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.