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.