Enough serious writing stuff. Cracked has identified six real-life superheroes!

Yes yes yes, this article is over a year old, but I didn't see it until now, therefore it's news.

Presenting... Electric Man! Or, that sounds like he gives off electricity—ElectroImmuno Man!*

"Everybody's reaction to electricity is a little different; it's influenced by everything from how thick you are, to how moist your skin is, to other changes in body chemistry. Xiangang appears to be an outlier on the high end of the scale. According to testing, he has a resistance seven to eight times greater than the average human being, which grants him the ability to handle live wires without safety equipment, though, again, it behooves us to ask why in the hell he'd want to."

But wait, there's more! The Human Ice Cube! Marathon, the Eternal Runner! The true Last Samurai, who brings a sword to a gunfight, and wins!

Before you ask, I rigorously fact-checked the dude slicing a speeding bullet BB in half by googling "Isao Machii hoax." He's clean. 

Read the whole thing.




*Marvel executives, leave a comment & I'll put you in touch with my agent.

Expectations vs. that other thing

It’s funny, how nothing ever matches your expectations. You go somewhere new; the things you expect to love are boring and the things you expect to hate are okay. You start a new job, and realize you like the humdrum bits better than the big exciting projects.

When I first started writing, I had this odd idea that dialogue would be easy—I carry on conversations all the time, how hard could writing them be? Descriptive prose, now that would be hard. 

How could you possibly really and truly convey the jagged, black latticework of bare wintery twigs against a sunset? (As ‘jagged, black latticework,’ apparently.) How could you explain that a character’s face was somehow ugly and beautiful at the same time? 

A picture is worth a thousand words—do I need at least a thousand words to set every scene?

Well, as it turns out, dialogue, even to someone who babbles compulsively, is hard. It comes out wooden, dry, and not remotely like what any real person has ever actually said. Describing the scene is easy. Which is good, because when you decide to set your story on an imaginary world, you do really need to flesh out what it looks like. I can always slash it down to something concise in draft three.

Plus, if I keep rambling on about the color of the ducks (dark brown, with pink wings), I may eventually figure out what the people ought to be saying.

Stuck

So—for the past few weeks, I’ve been stuck.

(And also, from your perspective, absent. But never mind about that. I’m back now.)

The villain of the piece, the guy I threw in at the beginning just to make everything go wrong, the one whose motivation and personality were supposed to just come together over time—well, he didn’t.

I’ve tried switching to other projects, which is, as you all know, my go-to problem solver. I’ve tried making up random stuff—after all, the Awful Space Opera was born out of making up random stuff, so it should continue to grow that way, right? But somehow it doesn’t. It’s like trying to turn stem cells into a new eyeball instead of a new person. It should work in theory…

I’ve tried distracting myself with blogging. I’ve tried taking breaks.

Really long breaks.

Do I need more coffee? No, this cup’s still half full.

Maybe I should make more for after I finish it though.

And I should eat something.

But nothing has helped. So now, all I do every day is re-read my draft, skimming quickly over the awful villain’s bits and gnashing my teeth. Maybe his motivation is that he wanted to write a great novel and couldn’t, so he just started killing people and taking over the world instead.

Alternately, he could feel like a misunderstood loner. Or maybe it’s something something something Corporate Greed.

Ah well. It will all sort itself out.

Helen Rittelmeyer on AD

I recently discovered Helen Rittelmeyer, who writes careful, thoughtful and highly intelligent posts about not particularly important things. (This, more than anything, is what I look for in a writer—you think, yes, but don’t expect me to.) I particularly liked this one, analyzing the relationship dynamics of Arrested Development.

At this point I can't tell if I've proven that Mitch Hurwitz was definitely inspired by The Brothers Karamazov, or if I've "proven" it the same way your crazy uncle can prove that the Denver Airport is ground zero for the worldwide lizard-people conspiracy. Certainly I wouldn't want to ruin a good joke by taking it too seriously. But if AD is an updated version of TBK, then it's worth asking what updates Hurwitz thought necessary in order to bring the story up to date, apart from the set dressing.

Confession—I've not actually read The Brothers Karamazov. I read all the classics on my parents' bookshelf at the age of nine, lost interest in real literature, and have read nothing but junk since. If they had Dostoevsky, it was kept up really high. But I enjoy Helen's comparison all the same.

Not one of my better days

Writing is boring. Boring and lonely and not fun. This may be the worst job I've ever had, and I've had some doozies. It's just me, the computer and the cat, and my Black Keys Pandora station seems stuck on an endless loop of Jack Johnson clones.

Hah! I 'disliked' a wretched Ben Harper whine and got me some Junior Kimbrough.

I hate when I step away from my computer long enough to have to read a whole chapter before I can remember what the heck is going on.

Honestly, I just hate reading my writing.

And I especially hate when someone like this interrupts my ENTIRELY JUSTIFIED pity party with maturity and well-reasoned optimism, and leaves me with Don't Stop Believin' stuck in my head.

Who Killed Cock Robin?

When I was about four, I had a book of Mother Goose rhymes that was the most beautiful book in the world. Its illustrations were, I think, reminiscent of an illuminated manuscript, with intricate drawings with bright, jewel-like colors done in panels in the margins. I'm not entirely sure, because I didn't learn about illuminated manuscripts until a decade later, and by that time the most beautiful book in the world was long gone.

I can only clearly remember the panels on the "Who Killed Cock Robin" page, that being my favorite at the time.

"Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."

"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."

I'm not sure how old I was when I received this particular Mother Goose book. I believe I had others. It was most likely given to me when I was pretty young, because I tore the cover off early on and by the age of four, I already couldn't quite remember what it looked like.

"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."

"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."

I spent hours (okay, minutes—time was different then) trying to remember the cover illustration, because I was quite certain it had been the most beautiful book cover in the world. I even—I think—spontaneously cleaned my room once or twice, trying to find it. This probably gave my parents a completely mistaken impression about my level of conscientiousness and work ethic:

"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and trowel, I'll dig his grave."

Every now and then, I try to find a copy of the book, although I've not done anything more demanding than Google searches so far.

"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."

Nursery rhymes make a very useful source of childhood wonder, mainly because they are utterly incomprehensible to their intended audience. What's a parson? What's a trowel? Why are English people under the impression that lark rhymes with clerk?

"Who'll be the clerk?" "I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."

It would really, really help if I could remember the cover illustration. Why don't you just do an image search for Cock Robin, since it's the one you remember? you ask.

"Who'll carry the link?" "I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."

I'll just give you a few seconds to think through the flaws in that strategy.

"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."

Actually, out of sheer stubbornness, I did do a search for Cock Robin. I even—with one eye closed in trepidation—turned off Google Safe Search to do it. Nothing. Not even relevant porn.

"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."

"Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."

I also tried searching for "Goosey Goosey Gander," because I think I can sort of remember one of those panels—the one where the gander kicks the guy down the stairs. A goose in a frock coat is a fairly memorable image.

"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush,
As she sat on a bush, "I'll sing a psalm."

I vaguely remember reading "Four and Twenty Blackbirds," mostly because so much of it was impossible to understand, but the pictures have faded from my mind.

"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."

Perhaps I had a thing for nursery rhymes that were death- and/or bird-themed. Or maybe it's just a coincidence, since so many nursery rhymes are death- and/or bird-themed. The death I get—people are ghouls—but what's with the birds?

All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,

When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.

New Austin impressions

I. Pecan trees in winter: The very best haunted house tree. Knobbly knuckled branches tipped with dead nut shells. They go very well with the psychotic grackle screams. Not to mention the crying-baby doves.

II. Adult Swim: The kind, generous, brilliant, talented and stunningly sexy friend who is letting me camp out in her apartment sleeps all day and stays up all night watching Cartoon Network. Not my favorite shows, but I’ve discovered they make perfect background noise for the writing process. Just amusing enough to keep me from ignoring them completely, but not so engrossing that I quit working altogether.

II.a. I should have a third thing here. I do everything in threes, including criminal charges in hard news ledes. Seriously, if you try hard enough, you can make it fit in every story. Ha ha! Kidding! The facts determine the story! Sensation is for hacks!

III. Ah, yes—the housing market: Every single apartment ad on Craigslist is spam. Every. Single. One.

(Previous posts on moving to Texas can be found here, here, and here.