from inside the toyshop, on the other side of the glass.  The stuffed puppies looked soft and caring with brown marble eyes and fuzzy fur.  Jamie understood why the outside boy wanted it, because he also wanted the puppy, though not as much as the electronic robot with light-up eyes and explosion noises.  Jamie was taking the robot home, because Daddy had brought him to this store, and Daddy always gave Jamie the toys he wanted when he got back from business trips.

It was a fancy store, which was probably why the outside boy wasn’t coming in.  He wasn’t wearing his fancy clothes, which Jamie assumed he had, since everyone had nice clothes their parents made them wear to enter places like this.

The boy looked funny.  He was staring at the puppy, almost pressing his nose against the window.  His clothes were dirty and old, probably his outside clothes, just like Jamie sometimes wore, except a little dirtier and older-looking.  Why was the boy wearing his play clothes in the middle of the city, anyway?  Wouldn’t his parents be mad?  He was lucky that his parents didn’t make him change.  Changing into fancy clothes was annoying.  Why couldn’t Jamie have parents like the boy, who played with him and didn’t go on trips and didn’t make him change clothes?

“Ready to go, Jamie?  Found what you want?”

“This, Daddy!”  Jamie held out the robot.

Daddy glanced at the tag and whistled.  “Alright, buddy, we can swing that.  Let’s ring it up.”  Then he paused, noticing the little boy staring in at the puppy.  His forehead wrinkled into hills and valleys as he stepped towards the check-out.

“Will this be all, Sir?” the cash register guy asked.

“Isn’t it enough? Ha ha, my little tyke wants me to go broke.”  He ruffled Jamie’s hair, and Jamie glowed.

“Very nice of you.  You can slide your card there and enter your pin.”

“Alright, thanks.  Oh, see that kid outside?”

“Yes Sir, I’m sorry, he’s been hanging around all day staring at those stuffed animals, and I don’t have any authority to make him leave since he’s outside on the street –”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.  Listen, I want you to add one of those dogs he’s looking at onto my bill.  Give it to the kid.”

“Well, very nice of you, Sir!  That will be five dollars.”

“Fine; just stick it on with my kid’s toy.”

“Shall I take it out for you?”

“Nah, I’ll take it myself.”  Dad glanced at his watch.  “Ooh, you know what?  We really have to get this guy back home so I can make a meeting.  You’d better deliver it for me.”

“Daddy, can I have a puppy?”

“Naw, buddy, you’ve got your robot.”

“I want a puppy!” 

Jamie had to have a puppy.  How could he be happy without it?  The other boy was still standing outside, nose pressed against the glass, oblivious to the difficulty he caused.  How was it fair for him to get something from Jamie’s dad that Jamie couldn’t get?  It was his dad! His!  But all Jamie got was this stupid robot, not nearly as nice as the puppy!

“Kid, we’ve got to go.  Just be happy with what you have.”

“Why does that boy get one and I don’t?  That’s not fair!”  Jamie’s voice grew shriller and more insistent with every refusal, drawing the attention of other customers.  Dad glanced at them embarrassedly and at the waiting check-out man.

“Okay, okay, sheesh!  How’s that for gratitude?  You can have the dog, already!  Sorry about that,” he said apologetically to the man in line behind him.  “I’ll bet kids like that one know how to say thanks for a gift.”  He nodded to the outside boy.

“Tell me about it,” the other man grunted.  “My little girl would never be satisfied with something simple like that stuffed dog.  It’s got to have all sorts of bells and whistles and junk you can dress it up in.”

“Come on, Jamie, we’re going.  You’ve done enough here.”

Jamie played with his puppy in the backseat of the car on the way home, the robot’s packaging untouched.  He enjoyed the puppy for a few minutes: it was fuzzy and soft and meant that his dad hadn’t paid more attention to that other boy than to Jamie.  But it didn’t feel fun enough, somehow.  Just not as fun as it should’ve been, as fun as Jamie was certain the other boy had with his puppy.  When Jamie’s dad dropped him off at home, Jamie trundled up to his room with a new toy tucked under each arm.  He left the robot on the floor and tossed the puppy onto his bed.  It slid down the crack between bed and wall, and would be months before Jamie even thought about the puppy again.

Back at the store, the check-out attendee finally found a lull in customers.  Grabbing the stuffed dog that he’d retrieved earlier from the display case, he headed outside to give it to street kid who’d been loitering around for half the day.  But the kid was gone.  Must’ve finally given up.  Somewhat morosely, the employee deposited the dog among the others in the window display, and reluctantly returned to work.

Meanwhile, the outside boy walked down the street, finally drawn from the toyshop window by a familiarly grumbling stomach.  His imagination, however, stayed back with the puppy, watching a nice rich person invite him inside to give him one.  The boy could play with him and curl up around him at night, and they would be friends and find lots of food together and Mommy would get well and Daddy would come home again.  If only he had that puppy.

Gregory ran

Gregory ran.  Except “ran” should’ve been capitalized, because it was his surname.  Gregory Ran.

How he hated that name.

In grade school, he’d taken so much flak for it.  Every elementary teacher seemed to think themselves exceptionally clever for illustrating verbs and nouns with his proper form of address.  Later in life, at a track and field meet, someone in Gregory’s relay team made a joke about his name just before the race.  Gregory, their fastest runner, walked away and never touched another track.  Heck, the worst experience of all occurred in an airport, where Gregory was paged over the p.a. system while waiting for a flight.  He remembered the woman’s words clearly: “Gregory Ran, please run immediately to gate A12.”  She’d sounded very smug, and he’d sued the airport.

This was worse than that, however.  That was embarrassment.  This was betrayal.

He looked at the nametag again, but of course nothing changed.  “Gregory ran.  Not “Gregory Ran.”  “Gregory ran.”  With a lowercase.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, he thought hopelessly.  Of all the places in the world, this is where I should feel safe.  These people, these strangers who share a common struggle – they’re supposed to understand.

He considered leaving right then, but something made him stay.  Perhaps the lifelong feelings of desperation and loneliness and frustration.  Gregory hovered a moment between the door and the circle of metal chairs, then warily joined the others in the circle of fragile hope.  They all bore nametags: John Hunt.  Susan Lift.  Zach Mower.  Greg winced at the embarrassing possibilities behind that one.

However, there was a common factor behind all the names: first and last were both capitalized.

In some ways, that made it better, because it wasn’t an intentional joke.  A joke in this safe haven would’ve been unbearable.  In other ways, however, the occurrence of an accidental error made this even worse, because they should’ve cared enough to get his name right.

The support group sported around a dozen attendees this evening, though it was Gregory’s first time coming.

“Welcome, welcome!” the man in the crumb-flaked suit chirped.  “In just a moment we’ll get started, but first I’d like to make a quick announcement.  Harrison Fisher has had to leave the city to take care of his ailing grandmother in Minnesota, but he asked me to thank all of you for your support, encouragement, and love throughout his months in this group.  He says, and I quote, that ‘nowhere have I ever found a group of individuals who better understood and supported me in dealing with my problem.’  I know the feeling from all of us is mutual.  Ah, now, to business.  I see we have a new friend today; would you care to introduce yourself, sir?”

“I’m Gregory, nice to meet you!” was the now-instinctive greeting developed over long years of trial and error, figuring out how best to avoid the introduction of last names.  The man in the crumb-flaked suit caught on, however.

“Ah Gregory, none of that, now!  Last name too!  We’re all friends here.”

Gregory winced.  “It’s . . . Ran.  Gregory Ran.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Ran!  Gregory, you should know that we develop a habit of members addressing one another by their full names.  This tends to help in the recovery process.”

Gregory nodded his acquiescence.

“Well, moving on, you can get to know everyone through mingling during our mid-session tea break.  Alright, ladies and gentlemen, today’s topic (and I do think it’s a good one): famous confederates!”

The metal chair squeaked as Gregory leaned back, listening intently.  First, each of the members shared a story from their own struggles with having a verb as their last name, and, although Gregory was nervous at first, the words flowed more easily as he let them spill.  Then the speaker went on to discuss famous figures who shared their malady.

“Edward Shakespeare.  Luke Skywalker.  Even the paragon of charm and manliness himself, Nicholas Cage!  All these famous figures and more have shared this same affliction that you’ve faced, and all of them triumphed, despite genealogy’s injustices.  Yes, each person was stamped with a surname handicap, but they refused to be defined by the mocking voices, the demeaning jokes plaguing their lives.  And they triumphed, ladies and gentlemen!  They overcame!  You know what it means, don’t you?  It means that you, too, can overcome, despite the injustices!”

Greg was enraptured.  All his life, he’d viewed his road as a lonely one.  Now, however, he found that he shared it with many others.

“ – and through the difficulties,” the speaker continued, “each became stronger!  Think of it: without a lifetime of being referred to as a clay worker with abnormal body hair, would the world’s favorite orphaned wizard boy have developed the strength of will to defeat Voldemort?  Our names do not define our identities, but if we harness the experiences resulting from them, then we can use our names to shape our characters!”

Greg found himself willing the minutes to drag slower.  At last, however, the hour ended, and people left quickly.  Soon, the room was almost empty except for Greg and the speaker.

“Mr. Charles?  Thank very much for your message.  I don’t know the last time I felt more inspired, more hopeful about someday discovering freedom from the agony my name brings me.  I’ve thought of changing it so many times, but somehow that always seemed wrong.  Dishonoring.  And now I’m glad I didn’t, because without the name, I wouldn’t have these opportunities for growth.”

“Sounds as if you’ve taken my message to heart, Gregory!  Thanks very much; it was wonderful meeting you.  Do you think you could help us pack up the chairs?  We need to be out soon so someone else can use the space.  Unless, of course, you have things to do.  In which case, feel free to run along, heh heh . . . .”

My Epiphany

I have come to an epiphany.  I was not struck by this epiphany, I did not fall into this epiphany.  I have come to an epiphany.  By logical conclusion.

I love clichés.

I love them more than good writing, I love them more than clever twists.  Clichés make me wriggle with pleasure.  That's right: wriggle.

Why did I not see this before?  Every story I dream up bears their mark, and most books and movies that I truly love are fraught with them.  Of course, in those works, the clichés are original, and so they're known by a different name: "classics."  If not classics, then at least they're very well utilized.  And sometimes the stories I love may not even be that well crafted, but they introduce me to a new type of cliché that I find wonderful.

Spies wearing trench coats carrying briefcases full of money, heroes with shining swords staging epic last stands on causeways, socially awkward underdogs embarking on quests to win true love and ultimately finding confidence (think Neil Gaiman's Stardust) . . . all of these are stories I love.

With my dying breath, I will passionately defend stories that others hate for this very reason: the Tobey Maguire Spiderman movies, Ben Affleck's Daredevil, the Mummy movies with Brendan Fraser.

My best friend has experienced the consequences of this passion when I vehemently rave to him about how much he'll like some book that really isn't that good, and my roommate has observed my tendency to extol the glories of almost every movie we watch together, because those are the types of movies that often introduce me to new styles and ideas.

So, now that I've discovered this passion, what do I do with it?

In the writing world, clichés get a bad rep.  People are exhausted by seeing the same, tired old storylines.  However, there are unconsidered merits to clichés: when pitching books to publishers, it's important to relate your books to successful, existing works.  You also have to show how your books are different from those works, but the point is, certain kinds of stories sell.

Here's the thing of it: I have a whimsical belief that certain stories are in our blood, echoing and woven into the fabric of our species at an elemental level.  It's the orphan who becomes a hero, the despicable villain who is brought to justice.  We love those stories, and we can't always explain this love.
 
The stories that make us cry.
The stories that inspire us.
The stories we never forget.

The world needs these stories.  People need to see someone fall into real love, not just Hollywood lust.  People need to see someone who encounters real difficulties and doesn't give up.  People need reminders of what it means to be human.

That is my epiphany.

Academic Sabotage

     Let's face it: every student possesses tricks to lengthen tedious papers and satisfy annoying word counts.   A few of my personal favorites: lengthening sentences under the guise of making them appear more "scholarly," expanding contractions, and using passive voice.  Why use a short, succinct word when several convoluted, complicated words can be implemented, especially when the definitions of such words are known to very few, causing the writer to appear knowledgeable and educated?  In fact, because many such traits exist commonly within "scholarly" writing, I am almost convinced that much of said writing style originated from such mechanisms.  See what I mean?  My last sentence is a perfect example, as is the majority of this "scholarly essay."  Generally, this writing pattern is quite inefficient, both in terms of length and of readability.
     However, students are partially justified in their efforts, even though such tactics add a great deal of unnecessary baggage to an essay.  When Professors assign length mandates (necessary because this  resembles real world assignments), most students will find the quickest, most efficient method to complete the task, because there are likely a plethora of other tasks jostling for priority.  The consequence?  Students are naturally inclined towards messy, inefficient writing.  Teachers are actually cultivating bad writing habits.
     However, lets be real: professors do need to ensure that students cover all necessary information in essays and papers.  How can they achieve this without conventional limits?  For one thing, word limits are much more efficient than page limits, and perhaps can be included along with a list of points that must necessarily be covered in the student's essay, at least for basic students.

I would expand further on this topic, but it's late and I have more work before I rest.

King Solomon's Mines

     Who says classics have to be boring?  I'm currently reading "King Solomon's Mines" by H. Rider Haggard, a book brimming with action, adventure, and narrow escapes!  Basically, it's the original version of Indiana Jones, about an elephant hunter in Africa in the 1800's searching for a friend's brother who got lost while seeking the legendary mines of King Solomon!
     At the time this story was told, many hailed it as "the greatest book ever written!"  I recommend this short novel; just be prepared for some slight racism reflecting the views of the era, though this is largely mitigated by Haggard's creation of noble, self-sacrificing African characters.
     Alright, I'm done ranting.  As you can tell, I'm on a one-man quest to rejuvenate reading among our generation.  Think I'm succeeding, or is reading a dead art?
     Seriously, though.  Will leisure-reading have a place in society's future?  I'd love to hear some views on this in the comments, though it will likely be a biased survey considering that all of you have taken the time to read this blog, and thus are likely people who enjoy reading.

Support the Mistake!

For my Foundations of Professional Writing class this semester, we've been working on a publishing project.  The class separated into two groups, both of which are tasked with "publishing" a novel.  Each group consists of a writer (myself), editor, graphic design artist, and a person in charge of acquisitions.  Ideally, by the end of this project, we should have a product and promotional campaign worthy of real-world marketing.  Our projects will be presented before a board of upperclassmen, who will judge the worthiness of this endeavor.

Our presentation is on Wednesday the 30th! (gulp)  The due-date came out of nowhere, but I think my group is basically ready!  If you care to offer support, like Destiny's Mistake on facebook, follow it on twitter, or keep current with the official blog!

http://destinysmistake.wordpress.com/

Defending Spiderman

     There's no doubt about it: The Amazing Spiderman is a superior movie to the original webslinger trilogy. The graphics are better, the acting is better, the humor is funnier, and the script is less cheesy; all around, it's just a higher-class act.  Yet something in me wants to defend the originals.  After careful thought, I think I have a handle on why I feel that way.
     Peter Parker's story, at its most quintessential, is the story of a kid growing into a man.  People mock the Tobey Maguire portrayal because he spends so much time crying and feeling sorry for himself.  In a culture obsessed with charismatic personalities who seem to have it all together, Peter definitely breaks the mold of Hollywood action-heroes.  There isn't an ounce of "cool" in him.  It's a far cry from Andrew Garfield's portrayal, with his skateboard and perfect hair.  Sure, he makes the occasional awkward remark, but I have a very hard time seeing anyone that attractive being ostracized at any public school.  At the very least, he would have hordes of adoring fangirls.
     But here's the thing: personally, it's easier to identify with an awkward Peter than with a Peter who's always ready with an unrealistically witty comment.  True, Spiderman is supposed to have classic snark, which is why I think the newer version captures the heroics better.  But it seems that the original captured the spirit of seeking manhood through life's difficulties.
     The best heroes, in my opinion, are the ones who teach us lessons.  Christopher Nolan's Batman teaches us to stand for decency and hope in an indecent, hopeless world.  Mathew Vaughn's Charles Xavier teaches us to defend even those who hate us, to become the better men.  And Spiderman teaches us that if we have the ability to help someone, to right a wrong, then we have the responsibility to do so.  "With great power comes great responsibility" is thrown around so often that it's become trite and cliched.  But unlike the "morals" found in many popular stories, this is more than a catchphrase.  Maybe we could better say, "With any power comes some responsibility."  Befriend someone lonely or do a mundane task to the best of your ability.  Exercise responsibility in the little things.  Later, when you face greater decisions, you'll possess a character that drives you to make right choices.  Along with Spiderman's story, this concept can be found another place: Luke 16:10.  "With great power comes great responsibility" possesses meaning that we can apply to our own lives, whether uttered by Tobey Maguire or Andrew Garfield.
     For myself, I simply find it easier to connect with that lesson when it comes from someone identifiable, with realistic struggles and emotions, rather than someone whose level of Hollywood perfection I can never hope to attain.

Switchfoot's Reaction to Protesting

     Earlier this evening (I guess it was technically yesterday), I had the pleasure of attending a Switchfoot concert at Indiana Wesleyan University.  For a long time, this band has been important to me.  I can honestly say that their lyrics have had profound influence in shaping who I am as a person, including my views of the world, myself, and my faith.  Switchfoot's music, with its messages of hope and non-conformity, helped me outlast a dark year of depression.  It taught me not to worry if I can't understand the social games that friends and classmates seem to glide through so easily, and not to consider the label of "weird, socially-awkward kid always imagining things" as bad.  This said, seeing Switchfoot perform in concert was almost like a victory.

     During the concert, Switchfoot's lead singer, Jon Foreman, mentioned some protesting that occurred a few concerts prior, describing it as a humbling experience even as he expressed respect for anyone who forms their own opinions about a subject, particularly subjects of faith.  That category included the protesters.

     I assumed that it was a secular group protesting the religious nature of Switchfoot's lyrics.  I was correct about what was being protested.  However, I completely missed the mark regarding the identity of the protesters.

    After returning from the concert, curiosity drove me to do some research.  It turns out that members of a conservative church, "Consuming Fire Fellowship," camped outside the concert venue with signs, megaphones, and an arsenal of KJV references.  And the event wasn't isolated: apparently Switchfoot has been protested by various "Christian" groups at numerous venues recently.  My instinct was indignation: I couldn't think of anything more likely to drive people away from Christ.  But Jon Foreman had a very different response.

     He encouraged his audience to somehow show love to the protesters as they left that evening.  And in one of the videos I watched, he actually approached the screaming preacher with a case of bottled waters; a gesture meant to convey his love for them and his appreciation for their expression of opinion.

     For Jon and the band, the situation must be incredibly stressful.  They've spent their lifetimes attempting to convey messages of love and hope, and now they're being condemned as Satan-worshipers by people claiming to serve the very God for whom they're singing.  But Jon's reaction was touchingly Christlike.  Hopefully, the result of this incident will be more people glimpsing Jon's faith, a faith motivating him to love his enemies, rather than people seeing and being disgusted by the legalism that motivates "Christians" to chant "Sin! Sin! Sin!" into megaphones pointed at other Christians.

     For an article and interesting video-clips about the protesting, visit:
 http://www.faithit.com/switchfoot-church-protest-jon-foreman-loving-response/

     I highly recommend watching the clips.  Both of them are more than worth the short time they will take, particularly as you observe Jon's attitude towards the protesters.  And they're a little entertaining, in the way that something fascinatingly horrifying is entertaining.

The Syndicate

The Man in the Black Suit

The Syndicate

In the city of Dresden, a man in a black suit made a phone call.

Anthony Benedict was fumbling with his car keys when his cell buzzed.  Making the worst mistake of his life, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Based on your attempt to have me killed, I assume you don’t intend to accept my contract.”

A gasp scraped against Benedict’s side of the phone.  “You . . . are dead . . . .”

“Have you been drinking again?  In a sober state, I assume you would be somewhat more astute.”

“How . . . .”

“Please.  Any civilian watching movies could tell you never to trust death.  Not till you see a corpse."

"I was going to contact you, I swear.  For the contract.  But I couldn't get through, and when I had my sources track you down, they said there'd been an accident . . . ."

"Stop.  Let's talk about the syndicate."

The silence was dead.

"Don't deny your affiliation.  Here's what my research has revealed: the syndicate is a collection of corrupt businessmen, of which you were a member.  All associates have a heavy interest in petroleum – whether they drill for it, refine it, export it, or sell it – and none are interested in jumping the necessary legal loops of the industry.  Individually, it would be impossible to grease the system enough to create a significant financial benefit.  Collectively, however, your combined resources were utilized to leverage the necessary officials, creating a smooth channel within the petroleum industry that allowed you to operate for a fraction of typical expenses.  Ingeniously simple: a collective business system allowing you to bribe, blackmail and kill . . . wholesale.  Everyone saved millions."

In his suite, the man in the black suit paused to blow on his tea and settle more comfortably into the sofa.  He was legitimately enjoying the conversation: the professionalism of the business concept pleased him.  In another life, he might've done very well on Wall Street.

As for Anthony Benedict, his mouth was dry.

"There were reasons for the laws you broke.  You stripped protected environments, stole from local economies, refused to pay workers, and belched pollution from your factories.  Ships dumped gallons into the ocean.  Distributors – such as yourself – brokered illegal deals.  Not that I'm condemning: the whole process was highly efficient and provided an immense edge over your law-abiding competitors, many of whom went out of business.  I appreciate irony, and it was an especially nice touch holding a meeting with several key syndicate members during an environmental charity masquerade in Dresden."

"It's impossible for you to prove any of this."

"Proof is a luxury I can forgo.  The money wasn't enough for you, was it?"

Instead of answering, Benedict slumped against his car.  He was short of breath.

"You broker deals,” the man continued, “it's your livelihood.  You dropped hints to some of the desperate companies going out of business because of your syndicate.  Butchering the golden goose: you'd milked all you wanted from the system, and now you were going to sell its secrets.  But others became suspicious.  To put them at rest, you arranged an assassination.  Your own."

"Who told you all of this?"

The man in the black suit chuckled.  "Unprofessional to the last."

"I never tried to hurt you!  I wanted to hire you!  You were supposed to fake an assassination attempt!  I couldn't use my regular man, because I think he's the one who told someone in the syndicate what I was doing.  But you killed my people before they could deliver the message."

"A shame.  I likely would've accepted the job if they'd approached professionally.  But maybe it's just as well, because that wouldn't have done anything for my resume.  I couldn't have relayed any details to future employers."

Benedict had backed away from his car.  He'd seen enough movies to know that turning a key in the ignition was a bad idea.  His heart was racing.

"I swear I was going to leave you alone after you killed my people!  But then you showed up and stopped the assassination too early, which was a big problem since it was supposed to look like another syndicate member was behind the attempt and the leaked information.  That would've taken suspicion away from me.  There was nothing I could do!"

"So you paid to have me killed."

Anthony Benedict was breathless.  In fact, he was sucking in air with greedy gulps.

"You understand," the voice on the phone said carefully, "I will not be taking revenge. That would be unprofessional."

Benedict's mind couldn't even register the simultaneous shock and immense relief that flooded him.  He was stunned.

"Besides," the voice continued, "The situation worked out very well for me.  You've catapulted my career forward.  The syndicate was grateful for the information I provided about your activities.  They have hired me to neutralize the problem, and I look forward to more contracts from them in the future.  They were impressed by my professionalism."

Benedict swore, though even such an instinctive act required a massive expenditure of waning energy.  "How the hell is it professional to tell a man you're going to kill him before you do it?"

"I was asked to substantiate the information I pieced together for the syndicate.  This phone call has been recorded in its entirety.  Now I am free to terminate you."

"Good luck," Benedict spat into the phone.  His breathless voice had the ferocity of desperation.  "Don't think I won't be ready.  You might think you're a professional, but you haven’t seen anything.  You aren’t ready for this.  I have hundreds of connections, and I'm going to use every single one of them to hunt you down and put you in a body bag.  You can't kill me!"

The man in the black suit checked his watch.  "I killed you seven minutes ago,” he said calmly.  “Your drink was poisoned.  You’re already gasping for breath.  In a few more minutes, your heart will stop.”

The traitor known as Anthony Benedict was frozen.  The phone slipped from his fingers.  He stood that way, numb, for exactly three seconds.  Then the chest pains started.

The man in the black suit relaxed into the sofa.  He sipped tea and set the cup down on a coaster.  Then he picked up the novel he’d bought at the hotel bookstore.

That’s how professionalism is: you work hard so that you can relax with nothing hanging over you.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

The man named Jack enjoyed his book.