When I wrote comics, one of the favorite characters that I created was KickBack (because the name Flashback was taken). He was a character with huge legs and feet, who could jump back three minutes into his own past. Just enough time to correct a small, but critical, mistake. It saved his life several times. This was many years before GalaxyQuest (1999) made that the maguffin of their plot. (I wuz robbed! Or the guy I unconsciously, though assuredly, robbed that idea from wuz robbed.) And that was years before a movie with a similar theme, SlipStream (2005), starring Sean Astin came out. Great minds, and all that. Lately, with my being so impulsive—extraordinarily impulsive, for me, if you knew me—I’ve been contemplating this subject. What if you got do-overs? What if you could rewind time? What would you change, and what would you be afraid to change? What if you made things worse, as was the case in Slipstream, every time you went back? Or worse, what if you couldn ’t do a damned thing because the whole idea is against the laws of quantum physics, but you nonetheless just kept thinking about the concept over and over? Well, talk about it, of course.
See, the key to what makes the concept palatable is the time frame. If we were to talk about big do overs, we’d be talking about concepts like the movie Family Man, where Nick Cage goes back ten years, and sees where his life would be if he made a different decision at a key juncture. The problem I had with the end of that movie was, no matter what he did at the end, he still would never be able to make that decision ten years ago. Though he could maybe get Tea Leoni back, he’d never have those two gorgeous kids, never recapture the joy of that life. The ending was a maybe, at best. That kind of ending, and that line of pursuit, is just maddening. The time frame of a few months, a few days, a few hours, or even a few minutes is much easier to swallow.
What we need is a rewind button. Or maybe just a rewind card, like a business card, that you keep handy in your front pocket. That’d be something you could hold up, and use to take back the last 5 minutes—yeah, 5 minutes is a good amount—of time or conversation, and get a re-do. How often in a day would you do that? How often in a lifetime?
Maybe it’s something we can agree to in relationships. Not every relationship, of course—just the ones that meant the most to you. The ones that need the most caring, and you have the most care, for. You say something awkward and out of place, and then realize and regret the consequences. So you pull out your one hour do-over card and bzzzppp , the thing never happened, the words were never said, the action, whatever it was, never contemplated. Do-over. Man, how tempting would that be?
But, of course, there are consequences, and memory, though buriable, and even selective at times, is not erasable. What we have in its place is love, understanding, and forgiveness, and the ties that bind which facilitate those things. So that when you can’t erase, or forget, you can move past, and forgive. And for those instances where you can’t do any of the above, have the willingness to move forward.
Because, really, there's no other choice. Dammit.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Time for bla-de-bla-de-bla-de-bla.
So, my friend Steve keeps asking when I have time to write all this c#@%. At times it’s not easy. But most of the time, it is. I’ve been getting up at 6, wide awake, and with ideas burning through my head. The kids don’t get up until 7, and we all don’t have to be gone until 8. So I’ve got a solid hour, sometimes more.
I hate drawing first thing in the morning. My hand isn’t warmed up yet, and I too often create crap, or ruin something I’ve already started that would’ve come out fine if I just left it alone until the evening, thank you very much. That’s when I typically start two or three trains of thought that will eventually become blogs. See, blogging for me is different than journaling. Journalling is about recording today. For me, with blogging, I can develop two or three strings at once, organizing my thoughts in each one until I have what I consider an idea, or at least a thought that I’m willing to put out there. And the good part for me is just the exercise. In addition to this form of journaling, I’ve also written several letters to people that I didn’t intend to send, and been able to progress on a couple of the short stories that I’ve had languishing for months, now, if not years. (Okay the ones that sat for years I’ve tossed. I think I’m better than that now. I hope I am, anyway.)
I also ran down to the nearest Big Box (forgiveness requested) and picked up a big pack of tiny notebooks, 20 in a pack. The notebooks are the size of my hand, and fit easily in a breast pocket (if I don’t mind the nerdy look. But hey, if I’m man enough to wear a pink shirt, I can handle that). I keep one at my computer at home, one in my car, one at my computer at work, and I try to always have one in my pocket. The rest float around in the ether, turning up here and there, seemingly always to hand when I need one. They move from location to location, interchangeably. This gives me the freedom to write whenever I have an idea, capturing what I’m thinking about for later inclusion in one of the blogging docs, or a twist idea for the stories, or a new direction or thought that will become a new blog. I’ve had a lot of thoughts lately. So I’ve had a lot of energy, and a lot of waking time. And a lot to say. It’s been a good thing, if you’ll pardon my Martha-ism.
I used to be this way with sketching. I’d have a sketchbook with me at all times, even if it was a tiny one. I did some of my best illustrations from the scribbles in those. But these days, as I said before, I can only draw under special circumstances. I need a board on my lap, a pencil and a sharpener, an eraser, paper, and then the time. Oh yes, the time. But I can write anytime. I’m going to bed, staring up at the ceiling, and I’m writing. I’m driving into work, and I’m writing. I’m watching my kids watch a schlocky movie that holds my interest only periforally, and I’m writing. The problem is recording it. With the little notepads and an abundance of pens everywhere, I think I have that solved. Except for the driving part. Haven’t quite licked that one.
So, what I’ve found is that you make time for things that are important. I make time for my kids (though with each year they seem to have less time for Dad…). I make time for my wife. I make time for my work, or rather, my work makes time for itself, if I want a paycheck. And now lately, I’ve been making more time for writing.
Okay, maybe this one wasn’t very interesting. But I still found time to write it.
I hate drawing first thing in the morning. My hand isn’t warmed up yet, and I too often create crap, or ruin something I’ve already started that would’ve come out fine if I just left it alone until the evening, thank you very much. That’s when I typically start two or three trains of thought that will eventually become blogs. See, blogging for me is different than journaling. Journalling is about recording today. For me, with blogging, I can develop two or three strings at once, organizing my thoughts in each one until I have what I consider an idea, or at least a thought that I’m willing to put out there. And the good part for me is just the exercise. In addition to this form of journaling, I’ve also written several letters to people that I didn’t intend to send, and been able to progress on a couple of the short stories that I’ve had languishing for months, now, if not years. (Okay the ones that sat for years I’ve tossed. I think I’m better than that now. I hope I am, anyway.)
I also ran down to the nearest Big Box (forgiveness requested) and picked up a big pack of tiny notebooks, 20 in a pack. The notebooks are the size of my hand, and fit easily in a breast pocket (if I don’t mind the nerdy look. But hey, if I’m man enough to wear a pink shirt, I can handle that). I keep one at my computer at home, one in my car, one at my computer at work, and I try to always have one in my pocket. The rest float around in the ether, turning up here and there, seemingly always to hand when I need one. They move from location to location, interchangeably. This gives me the freedom to write whenever I have an idea, capturing what I’m thinking about for later inclusion in one of the blogging docs, or a twist idea for the stories, or a new direction or thought that will become a new blog. I’ve had a lot of thoughts lately. So I’ve had a lot of energy, and a lot of waking time. And a lot to say. It’s been a good thing, if you’ll pardon my Martha-ism.
I used to be this way with sketching. I’d have a sketchbook with me at all times, even if it was a tiny one. I did some of my best illustrations from the scribbles in those. But these days, as I said before, I can only draw under special circumstances. I need a board on my lap, a pencil and a sharpener, an eraser, paper, and then the time. Oh yes, the time. But I can write anytime. I’m going to bed, staring up at the ceiling, and I’m writing. I’m driving into work, and I’m writing. I’m watching my kids watch a schlocky movie that holds my interest only periforally, and I’m writing. The problem is recording it. With the little notepads and an abundance of pens everywhere, I think I have that solved. Except for the driving part. Haven’t quite licked that one.
So, what I’ve found is that you make time for things that are important. I make time for my kids (though with each year they seem to have less time for Dad…). I make time for my wife. I make time for my work, or rather, my work makes time for itself, if I want a paycheck. And now lately, I’ve been making more time for writing.
Okay, maybe this one wasn’t very interesting. But I still found time to write it.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Passion
I’ve been thinking about passion, and intensity this weekend. Seems a little appropriate for the MLK Day holiday. I think MLK Jr. was all about passion.
I’ve been told I’m intense. I look at that word, and it feels negative to me. A light that’s intense is harsh, glaring, and hurts the eyes. You say intense pain, never intense joy. Intense feels piercing, invasive, uncomfortable, unpleasant. I don’t like to think of myself as intense.
I prefer passionate. Leaving the sexual connotations alone for a while, passionate is positive. It’s alive. It evokes energy and meaning and feeling, a pulse within itself that drives one to action. You can’t be passionately sedentary. Passion makes you move. Passion makes you act.
I remember reading books, a decade ago, with analogies of people as light. I can’t remember the specific books, but the analogies have stayed with me. People can be light, and draw other people to them with the heat and light of their energy, enthusiasm and passion. Others draw from the light, and give back to the light in a symbiotic relationship. Thus you find creative people in a community drawn to each other, hanging socially, exchanging ideas and creating new ones. That’s what sometimes happens, anyway. But, sometimes, some people draw from the light and draw from it, and drain it away, without returning to it. Some people can thus be drained of their light, their energy, their passion.
Of course, no passion is endless. Everyone needs their battery’s "recharged" at some point or another, if they’re being too intense, too passionate. And conversely, those around you, those who love you, can’t exist long in too intense of a light, Something has to change, sometimes. You have to rest for a time, but if the passion is there, and the passion is real, you’re ready to go again, and pretty soon. There is an ebb and a flow to it. But it’s the flow that drives.
Lately, my passion has been flowing. Flowing so much it’s been a bit exhausting. Flowing so hard it’s been scaring some of those around me. I’ve been feeling the drain, and haven’t identified anything specifically that’s recharging me, other than the kind words of friends, and love. Or maybe more specifically I should say, I’ve been recharging—overcharging—on that.
So maybe I should accept the intense label. If I’m passionate about the things I care about, about the things I believe, about the things I want, and that passion translates as intensity, maybe I should bow to that. Maybe intensity is what makes transforms creativity from a tool into an inescapable direction, a way of life, and maybe intensity and real passion are inseparable. Or maybe I’m just on the road to burning out.
Either way, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
I’ve been told I’m intense. I look at that word, and it feels negative to me. A light that’s intense is harsh, glaring, and hurts the eyes. You say intense pain, never intense joy. Intense feels piercing, invasive, uncomfortable, unpleasant. I don’t like to think of myself as intense.
I prefer passionate. Leaving the sexual connotations alone for a while, passionate is positive. It’s alive. It evokes energy and meaning and feeling, a pulse within itself that drives one to action. You can’t be passionately sedentary. Passion makes you move. Passion makes you act.
I remember reading books, a decade ago, with analogies of people as light. I can’t remember the specific books, but the analogies have stayed with me. People can be light, and draw other people to them with the heat and light of their energy, enthusiasm and passion. Others draw from the light, and give back to the light in a symbiotic relationship. Thus you find creative people in a community drawn to each other, hanging socially, exchanging ideas and creating new ones. That’s what sometimes happens, anyway. But, sometimes, some people draw from the light and draw from it, and drain it away, without returning to it. Some people can thus be drained of their light, their energy, their passion.
Of course, no passion is endless. Everyone needs their battery’s "recharged" at some point or another, if they’re being too intense, too passionate. And conversely, those around you, those who love you, can’t exist long in too intense of a light, Something has to change, sometimes. You have to rest for a time, but if the passion is there, and the passion is real, you’re ready to go again, and pretty soon. There is an ebb and a flow to it. But it’s the flow that drives.
Lately, my passion has been flowing. Flowing so much it’s been a bit exhausting. Flowing so hard it’s been scaring some of those around me. I’ve been feeling the drain, and haven’t identified anything specifically that’s recharging me, other than the kind words of friends, and love. Or maybe more specifically I should say, I’ve been recharging—overcharging—on that.
So maybe I should accept the intense label. If I’m passionate about the things I care about, about the things I believe, about the things I want, and that passion translates as intensity, maybe I should bow to that. Maybe intensity is what makes transforms creativity from a tool into an inescapable direction, a way of life, and maybe intensity and real passion are inseparable. Or maybe I’m just on the road to burning out.
Either way, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Are you happy?
This is a question I feel compelled to ask people lately, and they look at me as if my second head had a blue mohawk. People walk around every day, and say “Hey, how are you doing?” as a meaningless greeting, eliciting the automatic, autonomic response “Fine, and you?”, or the less committal, “Can’t complain.” These rote catechisms, incidentally lost of all real meaning, are normal. No one thinks twice about them. I once knew someone I’d see daily whose response challenged this a bit. He’d ask “how are you doing” and meet the “Fine, and you?” with a smiling “Great, thanks for asking.” I later saw this adapted on South Park, with Gay Al answering, “I’m (th)super, thanks for asking.” He raised some eyebrows (the Marvel guy, not Gay Al) and elicited some smiles (again, the Marvel guy, though I’m sure Gay Al elicited some smiles in there, too.) It was something out of the ordinary, a bit eccentric. But he was on to something.
So, people been giving me such odd looks when, instead of “How are you?” I ask, “Are you Happy?” I’ve been doing it for a week now, and have been met with everything from odd looks to startled disbelief. Most often what I get are long explanations and qualifications for why the respondent can’t just say “Yes.” Maybe it’s the sincerity with which I ask that takes people aback. At least I hope the sincerity reads. I actually want to know who’s happy with where they are, with what they’re doing. I want to know how happy. I want to know who knows, and who doesn’t, and how many of those who don’t know, know or care why. Most people, in fact, can’t just say “Yes.” Because that’s not normal. Like if you walk down the street smiling. It makes people wonder what you’re up to. Or certain that they know already.
It seems almost a certain way to screw someone’s day, though it shouldn’t. What it should be is an opportunity. That’s how I intend it. Most people go through life so much on autopilot, they don’t stop to question if they are happy. More precisely, working hard to disguise and obfuscate whether they are happy or not, thereby making enjoyment of life, happiness, what Joseph Campbell called “following your bliss,” seem entirely beside the point. The point is to continue moving forward, one foot in front of the other. It’s a worthy distraction to stop and ask yourself if you’re happy, on that particular path. It’s a worthy problem to confront, from time to time.
This is inevitably leading up to something. One question. Am I happy? I wish I knew for certain. I thought I would be able to answer, by this point in the blog, knowing that I was coming here. I know I wish I could, with certainty, say “yes, absolutely happy. There’s nothing more I could want.” But I know that’s not true. I mean, I remember feeling that way in the past, for short periods, so I do know the feeling when I’m in it. Periods in high school, which, for me, was an excellent experience. I’ve since learned that this is unique. Periods in college, surrounded by friends, and real love. Periods at Marvel, doing something I dreamed about, and was proud of. Periods in my marriage, again surrounded by love. Periods at work, doing something exciting and challenging, and meeting that challenge, feeling like I’m contributing something of significance.
But I’m also aware of the feeling of knowing that, though all the ducks are in a row, and all the pieces for happiness are there, but the feeling, the actual feeling in the pit of my stomach or the flutter of your heart, is just somehow…absent. I know the roses are there, and I stop to smell them, but sometimes, it’s just a flower, not a moment. It should be a moment, a zen moment, where the world just falls away, and I can know, just for that moment. But something is missing. That “missing thing” feeling is something I’ve blogged about before, but I still have no easy answer for it. Maybe I’m just having a bad morning. Maybe I'm having contact withdrawl. Maybe I shouldn’t have forgotten to practice my “grateful” routine this morning (in a sense, this blog is the opposite of my thoughts just three days ago. That’s the pendulum swing I’ve been on, lately.). Or, maybe there is no easy answer. Maybe, sometimes, this wanting is just what it’s like to be human. I don’t know.
But I’m trying to figure it out. I’m working on my own personal ‘bliss list,’ of the things that I know make me happy.
Showing someone something they didn’t know (that they are glad to know).
Solving a challenging problem, or be part of the solution.
Making something beautiful. or cool, or interesting, or that I just plain like having made. Creating something.
Making my kids smile.
Getting a special note from someone I care about.
Feeling love, Real love.
Expressing love, and friendship.
Making someone else happy. To give that, and know that I gave it.
Or even just to help somebody else by getting them to figure out their own list, which maybe, just maybe, might help them figure out how to chase it down.
So, hey. Are you happy?
So, people been giving me such odd looks when, instead of “How are you?” I ask, “Are you Happy?” I’ve been doing it for a week now, and have been met with everything from odd looks to startled disbelief. Most often what I get are long explanations and qualifications for why the respondent can’t just say “Yes.” Maybe it’s the sincerity with which I ask that takes people aback. At least I hope the sincerity reads. I actually want to know who’s happy with where they are, with what they’re doing. I want to know how happy. I want to know who knows, and who doesn’t, and how many of those who don’t know, know or care why. Most people, in fact, can’t just say “Yes.” Because that’s not normal. Like if you walk down the street smiling. It makes people wonder what you’re up to. Or certain that they know already.
It seems almost a certain way to screw someone’s day, though it shouldn’t. What it should be is an opportunity. That’s how I intend it. Most people go through life so much on autopilot, they don’t stop to question if they are happy. More precisely, working hard to disguise and obfuscate whether they are happy or not, thereby making enjoyment of life, happiness, what Joseph Campbell called “following your bliss,” seem entirely beside the point. The point is to continue moving forward, one foot in front of the other. It’s a worthy distraction to stop and ask yourself if you’re happy, on that particular path. It’s a worthy problem to confront, from time to time.
This is inevitably leading up to something. One question. Am I happy? I wish I knew for certain. I thought I would be able to answer, by this point in the blog, knowing that I was coming here. I know I wish I could, with certainty, say “yes, absolutely happy. There’s nothing more I could want.” But I know that’s not true. I mean, I remember feeling that way in the past, for short periods, so I do know the feeling when I’m in it. Periods in high school, which, for me, was an excellent experience. I’ve since learned that this is unique. Periods in college, surrounded by friends, and real love. Periods at Marvel, doing something I dreamed about, and was proud of. Periods in my marriage, again surrounded by love. Periods at work, doing something exciting and challenging, and meeting that challenge, feeling like I’m contributing something of significance.
But I’m also aware of the feeling of knowing that, though all the ducks are in a row, and all the pieces for happiness are there, but the feeling, the actual feeling in the pit of my stomach or the flutter of your heart, is just somehow…absent. I know the roses are there, and I stop to smell them, but sometimes, it’s just a flower, not a moment. It should be a moment, a zen moment, where the world just falls away, and I can know, just for that moment. But something is missing. That “missing thing” feeling is something I’ve blogged about before, but I still have no easy answer for it. Maybe I’m just having a bad morning. Maybe I'm having contact withdrawl. Maybe I shouldn’t have forgotten to practice my “grateful” routine this morning (in a sense, this blog is the opposite of my thoughts just three days ago. That’s the pendulum swing I’ve been on, lately.). Or, maybe there is no easy answer. Maybe, sometimes, this wanting is just what it’s like to be human. I don’t know.
But I’m trying to figure it out. I’m working on my own personal ‘bliss list,’ of the things that I know make me happy.
Showing someone something they didn’t know (that they are glad to know).
Solving a challenging problem, or be part of the solution.
Making something beautiful. or cool, or interesting, or that I just plain like having made. Creating something.
Making my kids smile.
Getting a special note from someone I care about.
Feeling love, Real love.
Expressing love, and friendship.
Making someone else happy. To give that, and know that I gave it.
Or even just to help somebody else by getting them to figure out their own list, which maybe, just maybe, might help them figure out how to chase it down.
So, hey. Are you happy?
Sunday, January 7, 2007
What the Hell am I Doing-New Year's Edition
Reviewing this list since my last list, I realize I’ve been doing less in the month past than typically. I’m slowing down. This is a good opportunity to review and re-pace myself. I need January to set the pace for the rest of the year, and it can’t be a slow one. Not this year. This is the year everything changes.
Trying something new this post: More links. If you are curious about others opinions of the books, the links will lead to Amazon reviews.
Last Read: Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. This is a great, fast read with lots of twists and turns. It’s ostensibly about a young Indian boy whose family owns a zoo. While traveling on a Steamship with the animals (they’ve have been sold to a zoo in America), disaster strikes and he ends up on a lifeboat with a group of animals, including an adult carnivorous Bengal tiger. Is that redundant? In the middle of the ocean. And from there it just gets wilder. The last third is a kicker. I highly recommend the experience. This will never be made into a movie, at least not an adequate one, so the book is the only way to have this experience. This is on my list of top ten re-reads. Speaking of which, in no particular order, her are the first five (other than the one already outlined above). I’m cutting this into chunks, since I want this to be a somewhat readable list. Will post the rest sometime in the next month.:
The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger.
I know I said no particular order, but really, this should be the top of the list. This is an amazing love story told through two lives-one of a man who jumps through his life, with no control of it, and the other of the woman he loves, and who loves him. Amazon synopsizes it better than I can. But it’s great piece of fiction. I can’t praise this enough. “If you read only one time travel romance thriller this year…”
Time and Time Again, by Jack Finney.
Okay, on the subject of time travel, which fascinates me for some reason, this is a good one. This was made into a schlocky movie with Christopher Reeve, and is one of those examples of movies I don’t understand. Why would you like a story enough to say you want to make a movie of it, and then fundamentally change the basic tenants of that story? Why does that happen so very often? Lesser movie, excellent, completely different, book. though not on the level of The Time Traveler’s Wife, above.
The Bee Keeper’s Apprentice, By Laurie R. King.
More period stuff. This title is the first of a series, whose premise is following the story of the brilliant and interesting woman whom Sherlock Holmes, in his later, retired years, meets, educates, falls in love with and marries. For Holmes fans, it may be a stretch, but I found it intriguing, and a great, sweeping story, as well as a great springboard for the latter titles.
The Alienist by Caleb Carr. This is the period piece that got me started. Scientists and a reporter in NYC in 1896, use modern profiling and evidence gathering techniques to profile and identify a serial killer. CSI:Old New York, with elements of a thriller and mystery.
End of Part one.
Last Seen: Apocalypto. This was a sweeping thrill ride. I’m not one for director swooning anyway, and think that every famous director from Spielberg to DePalma to Scorcese has had his share of lackluster efforts. I’ve never been one to say I want to see a movie because of the director. So the same holds true for the reverse—I wouldn’t avoid a movie because of the director, which seems to be a theme in all the other reviews I’ve seen. I’m a story guy. Gimme a good story, and I’m with you, right there. Anyway, this keeps your heart racing throughout the blood and gore and sadness (and there is a fair share, though nothing like, from what I’m told, Children of Men. Skipping that one, for now. Like I have a choice. This is my at-the-theater quota for the next 2 months.)
Last drawn: Finished the fifth page (in line art) for the children’s book I’m working on. Next, I need to do the color, which feels a bit intimidating, as I haven’t touched watercolors in a few years. Then on to dummying up the rest of the book, laying out at actual size. and mailing to my writer friend to sell. Pages are posted at my website.
Coming up: I am planning at this point (subject to chickening out and pending getting a pass) on attending the NY Comicon. This will be the first comic convention I will have been to since leaving Marvel. Spread the word to anyone who you know will be there! Meet my oldest! Poke my grey hair! Throw work at me!
Trying something new this post: More links. If you are curious about others opinions of the books, the links will lead to Amazon reviews.
Last Read: Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. This is a great, fast read with lots of twists and turns. It’s ostensibly about a young Indian boy whose family owns a zoo. While traveling on a Steamship with the animals (they’ve have been sold to a zoo in America), disaster strikes and he ends up on a lifeboat with a group of animals, including an adult carnivorous Bengal tiger. Is that redundant? In the middle of the ocean. And from there it just gets wilder. The last third is a kicker. I highly recommend the experience. This will never be made into a movie, at least not an adequate one, so the book is the only way to have this experience. This is on my list of top ten re-reads. Speaking of which, in no particular order, her are the first five (other than the one already outlined above). I’m cutting this into chunks, since I want this to be a somewhat readable list. Will post the rest sometime in the next month.:
The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger.
I know I said no particular order, but really, this should be the top of the list. This is an amazing love story told through two lives-one of a man who jumps through his life, with no control of it, and the other of the woman he loves, and who loves him. Amazon synopsizes it better than I can. But it’s great piece of fiction. I can’t praise this enough. “If you read only one time travel romance thriller this year…”
Time and Time Again, by Jack Finney.
Okay, on the subject of time travel, which fascinates me for some reason, this is a good one. This was made into a schlocky movie with Christopher Reeve, and is one of those examples of movies I don’t understand. Why would you like a story enough to say you want to make a movie of it, and then fundamentally change the basic tenants of that story? Why does that happen so very often? Lesser movie, excellent, completely different, book. though not on the level of The Time Traveler’s Wife, above.
The Bee Keeper’s Apprentice, By Laurie R. King.
More period stuff. This title is the first of a series, whose premise is following the story of the brilliant and interesting woman whom Sherlock Holmes, in his later, retired years, meets, educates, falls in love with and marries. For Holmes fans, it may be a stretch, but I found it intriguing, and a great, sweeping story, as well as a great springboard for the latter titles.
The Alienist by Caleb Carr. This is the period piece that got me started. Scientists and a reporter in NYC in 1896, use modern profiling and evidence gathering techniques to profile and identify a serial killer. CSI:Old New York, with elements of a thriller and mystery.
End of Part one.
Last Seen: Apocalypto. This was a sweeping thrill ride. I’m not one for director swooning anyway, and think that every famous director from Spielberg to DePalma to Scorcese has had his share of lackluster efforts. I’ve never been one to say I want to see a movie because of the director. So the same holds true for the reverse—I wouldn’t avoid a movie because of the director, which seems to be a theme in all the other reviews I’ve seen. I’m a story guy. Gimme a good story, and I’m with you, right there. Anyway, this keeps your heart racing throughout the blood and gore and sadness (and there is a fair share, though nothing like, from what I’m told, Children of Men. Skipping that one, for now. Like I have a choice. This is my at-the-theater quota for the next 2 months.)
Last drawn: Finished the fifth page (in line art) for the children’s book I’m working on. Next, I need to do the color, which feels a bit intimidating, as I haven’t touched watercolors in a few years. Then on to dummying up the rest of the book, laying out at actual size. and mailing to my writer friend to sell. Pages are posted at my website.
Coming up: I am planning at this point (subject to chickening out and pending getting a pass) on attending the NY Comicon. This will be the first comic convention I will have been to since leaving Marvel. Spread the word to anyone who you know will be there! Meet my oldest! Poke my grey hair! Throw work at me!
Saturday, January 6, 2007
More, Part 2
I figured out a problem with the More blog of 12/23/06. Not a mistake, really, just a difference in interpretation. This has been bothering me, under all the roiling gelatin that’s passed for my grey matter, before and since the holidays. See, a friend commented, very succinctly and correctly, “I believe in moderation…'More' can easily become too much.”
That’s the dark side of More, isn’t it? When you want something and just want it and want it, and it starts to overshadow everything else there is. Soon everything in your life is flavored by the taste of the thing you don’t have. Everything good in there pales before the shadow of what’s absent.
Man, it’s so easy, and natural, and human to want too much. And dangerous, for all the reasons outlined above. Problem is, one usually doesn’t see what one has until it’s gone, can’t see what’s good until he’s lost it. Which just leads to more wanting, this time for the thing that you had when you started. I get it. I get it.
The antidote for greed is gratitude. I’ve been trying a little experiment lately. I start each day with gratitude, saying “thank you” for the day. “Thank you” for my teeth as I brush them (that they’re all mine and in great shape, and will be until the day I kick—no small feat coming from my family, with dentally challenged parents. Thanks, Sue Keller.). “Thank you” that I can hit twenty pushups before my day starts, and that I freakin’ want to. “Thank you” that I know how to do what I do all day, and enjoy it, and that I still want to learn how to do so much more. Motivational speakers (ugh!) call it an “attitude of gratitude,” (only because they’re so fond of alliteration and these things make for such nice book titles). But this is real. This is something. Because when you do it enough, it really does set the tone for the day. It makes that overcast sky on your way into the building something beautiful, and that blindingly sunshiny day, something spectacular. It makes the laughter of your children at play the most beautiful sound in the world.
And another funny thing happens when you start to feel grateful. More sometimes starts coming. And the More that comes, even if it’s just a shadow of the More you originally wanted, that starts to be Enough. And you’re grateful, all over again.
Was this blog cryptic enough for you? Good. Now I'm going to go outside and enjoy a piece of global warming.
That’s the dark side of More, isn’t it? When you want something and just want it and want it, and it starts to overshadow everything else there is. Soon everything in your life is flavored by the taste of the thing you don’t have. Everything good in there pales before the shadow of what’s absent.
Man, it’s so easy, and natural, and human to want too much. And dangerous, for all the reasons outlined above. Problem is, one usually doesn’t see what one has until it’s gone, can’t see what’s good until he’s lost it. Which just leads to more wanting, this time for the thing that you had when you started. I get it. I get it.
The antidote for greed is gratitude. I’ve been trying a little experiment lately. I start each day with gratitude, saying “thank you” for the day. “Thank you” for my teeth as I brush them (that they’re all mine and in great shape, and will be until the day I kick—no small feat coming from my family, with dentally challenged parents. Thanks, Sue Keller.). “Thank you” that I can hit twenty pushups before my day starts, and that I freakin’ want to. “Thank you” that I know how to do what I do all day, and enjoy it, and that I still want to learn how to do so much more. Motivational speakers (ugh!) call it an “attitude of gratitude,” (only because they’re so fond of alliteration and these things make for such nice book titles). But this is real. This is something. Because when you do it enough, it really does set the tone for the day. It makes that overcast sky on your way into the building something beautiful, and that blindingly sunshiny day, something spectacular. It makes the laughter of your children at play the most beautiful sound in the world.
And another funny thing happens when you start to feel grateful. More sometimes starts coming. And the More that comes, even if it’s just a shadow of the More you originally wanted, that starts to be Enough. And you’re grateful, all over again.
Was this blog cryptic enough for you? Good. Now I'm going to go outside and enjoy a piece of global warming.
Friday, January 5, 2007
Quiet.
I’ve had a hard time blogging of late. Not that I’ve stopped writing, but it's been difficult putting ideas together to represent a clear train of thought. My thoughts have been coming out disjointed, staccato, and without a sense of clarity that, usually, helps me understand what I want to say. When this happens, those around me have noticed that I get very quiet. Answers shorten, pauses lengthen. I get quiet. I'm pretty comfortable with quiet. But the main reason I do this kind of writing is because I have something to say, so I couldn't say anything until I sorted some of that out. Now I’ve something to say about not saying anything.
I believe in the Talking Heads line, “When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. Say something once, why say it again?” Okay, it's from the song Psycho Killer, but don't hold that against me. I also believe in Willie Nelson’s song “Don’t let your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys,” for the line “He ain’t wrong, he’s just different,/ but his pride won’t let him/ do things to make you think he’s right.” Okay, again, I'm not a cowboy, but cut me some slack here.It's a male behavioral-ritual-reference thing. My point is, these beliefs contribute to the fact that I am, typically, pretty quiet.
I wear my iPod a lot. Company policy at the Publishing studio where I work frowns on downloading music, and books, onto your work computer. My iPod helps me get around that, downloading at home and transporting files with me. It also cuts the oft deadly silence of a computer-filled studio without central music. But a side effect is to emphasize silence. I forget I have the earbuds in, even when the music or book is off, wit hthe iPod in my breast pocket. I walk up to people and they adhere to the unspoken code of not speaking to someone who is listening to something else, even though I’m not listening to anything but their silence. Headphones in the office, on the street, on the bus or in the subway, reinforce silence within a group. We’ve become a nation of people quietly among each other, each echoing independent dins, within a sort of group silence.
This is a bit sad, to me. If you'd known me years ago, you’d know I was a very social animal. But that kind of outward bravado typically comes from a deep level of comfort and familiarity. That’s a comfort level I haven’t had since I left New York. There, I could strike up a conversation with anyone, on almost anything, knowing just a little bit about a whole lot. But that’s a skill that takes practice, and is easy to get out of practice in. I’m trying to get back in that practice, these days.
See, silence makes people uncomfortable.An inerviewing technique shared by cops and reporters alike is the asking of a question followed by silence. The person opposite feels the weight of the silence, and will usually move forward to fill it. With no response otehr than continued silence, the onus remains on the speaker, the one to whom the question was directed, to continue. We have an instinct to fill that void of silence between two people. And that's where they getcha.
So, on the other hand,quiet isn't all bad. Quiet is a great place for mental review. You can get your head together much easier (and when I say you, I of course mean I) in silence than even with soft music playing in the background. Music pushes or gently nudges you in a direction—anger, comfort, peace or agitation. Silence starkly stares at you, eyebrow raised, tapping one foot, and says, “okay, what now bub?” You’ve got to answer the questions that silence, poses on your own.
Silence is also a great place for note-taking. Clad in my silent earphones, I’m able to overhear conversation in close proximity, others lulled into a sense of isolation by the invisible cone the little white wires represent. I’ve gotten great, real dialogue that way for some of the stories and the like. And great ideas are borne of everyday conversations. You just have to be quiet long enough for the birth process to happen. It’s after the birth that all the screaming starts.
Myself, I've never had a problem with silence. If I'm with someone I really care about, I can fill hours in silence with the mental recording of features, of details, of specifics. Those recorded details are the food of future silences, filled with recollection. We are where we've been. We are what we remember, in those silences between the moments we call life.
So, all considered, I like quiet, in manageable doses. But too much can kill your soul. So I’ll try not to make too much noise, but wanted to give notice. Quiet time is over.
Hope your 2007 is going great.
I believe in the Talking Heads line, “When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. Say something once, why say it again?” Okay, it's from the song Psycho Killer, but don't hold that against me. I also believe in Willie Nelson’s song “Don’t let your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys,” for the line “He ain’t wrong, he’s just different,/ but his pride won’t let him/ do things to make you think he’s right.” Okay, again, I'm not a cowboy, but cut me some slack here.It's a male behavioral-ritual-reference thing. My point is, these beliefs contribute to the fact that I am, typically, pretty quiet.
I wear my iPod a lot. Company policy at the Publishing studio where I work frowns on downloading music, and books, onto your work computer. My iPod helps me get around that, downloading at home and transporting files with me. It also cuts the oft deadly silence of a computer-filled studio without central music. But a side effect is to emphasize silence. I forget I have the earbuds in, even when the music or book is off, wit hthe iPod in my breast pocket. I walk up to people and they adhere to the unspoken code of not speaking to someone who is listening to something else, even though I’m not listening to anything but their silence. Headphones in the office, on the street, on the bus or in the subway, reinforce silence within a group. We’ve become a nation of people quietly among each other, each echoing independent dins, within a sort of group silence.
This is a bit sad, to me. If you'd known me years ago, you’d know I was a very social animal. But that kind of outward bravado typically comes from a deep level of comfort and familiarity. That’s a comfort level I haven’t had since I left New York. There, I could strike up a conversation with anyone, on almost anything, knowing just a little bit about a whole lot. But that’s a skill that takes practice, and is easy to get out of practice in. I’m trying to get back in that practice, these days.
See, silence makes people uncomfortable.An inerviewing technique shared by cops and reporters alike is the asking of a question followed by silence. The person opposite feels the weight of the silence, and will usually move forward to fill it. With no response otehr than continued silence, the onus remains on the speaker, the one to whom the question was directed, to continue. We have an instinct to fill that void of silence between two people. And that's where they getcha.
So, on the other hand,quiet isn't all bad. Quiet is a great place for mental review. You can get your head together much easier (and when I say you, I of course mean I) in silence than even with soft music playing in the background. Music pushes or gently nudges you in a direction—anger, comfort, peace or agitation. Silence starkly stares at you, eyebrow raised, tapping one foot, and says, “okay, what now bub?” You’ve got to answer the questions that silence, poses on your own.
Silence is also a great place for note-taking. Clad in my silent earphones, I’m able to overhear conversation in close proximity, others lulled into a sense of isolation by the invisible cone the little white wires represent. I’ve gotten great, real dialogue that way for some of the stories and the like. And great ideas are borne of everyday conversations. You just have to be quiet long enough for the birth process to happen. It’s after the birth that all the screaming starts.
Myself, I've never had a problem with silence. If I'm with someone I really care about, I can fill hours in silence with the mental recording of features, of details, of specifics. Those recorded details are the food of future silences, filled with recollection. We are where we've been. We are what we remember, in those silences between the moments we call life.
So, all considered, I like quiet, in manageable doses. But too much can kill your soul. So I’ll try not to make too much noise, but wanted to give notice. Quiet time is over.
Hope your 2007 is going great.
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