Much to my chagrin, I've come to terms with something I don't necessarily like to admit. I started drinking when I was fourteen. I was dared by a girl I knew to drink two beers, so I told her instead I would drink the full bottle of vodka, and I did. I haven't stopped since then. I don't remember much of my later teens because of it. In fairness, I remember only playing in a punk bank - fat man & little boy - and getting drunk afterwards. I woke up a year ago. Now I sit in a position where my "love" of alcohol, or rather the escape and the numbness it brings, is becoming sad. I don't drink for fun. I drink because I'm sad, because my body demands something intoxicating. I crave the escape, the pure loss of life. In the last hour alone I drank two bottles of bourbon and a few shots of Jack. My body is numb, so is everything else. And yet, I am eternally joyous. My face, it's contorted, smiling eternally until I wake. Imagine it, I dare you. Go on, try to think of a world where happiness is incarnated in a drink; a simple liquid made from fruit and rye. Isn't it lovely? The reason I'm writing this is because I'm afraid. I've been drinking for nine years now. Not long, not even a decade. Yet, I still crave it every day. When I wake up I think about bourbon. I don't love anybody or anyone, I just think about alcohol. It is my dearest love, my soulmate, and the woman, man, or whatever I would choose to forever live with. I write best while drunk, believe it or not. So you'll have to forgive me if I stop now, amidst my words. I need to write; real, proper writing. The sort that challenges our soul, the sort that makes you cry and makes you burst out into laughter. The sort that makes you thrive to live forever no longer remembering the pain. For all your excuses to read what it is I write, is no different than the reason I write: to escape. -Irish87 P.S.: I apologize if none of this make sense or if this offends somebody. It seems I am quite good at that, and I truly sorry if you are one of them.
It's strange how much satisfaction I got today when the first part of the second chapter on my blog fiction site (Lv87) went up. Sure, the first chapter took a week to post, but I still think it's better than posting in 5-6k word increments. Perhaps I am wrong, though. The bog hasn't received a ton of views, but I have no advertising for it and I don't think the keywords I use are very... broad. Nevertheless, I'm happy its been posted in whole. I decided to put the whole chapter in a 1-page setting. I'll do the same with the following chapters. I figure it'll be a little easier to do that rather than making people read them post by post. Granted, it then begs the question: why did I bother to break the chapters up anyhow? Oh well, I still like how everything is coming out.
It's been a while since I've posted on these forums. My life kind of fell into a strange little place for a while. Well, much to the chagrin of a few I am certain, I'm back. Not long ago I tried to make a blog where I could post my writing. It failed... horribly. In fact, dare I say, it was one of the stupidest things I've done. Thankfully, we learn from our mistakes and now that I am a bit more clearheaded, I figured I would try it again. A while back I wrote a novel - 109,000 words in all - but I never sought out an agent/publisher. Since it is doing nothing but gathering dust in the corner of my hard drive, I figured I would make a blog and post all of chapters. Originally I was going to post each chapter, one by one, but found the length was too much. Reading five thousand words isn't hard, but clicking on the Continue Reading... button and having 4,800 jump out at you is a bit overwhelming. Instead, I'll be posting two pages each day. Give or take, it's about 1-1.5k words. I am hoping people come and read it. Even though the grammar isn't that great and I didn't edit the damn thing all that well, I still like how the story came out. If nothing else, you can point and laugh. You can check the website out here at Lv. 87. Oh, and feel free to criticize.
I am far too competitive for my own good. Unfortunately this personal fault, if you deem such a thing a fault, has led me to do things I would otherwise avoid, from writing an entire one hundred and ten thousand word novel to singing "Dirty Old Town" in front of an audience of about two hundred people... half naked. And do you know what the sad thing about all of this is? I don't even do it for money, the dare alone forces me to do it. I cannot accept under any circumstance failing when I know that if I suck it up or put enough effort into it I can easily accomplish it. My friend and I often find ourselves trying to out due one another. On the other hand, we're also incredibly cruel to one another. He still has a scar on his neck from that one incident with a rubber band and the cap of some home brew. Well, he finally went and did it... he dared me to write another novel. He knows I'm able to, but there is one difference with this one... I can't do it the way that I like. You see, I have a theory when it comes to creating character. Basically, forcing out a premade, already assembled character whose beliefs, morals, functions, activities, favorite foods, etc is all decided is perhaps the WORST way to create a character. I favor developing a character over time and molding him through his actions, knowing full well we all evolve over time as our experience begins to grow. Well, my friend thinks that idea is fine and dandy, but his method of writing is far better. He can churn out a novel in a week if he wanted, though he does take the prior week off to write an outline for each chapter. To me this is heresy. However, I was dared to use his little tactic... So then, what will the novel be about? Well, I don't honestly know yet, though I figure I'll try to make it fairly topical since I can probably get away with exposition for a good part of it. While science fiction and fantasy eat up a good chunk of words, and my goal is only sixty thousand, I think a nice Fascistic dystopian novel would be a good deal easier. It will allow me to toss in a few references to things that I care about, most notably the sickeningly rampant Antisemitism spreading throughout most of the world. -Irish P.S.: How the hell does Shane MacGowan eat?! Each time he opens his mouth to sing I keep thinking he's Smeagol from The Lord of the Rings. Poor, poor Mr. MacGowan. UPDATE: ARGH! It is soooo annoying to write like this! I've been itching all day to sit down and write the first chapter - I know everything about it. Unfortunately, the agreement says that I will not begin writing until I have down every character, every detail about said character, every chapter, and everything in between. I've only thought about the first three chapters, though I know the ending, and the main character. This is horrible. How do people work like this?! I demand to know how a writer can honestly sit down and write an index of characteristics and chapter detail and NOT immediately start writing and forgetting all of that crap. All I want to do is write, but instead I'm designing the layout of my characters life. I really don't care about my characters heritage. He's white! That's it! But nooo, according to my friend I have to pick a region where his family originates. You know what I chose? Europe. Alright, I think I'm going to go hang out with some other friends for the time being. My head hurts and I'm slowly going insane. Oh yeah, I've been reading a LOT of Ayn Rand lately, so this novel will be 100% biased. To hell with being impartial.
Subtitle #1: The Wrath of King! Subtitle #2: Naomi Klein is a Jerk Anyhow, where were we? Ah, yes, the weather. In our last installment of Elitism and the Writer I spoke of the oncoming winter and how speaking of such a thing as a metaphor in a novel is strictly verboten. Today we'll be focusing on another form of behavior control. First, however, let's delve into some pseudo intellectual mumbojumbo. Behavior control is a facet of sociopolitical ideologies that has existed far beyond our generation. To put it simply: if you control the minds of your people, you control the might of your nation. The same can easily be said for any smaller community. Any intelligent bunch knows that anarchy does not work, that there needs to be some sort of leadership to keep their group moving forward. When people come to power they tend to have ideals and opinions and they seek out those who share such beliefs. Over time these smaller communities become divided - one side agrees on one idea, while the other considers it blasphemous. If you need an example just look up every church in your city. In regards to our community as a whole, not our forums, behavior control is widely accepted. We often find no disdain in this pathetic display of loathing, choosing instead to revel in the glory of telling others how to live. In our case, we tell others how to write and if, by chance, they disagree with us we become infuriated. That, however, was the topic of the first Elitism and the Writer. Today, we're focusing on the terms of acceptance in general and how they are another form of behavior control. Christ, I'm sounding like Glenn Beck. Kill me now. To begin I have a series of questions for you: 1. What does it take to be a writer? 2. What does it mean to be a writer? 3. Can anyone become a writer? 4. If anyone can become a writer, what makes us special? Alright, have you answered the questions? I hope that you have, otherwise you're skipping ahead, which makes you a jerk. Those questions are all opinion based. They have no definite answers, only guesses. It would be fantastic to come up with the perfect path of becoming a great writer, but in the end it depends entirely on both luck and the ability of said writer. So then, the answer to number three is obvious: Only some can become writers! ...actually, that's crap. Writers, just as any other community of hobbyists, fancy themselves as special. We like to think we're all original and that our work far exceeds the works of others. If you're a writer and you have no faith in your material then I would seriously question your confidence. The point is, however, we like to assume that only certain people can become writers. Think of it as being a Jedi. In the original trilogy any doofus with a fancy light sword thing could become a Jedi, but in the new trilogy only certain people with funny little bugs could. Not just any schmuck can be so powerful, we need rules and regulations. It's like this in all communities actually. In most religions if you don't follow a code of laws then you risk eternal damnation or whatever your religion deems to be torturous. I think for the Buddhists its being reborn as a lamb in Scotland. All of this, with perhaps the exception of the whole Jedi stuff, is a form of behavior control. It is a way for the community to enforce their ideologies. In regards to the writing community, we are so quick to judge whether or not somebody can become a writer. After all, being a writer is a job of eloquence, a job of intelligence and of grace. We sing the stories of heroes, of the men and women who fight for not simply their own people, but for the... blah, blah, blah. We seem to have this idea that we are born this way, that somehow God or whoever your creator is blessed some of us with the magical ability to write... I have some bad news... All human beings, with few exceptions, are capable of writing. I know, I know, there is a difference between just writing and writing. Any fool can type a two hundred thousand word science fiction novel about laser swords and homosexual gold-plated robots. It takes a real writer to create a story about zombies that are created via cell phone usage. In case you're wondering that was my Stephen King reference. I'm trying to throw him under the bus at every turn, I figure one day it might actually happen. I wonder, what is it that makes a good writer? In truth, none of us can come to a decisive answer. Some of us like tension, some of us enjoy good dialogue sessions, and some of us lust after zombies created via cell phone usage. Personally, I'm a fan of P. D. James and Thomas Sowell. So then how is a writer created? I suppose this is simply my opinion, but it's when somebody who enjoys reading decides to write. There is an idea that seems to permeate the community which says only certain people have the ability to use their imagination. What we fail to realize is that it is a muscle, one that must be exercised to fully benefit from. So then, what else does a writer need? Well, other than an imagination, which we ALL have, they need to have a decent grasp of the English language. Anything else that you can think of? Something tells me that the only thing left is the basic motor, the drive to become a writer. We are not mystical, God-sent gifts given onto the world to bless with our writing ability. Instead, we're all capable of brilliance and we're all capable of grace. Rather than allowing these self hating fools to force us down, we should refute the very idea that only the best of us can become a writer. Will every writer amongst us be successful? Obviously not, societal trends dictate what is and what is not popular. Still, that doesn't necessarily mean that the work is bad. Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged was barely published and received scathing reviews, yet it's currently one of the most popular books on shelves. Language itself is an exercise of the mind. It is an admittance of God, a recognition that the creation of life, even if minor, is more valuable than anything else that we can attain. Our ability to enlighten, our ability to radiate a persons mind and help drive them forward is our greatest gift. The ability to write is simply its vessel, one which any fool can grab onto. You don't need to be a genius to write. How do I know this? Well, I'm a writer.
I've been sick as of late. I'm not sure what it is, but I know it's been affecting my stomach, my head, and the right side of my ribs. I would love to say it is purely a sickness, but I'm beginning to think it has more to do with my mental state right now. No, no, I'm not going insane or nothing. Instead, I've got a lot of stress I have to deal with, all of which is of my own doing, and sleep is a rare commodity. Well, anyhow, I finally got my to ability write back once more yesterday. I think I spent about seven hours doodling stories that will never see the light of day. One of the stories I churned out is obviously incomplete, which is why I'm posting it. Honestly, I don't know what's going on or who these people are. I was just writing. So enjoy my lunacy: Poor Gabriel was always an odd boy. Rarely was it that he paid enough attention to even know what you looked like, yet he always found a way to remember your name and figure out how to torment you in some fashion. As a young child he was beloved for his trickery; his ability to fool others came as a game and not necessarily as a personal flaw. As he grew, however, his inability to keep his focus and his adoration of cruelty towards others became not a parlor trick to be shown to your neighbor, but rather something to be hidden away and forgotten. Each and every life was important, no matter how much they contributed. For poor Gabriel, it was his ticket to forever be what he had become. And yet, as he charged up the last few flights of stairs, he knew his actions that day might just make him a pariah. Still, that urge in the back of his head, the little voice seemingly never silenced until its thirst was quenched, kept taking him further up the tenement project. At each pass Gabriel used the red object he carried to smash the window on his left, if they weren't already shattered that is. Behind the sound soon came a booming, echoing laugh which shook Jude. Unlike the young trickster, Jude had kept his protective clothing on. There was no worse death than a frozen one and that particular April morning was begging for another victim. Before he could reach Gabriel, Jude heard the rooftop access door slam. The sound of his shouting voice and his scampering feet all but disappeared and silence befell the stairwell. The frozen winds begged for a sacrifice. Ice had formed and only barely was the door even able to be opened, though it showed signs of recent use. It was beyond Gabriel's comprehension, but as soon as Jude found the indentions of boots against the blue paint he knew who had been there. Blocking it out of his mind, he ripped the door open and rushed out, nearly slipping as he came upon the scene. "Jude!" the poor boy cried out. It was a terrible sight. He was stripped of almost all of his clothing, the only exceptions were his boots, pants, and a thin white shirt that was barely visible - his skin had the same pallid color. "It's a beautiful summer day, Jude." What was to be said at such a moment? There was no response and he knew there were no magical words which would have convinced him to stop doing what he was doing and come back to the city. "Why are you doing this to us?" It was a ridiculous question, he thought. There was no sanity in the boys head and, even if there was a motive, he was too absent minded to remember it. In truth, it was all emotion. Gabriel, as he thought about the question, lifted the red object, the gun, into the air and let out a cackling half-laugh, one covered partly by the wind. "Jude," he began again, "have you ever seen the sun?" He let out a gasping laugh. "No, Gabriel, I haven't. Have you?" "No." For a moment, a single second, there was no sound. Even the wind seemed to become shockingly silent and the snow halted for a brief time. They were watching from high above, probably placing bets and laughing at what was to happen next. Gabriel, whose head fell down and shook slightly, asked as boyishly as he could, "Why am I here?" "You're about to kill us, Gabriel." And then it came. It was a wicked look, a sinister little laugh with no volume, just a staring glare that came up from the shadows of Gabriel's face. "Who are you?" Before Jude could answer, Gabriel continued on: "You're no better than all of them. You want to control me. You want me to do only what you do and if I argue then you yell at me!" "You're insane, man. No one argues with you, no one even looks at you wrongly..." he suddenly found himself quieted as Gabriel's arm relaxed and fell back to his side. "Come on, you know what happens if you shoot that thing off." Something told him that Gabriel wasn't listening. He was off and in his own little land, Jude was simply another person he could torment. And, as he tried his hardest to figure out a way to stop him, Gabriel lifted his arm once more. There was no laugh or smile or realization of what would come. Instead, he pulled the trigger and the flare dislodged itself. Yet, instead of shooting off into the sky and bursting, it stayed connected to the end of the pistol. There was no sound, much like before. Rather, a thud came and knocked Jude back. From his position, as he laid there and listened to the ringing in his ear, he watched as the snow peacefully drifted down. Soon, however, sound came back and with it the screams of Gabriel. Jude slowly took to his feet and watched as the young man staggered back and forth, his right arm flailing about. There was little left of his hand and most of his forearm had been chewed apart. Still, the flare had gone off, nearly blinding both men. Infuriated, Jude charged forward and grabbed Gabriel by his shirt. The disoriented man failed to react, for obvious reasons. "Do you realize the hell you just put upon us?" Gabriel looked up to the speaker, unaware of anything that was happening. He had stopped screaming even before Jude grabbed him. The loss of blood was beginning to set in as his body began to grow limp and his vision became fuzzy. Jude's shaking only seemed to further the blood loss, quickly putting his conscious into a blur, forcing a laugh out of him. He could still see his mouth moving, though. The wind, the sound of Jude's shouting, and everything else slowly fell into the distance again. His feet gave into the effort of Jude and slowly he walked backwards. "Have you nothing in your head except malice?!" And with it, as Jude let go, Gabriel felt the wind slowly covering him. In its embrace he smiled a final smirk and watched as he fell back and the world turned white. Before Jude could even react, he saw poor Gabriel fall.
My mind has been off the ball lately. Even after I got my inspiration back I'm still seemingly disabled from writing. I'm still not entirely sure what the problem is, but it's been a hell of a ride. Anyhow, since my ability to produce writing is pretty much dead in the water at this time I figured I would post the second chapter (unedited) on my blog. I would have posted it here, but I'm not sure if there is a word limit and I have a tendency to be wordy. Last I checked I hit about 3k words, which seems absurdly low for some reason. Anyhow, you can also check out the first chapter (edited... slightly) and I might even toss up the third. -Irish
At the risk of offending those who have made them, I must admit that I believe New Years Resolutions to be the very epitome of denial. If nothing else I justify it as being such because we wait until New Years to make these personal demands. If it were so important than we would have done it immediately. Instead, we put it off and when New Years hits we declare it from the highest rooftop. Two weeks later we've broken our promise to ourselves... Important moments and changes in life come not from a calendar change, but rather from a cathartic moment which floods your mind with a realization of what needs to be done. If your house burned down would you wait until New Years to find a new place to live? If you broke your arm would you wait until New Years to get it fixed? Yes, yes, I know, those are all important things. So then your New Years resolution isn't? We say that we're going to lose weight, that we're going to stop drinking or stop eating something bad for us. We declare we will start exercising or that we'll no longer cheat on our spouses or lie in general. We inform our friends we're going to finish that novel, we're going back to school, we're getting a raise at work and a promotion maybe. So don't tell me none of that is as important as anything else in life. In truth, all of those things are incredibly important. Nevertheless, if they mattered to us then we would have done them already. I view this in the same light as praying. So many people that I know, the ones who are religious that is, pray to their God as though they're speaking with Santa Claus. They have a nice long list of demands, including such absurd luxuries as good luck. Hell, I knew somebody once who told me that he asked God to let him do better on an exam of his... THE BABY JESUS IS NOT SANTA CLAUS! Sorry, I shouldn't yell. I'm not even religious. It infuriates me that we refuse to better ourselves on our own. Instead, we need the mystical help of Santa Jesus or the magical auto-catharsis that is New Years. I understand why people may disagree with me on this, in fairness anything that helps people better themselves is good. Right? Well, sure, I guess, but it is apparently not very important to them. I always go back to my opinion that if it was important than you would have done it before. You don't need January 1st to remind you to stop drinking in front of your kids. You don't need January 1st to remind you that Taco Bell is unhealthy, that you shouldn't drive while under the influence of narcotics, or that you should probably avoid beating up homeless people in the middle of the night. Being confident, being proud of who you are, and always putting the important things on your to-do list is what makes us humans so damn special. If we refuse to find inspiration in making our lives better, then New Years isn't going to save us from the hell we're creating for ourselves. -Irish P.S.: Sorry if you were offended.
I always view people who self publish their work in two lights: 1) People who are capitalistic in nature and enjoy being able to control their own products. 2) Lazy folk who don't stand a chance when it comes to actually getting something published, so they chose what many would consider is the easiest way out. Thankfully we do not live in a black and white world, at least not all of the time. So while I believe those two archetypes exist, I am also aware there is a huge area in between both and certainly in another realm of understanding as well. I, unfortunately, would fit in the latter. To put it as simply as I can without repeating myself a million times over: I write because I enjoy the process of sitting down and creating a story. I do not do it for money or for some absurd idea of celebrity. So while I do hope to one day be published, I don't mind not being published either. The only problem is that I am unemployed and have a history marred by personal idiocy, making my ability to find a job a slight bit harder. In an effort to take personal responsibility for my actions I have decided to try and publish more of my work, all the while going out each and every day and looking for a job. Well, last summer I wrote a novel on a dare... I seem to do that a lot, actually. I ended up writing over a hundred thousand words (at the time it was closer to 130k, but I edited it down by about 24k). I never sought to publish this novel because... well, I just never really wanted to, actually. Recently, however, I decided to throw apathy to the wind and self publish it via Amazon.com. Yes, yes, I am that lazy. I put up a decently detailed description of the novel and everything else you might want to know about why I am doing such a stupid thing on my blog. I would love to go into a long diatribe about what the story is about and why you, whoever you are, should buy it immediately. Instead, I'll leave you with a very brief summary: the story is about a government worker who is investigating the disappearance of two other government workers after a massacre caused by religious zealots. Remember, this is science fiction, but it's also coming from me, somebody who avoids science fiction. I tried my hardest to make it more of a psychological story, but with a background of science fiction. I would link over to the book on Amazon (it's called Sero) but I can't help but think it's better if you read the blog post I put up. The book itself is an ebook (the whole kindle thing) so I tried to price it as low as I could - $1.99. I cannot justify selling it for a higher price and even the $1.99 seems high. I was originally going for $1.42; forty-two being the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything. Then again, I always thought there was something fundamentally wrong with the universe. -Irish
For Christmas I was blessed with a Kindle 2 by some of the greatest friends a fat jerk like me could ever hope to have. I've been wanting this little piece of technology (built specifically for either the eternally lackadaisical or simply the far too neat) since it came out and shockingly I find that I am happy I decided to wait. Apparently there were a lot of problems with previous versions and this one is far better. I have a problem, however... I don't know what books I should buy. I've downloaded pretty much all of the perennial classics that I adore (for free, hooray for the kindness of bored folk), but now I need novels I either haven't read or haven't heard of. I was thinking of buying The Road, but I am getting slightly sick of dystopian end-of-the-world literature. Metro 2033 was amazing, but I think that was my final straw. Admittedly I did download the two Mass Effect novels, both of which I love strictly for it being related to Mass Effect. I hear the Dragon Age novels are decent, but I ended up being bored by the game. The same goes for the Arthas book for World of Warcraft. For some reason I am have a strange urge to read as much video game-related novels as I can. I think it's because of my strange addiction to all that is BioWare. So yeah... I need some advice on some great novels to buy. I'm fairly sure I'll grab The Great Gatsby (I haven't read it and I hear it is a fantastic book) but other than that I have no idea what I will be filling my new piece of awesomeness with. Any advice or tips is greatly appreciated, of course. -Irish P.S.: Merry Christmas!
Winter has finally come to Sacramento. Usually it is a very dull, uneventful few months with little rain and nothing remarkable to speak of. We haven't any snow, it is rare that a day begins with the sun behind clouds and ends in the same fashion, and it's a city seemingly built upon the backs of rude individuals who strive to make your life and your holidays that much more miserable. Nevertheless, for the last week it has been cloudy and rainy, and even snowy at one point. Granted, the day that it snowed only about a half inch stuck to the ground and it disappeared as soon as the sun came up. Anyhow, the reason I bring all of that up is because recently I was driving around with a friend and listening to music. As we drove through the sheets of rain and I looked out over the city of Sacramento I could feel my mind beginning to churn. I've had an idea for a while about a story I want to write and inspiration suddenly hit me. When I told my friend, who is also a writer, he informed me that I was being too artsy. For a good fifteen minutes I rambled off some inane idea, much of it based around the weather. In theory it is an archaic and overly used device: the weather reflects the mood. Whenever you see the storm clouds brewing in the distance you immediately think of bad events to come, though if you're from Sacramento, where it rarely rains, it's a strange feeling of refreshment. Well, for me anyhow. Nevertheless, if I were to introduce a story with the weather I would be blasted. And yes, yes, I know, if I do it well then nobody will complain. NOT TRUE! There exists in our community a group of elitists who refuse to accept certain ideas. Whether it be overly describing a persons facial features or talking about the rain, they tell us that we are not doing the job of a proper storyteller. Instead, we are waxing poetic, we've got our heads in the clouds and we're too busy describing the shape of one of them to proceed with the story. It seems that this is the same group of people who refuse to evolve. They use the same old cliches and recycle the same old plot lines. Yes, yes, I know, every story idea ever thought of has been written. Nothing is original. Nothing is new. Why? Mostly because we are told not to go into that territory, that we would be risking being labeled a bad writer by the writing community because we spent a paragraph describing a man's face in exact detail. Or, if we use words which would otherwise be considered too strange. Instead of talking to our audience as adults, we are forced to assume they are unable to understand words with four syllables. On the opposite end, we can no longer be simple and use the word "said" a bit too much. And the odd thing with all of this? Some of the most popular books are written with these flaws. Simplicity is not an insult to intelligence, nor is intelligence an insult to simplicity. In many circles you will find people who still, despite their success, insult these writers because they gave in and used a certain style that is otherwise thought poorly of. And no, I won't be the one to laugh it off as jealousy - it goes beyond that. It is a strange inability to find confidence within yourself, so instead you must tear apart the work of others to make yours seem so much better. I wonder how many writers write for the enjoyment of the process. I wonder how many writers actually enjoy the process. Yes, yes, I know it is a cliche to ask this, but has writing turned into a job? Sure, all things that we do professionally is a job in the most basic of definitions, but if you knew you would never receive a single scrap of money or recognition from writing, I wonder if you would ever bother. And here I am, speaking ill of those who spend their lives speaking ill of others. In truth, I am not an amazing or great writer. My grammar is terrible and often I forgot whether I should put the apostrophe in its or not. Hell, half of the time I forget how many S's are in disappearance or how many R's are in reference. Nevertheless, I am a writer who writes for the enjoyment of it. Most of the time my stories begin with the setting, with the world around the character. I also tend to enjoy describing and fleshing a character out, though my greatest offense is using the word said. In the end, I am a writer for the sake of writing. I don't do it because I want to. At times my obsession to write actually harms me emotionally. I've lost friends, I've spent much of my youth in a bedroom typing, and I'm unable to have a single night of proper sleep because I think so much that I cannot find enough energy to close my eyes and shut up. I write because I am a writer, simple as that. -Irish EDIT: I forgot to clarify that when I say our community I am speaking of the writing community as a whole, not just these forums.
Alright, well I'll put the link into my signature, but if you want you can go here and read the first chapter of my NaNoWriMo novel. Now that I look back, however, I might forewarn you about the terrible grammar and the strange beginning. Before I continue on, let me be honest: I wrote this coming from the perspective of somebody who hates fantasy. I'm sorry to all those who love it, I understand why you might but the current way in which it is churned out, as though it's little more than food to be tossed into a pen full of obese toddlers, is offensive to me as a reader. Every other damned story seems to be wrought with the same thing, whether it be the farm boy or the dragons or the all mighty elves. It's enough to make somebody like me swear off fantasy forever. So, after being dared by a friend of mine, I decided it would be a good idea to write a fantasy novel. Naturally. In agreeing to this I made a list of fantasy cliches and, one by one, began checking them off. If you have the time I would appreciate you reading along: 1. No Farmboys turned ubermensh. 2. Women are equal in all ways. No, they don't wear leather thongs or metal bras. They wear clothes and, if they're soldiers, they wear uniforms. I know, I know, it's boring this way. Sorry. 3. No homophobia. 4. The main character is not the aforementioned Aryan ubermensh. Nope, he's a thirty-something year old soldier whose wife leaves him eventually and who I picture looking like Pharrel Williams but less... awesome. 5. Technology has exceeded wood and iron. Hooray for black powder and psychology! 6. Racial stereotypes are ignored. Goblins are peaceful geniuses and elves are violent zealots. 7. Capitalism is not inherently evil, though, just like any other system of economics, it can be corrupted. 8. Not everyone rides a horse. Horses are expensive! 9. There are no kings. Sorry, I designed the world around representative republics and theocracies. 10. There are no epic battles that win the day. Sure, there are battles that are decisive, but none of them win the war by themselves. 11. There is a strong social setting. Instead of ignoring how society plays a role on the character, I made it an important function. The very first chapter talks about how elves in the human/goblin nation are treated like dogs. My goal with this story was simply to write a fantasy novel that does not rely on cliches. I made the elves seemingly evil because it's a different perspective. In truth they're simply heavily religious people who had a large chunk of their population dissent from them and make a nation which threatens them. They are no more evil than the humans and that is the point. None of us are inherently good or bad, it all comes from the choices we make. -Irish P.S.: None of this was edited or proofread. I'm tired.
It's a very strange thing, but I'm use to having family members either die or leave. My father died when I was two, my mom left me with my abusive grandparents when I was three, but she came back when I was four. My two sisters left me somewhere around that age, and then recently my aunt died of cancer. There are other family members, mind you, but those are the ones that I remember the most. Much of my personal opinions on life have been shaped from those experiences, obviously. Instead of becoming angry or depressed, I've learned to become apathetic to most people that I meet. That doesn't mean that I'm cold to others, quite the opposite. I've learned to value the time I have with them, mostly because I've discovered most everyone I've ever met has at one point disappointed or let me down in some way. I'm perfectly fine with that, I'm sure I've done the same to others. Well, the reason I bring this up is because I lost another family member. Two actually. My sisters, who I found not three months ago, have officially begun to ignore me. The reason why is simple: they found out I drink. They have a history of dealing with family members who are alcoholics and have, as a team, decided they will never allow anyone into their lives if that person drinks. In the last three months, while I've known them in my adulthood, I've drank two bottles of rum, half a bottle of Jack Daniels, and about a bottle of vodka. Keep in mind that I only ever drink when I'm with friends. So out of all of that booze I am forced to wonder how much of it that I actually drank. Hell, my addiction to El Pollo Loco and pizza on Sundays is more dangerous. I'm probably one of the most secure drinkers as well. I willfully avoided getting my drivers license so that I would never drive drunk, I never drink to the point of blacking out, and I know my limit and try my hardest to stop a shot before I reach it. Nevertheless, my sisters decided that I drink far too much and they do not want me in their life. I want to be angry and I want to shake them. In truth, however, I've come to expect such things. The only part that hurts in all of this is that they were the last remnant of my family that I still clung onto. For a while there I was an uncle, I was a brother, and most importantly I had two sisters I loved. I tried my best to be a good brother. It wasn't until last week that I found out they were very anti drinking - they didn't even warn me. Yet, it was also the same week that they began to ignore me. Oh well, I'll mourn them as I mourned my dead aunt: from afar and without much thought. -Irish P.S.: None of this was proofread or edited.
Whatever your opinion may be in regards to political correctness, I ask that you leave it at the door. I will most assuredly make some angry with this, but in truth I've never much thought of the opinions of others. Perhaps that makes me a terrible person, but I ask for nothing in return. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving... I think, I'm getting all my days screwed up. By the way, if you're reading this ON Thanksgiving then just assume I wrote it yesterday. Anyhow, I have a friend who is joining a Day of Mourning or some absurdly leftist sounding event like that. Essentially it is a day where hippies gather and mourn the death of Native Americans by the hands of the evil white men. If you can't tell by my name, I am one of those evil white men. I am perfectly fine with them having their little protest and even trying to force it down our throats. I don't really care if they try to interrupt my fun, mostly because it will be impossible to do that. Tomorrow I will be eating a nice, juicy turkey leg while watching Tony Romo FINALLY act like he knows how to play football. I'll be half drunk, my face will run scarlet, and I will watch in awe at the Macy's Day Parade. For me, Thanksgiving has absolute nothing to do with the early settlers, it does not involve Native Americans or their genocide, and it certainly has no room for people who feel sorry for themselves. It is a holiday where you bask in the enjoyment of being an American. You are free to do as you will, and to some that means ruining the days of others. To me, however, the meaning of Thanksgiving is simple: I am happy to be alive! -Irish P.S.: HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
No, no, I'm not a hunter. I'm speaking purely of the art that is cooking a good turkey. I've many rules, dear readers. In fairness, my rules are born from twenty years of poor turkeys being Polanski'd by my mom. So two Thanksgivings ago I decided I would cook it and ever since I've been the pride of my family. Then again, that's not saying much. First Rule of Cooking a Turkey: BRINE! If you choose not to brine your turkey then it'll come out alright, but it will be missing that important ingredient that turkey needs: FLAVOR! Second Rule of Cooking a Turkey: Don't open the damned oven door! There is no reason to open the door and gaze in for three minutes admiring the golden skin. If you do this the heat rushes out. Third Rule of Cooking a Turkey: Don't let people who are freaked out by meat that is slightly pink ruin your day. Yes, yes, I know, how horrible you eat meat that isn't pallid and dry as hell. Admire the meat, treat it well, do not burn it. Final Rule of Cooking a Turkey: Be proud of yourself when it comes out. By no means am I an expert on cooking turkey's. However, I know that mine come out perfect every year. I've gotten to the point now where I am receiving requests from friends to come over on Thanksgiving and make their turkey for them. This year alone I'm making four turkey's and so much turkey gravy I might just stop liking gravy... no, no, that's not possible. If anyone is interested this is a photo of my first turkey of the season. Cooked it today and I could not be happier. Unfortunately my NaNo novel has taken a hit from my lack of interest in non-turkey topics. Oh well. -Irish P.S.: This post has not been edited, proofread, or otherwise made legible. I'm too busy eating a turkey sandwich.