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.